I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi doesn’t argue or stall. The moment Isla arrives, her presence cutting through the panic with clean precision, he takes the flashlight from her hand and lifts it above Ronin’s pale, blood-slicked face. His grip is tight, the beam quivering despite how steady he tries to hold it, the circle of light trembling like it knows what’s at stake.
He barely breathes as Isla works. His chest feels tight, lungs too afraid to move, as though the act of drawing air might disrupt something fragile or otherwise take away from the air that Ronin needs. The wet floor soaks into his knees, but he doesn’t shift. All he can do is watch the rhythm of Isla’s hands, the pressure of each compression, the desperate hope that something—anything—will stir beneath them.
And then it does.
The moment Ronin gasps and jerks, retching water onto the cement, Remi lets out a sharp breath of his own, his entire body sagging with it. He’s already leaning forward, hand moving instinctively to Ronin’s shoulder, helping guide him onto his side with careful urgency. There’s a wildness to his heartbeat, not from fear now but from the sudden crash of relief, like a wave finally breaking after too long held back.
Glancing quickly to Isla, as if for confirmation that it’s really over—that Ronin is here, breathing, alive—Remi wipes his cheek against the shoulder of his sweater, trying to rid himself of the slick mix of grime and panic still clinging to his skin. It doesn't help much, but the motion steadies him, just enough to find a thread of levity through the frayed edges of his nerves. "I’m guessing nearly dying was your plan to make the episode go viral," he murmurs, his voice raw but touched with the ghost of a smile. "Next time though, maybe just fake the near-death experience."
He barely breathes as Isla works. His chest feels tight, lungs too afraid to move, as though the act of drawing air might disrupt something fragile or otherwise take away from the air that Ronin needs. The wet floor soaks into his knees, but he doesn’t shift. All he can do is watch the rhythm of Isla’s hands, the pressure of each compression, the desperate hope that something—anything—will stir beneath them.
And then it does.
The moment Ronin gasps and jerks, retching water onto the cement, Remi lets out a sharp breath of his own, his entire body sagging with it. He’s already leaning forward, hand moving instinctively to Ronin’s shoulder, helping guide him onto his side with careful urgency. There’s a wildness to his heartbeat, not from fear now but from the sudden crash of relief, like a wave finally breaking after too long held back.
Glancing quickly to Isla, as if for confirmation that it’s really over—that Ronin is here, breathing, alive—Remi wipes his cheek against the shoulder of his sweater, trying to rid himself of the slick mix of grime and panic still clinging to his skin. It doesn't help much, but the motion steadies him, just enough to find a thread of levity through the frayed edges of his nerves. "I’m guessing nearly dying was your plan to make the episode go viral," he murmurs, his voice raw but touched with the ghost of a smile. "Next time though, maybe just fake the near-death experience."
but there's a light in the attic and I swear it's calling me
Speaks with a thick Italian accent.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
Force and magic can be used against Remi without permission.
