I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
By the time Isla finds him, Remi’s loitering near the van with his hands shoved deep in his coat pockets, the collar turned up against a wind that hasn’t started yet. He looks like a man waiting for instructions he knows won’t come, green eyes skimming the driveway, the windows, the porch, anywhere but the house itself.
"Yeah, that'd be great," he says when Isla mentions texting updates, but the words are a little distracted, his gaze going past her shoulder to where the EMTs are trying to get Ronin onto a stretcher. The Irishman’s waving them off with something between stubbornness and charm, already half-hauling himself toward the back doors under his own steam. Remi’s brows pinch faintly, and he exhales through his nose.
At the mention of the bike, his mouth twists. "I’d offer to take it, but my neighbourhood’s probably worse than leaving it here." A thin attempt at humour, maybe, but the glance he casts toward the motorbike is quiet, fond in a way he doesn’t let linger.
His own shirt clings to him, still soaked through, dark with water and blood that’s long since gone cold. Not the sort of thing that dries with time; it just grows heavier. He glances down, frowns at it, then lifts his head to Isla with a start like he’s only just remembered she’s standing there. "I—" he begins, then stops. An apology wants to form, crowding his throat with things that won’t help. Sorry I didn’t stop it. Sorry I helped it happen. Sorry it was Ronin. But none of it lands right, and after a quiet breath, he just shakes his head. "I’m really glad you were here," he says instead, voice low and rough around the edges.
"Yeah, that'd be great," he says when Isla mentions texting updates, but the words are a little distracted, his gaze going past her shoulder to where the EMTs are trying to get Ronin onto a stretcher. The Irishman’s waving them off with something between stubbornness and charm, already half-hauling himself toward the back doors under his own steam. Remi’s brows pinch faintly, and he exhales through his nose.
At the mention of the bike, his mouth twists. "I’d offer to take it, but my neighbourhood’s probably worse than leaving it here." A thin attempt at humour, maybe, but the glance he casts toward the motorbike is quiet, fond in a way he doesn’t let linger.
His own shirt clings to him, still soaked through, dark with water and blood that’s long since gone cold. Not the sort of thing that dries with time; it just grows heavier. He glances down, frowns at it, then lifts his head to Isla with a start like he’s only just remembered she’s standing there. "I—" he begins, then stops. An apology wants to form, crowding his throat with things that won’t help. Sorry I didn’t stop it. Sorry I helped it happen. Sorry it was Ronin. But none of it lands right, and after a quiet breath, he just shakes his head. "I’m really glad you were here," he says instead, voice low and rough around the edges.
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.
