I don't know who I am, I don't know who I'll be
Remi laughs, a quiet, genuine sound that slips free before he can stifle it. A touch of colour rises to his cheeks, and he shakes his head. "Knowing you, you’ll try and outdo yourself next time and actually die," he mutters, dry but light. "Figured I’d better say it while I had the chance."
The smile fades as quickly as it came as Ronin speaks. Remi listens in silence after that, not even pretending to make light of the rest. His posture doesn’t shift dramatically, but there’s a tension that sinks back into his shoulders the longer Ronin continues; the kind of stillness that suggests he’s listening with more than just his ears.
At the mention of the nurse, Remi’s gaze sharpens, but not with surprise. He nods once, slow and deliberate, and though he doesn’t interrupt, the movement of his hand—where it rises to graze the shape of the small cross now hidden beneath his collar—feels telling. As if checking to make sure it’s still there.
"Does she ever leave anything behind?" he asks softly, saying it like he’s seen her too, but the words are gentle, left open-ended enough to pass as coincidence. Still, his eyes don’t leave Ronin. "Not...everything that you will see, means you harm," he continues, quieter now, before pausing. Eventually, he nods toward the window. "Things that can cross a threshold uninvited are usually peaceful." Largely because doing so relieved them of a good deal of their powers, and so anything properly malicious would be rendered too weak to make it worth it. Then again..." With a sigh, Remi shakes his head apologetically. "Hospitals are hard. There's so much death in the walls that it confuses everything. Makes it easier for things to slip through."
Remi leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands laced. "You said she moved closer last night." He doesn’t say so she’ll be closer again tonight, but the implication is clear in the way his voice sinks, like a tide pulling back before something breaks the surface. "Has she said anything to you?"
The smile fades as quickly as it came as Ronin speaks. Remi listens in silence after that, not even pretending to make light of the rest. His posture doesn’t shift dramatically, but there’s a tension that sinks back into his shoulders the longer Ronin continues; the kind of stillness that suggests he’s listening with more than just his ears.
At the mention of the nurse, Remi’s gaze sharpens, but not with surprise. He nods once, slow and deliberate, and though he doesn’t interrupt, the movement of his hand—where it rises to graze the shape of the small cross now hidden beneath his collar—feels telling. As if checking to make sure it’s still there.
"Does she ever leave anything behind?" he asks softly, saying it like he’s seen her too, but the words are gentle, left open-ended enough to pass as coincidence. Still, his eyes don’t leave Ronin. "Not...everything that you will see, means you harm," he continues, quieter now, before pausing. Eventually, he nods toward the window. "Things that can cross a threshold uninvited are usually peaceful." Largely because doing so relieved them of a good deal of their powers, and so anything properly malicious would be rendered too weak to make it worth it. Then again..." With a sigh, Remi shakes his head apologetically. "Hospitals are hard. There's so much death in the walls that it confuses everything. Makes it easier for things to slip through."
Remi leans forward slightly, elbows on his knees, hands laced. "You said she moved closer last night." He doesn’t say so she’ll be closer again tonight, but the implication is clear in the way his voice sinks, like a tide pulling back before something breaks the surface. "Has she said anything to you?"
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.
