Con didn't take his time getting to his room. He kept his eyes firmly on the floor, the patterns of the Persian rugs twisting like snakes under his rushing feet. The stairs ended sooner than he would have thought, and then doors were flicking past. He only looked up to check the room numbers.

When he reached Room 304, he sighed in relief. His shoulder was twinging beneath the strap of his bag, the handle of the suitcase beginning to slip from his sweaty grip. Con's breath rasped along the back of his throat, his heart pounding off the backs of his ribs. His hand shook horribly as he adjusted his grip on the key.

It danced around the keyhole, metal scraping off metal in a way that made his teeth ache. He could feel every vertebra in his spine every time the key skidded across the lock plate. Shadows were crowding into the hall behind him, peering over each others' shoulders.

He needed to get in. He couldn't stop his hand from shaking. The shadows surged closer.

A long-fingered hand slid into view, wrapping around his own. Con jerked away from the touch, but not before those elegant fingers had slipped the key from his grasp. Sweat stung Con's eyes, making his vision blur.

He should have known. Stress and exhaustion made it so much worse.

Like it was responding to his thoughts, one of the shadows inched forward, reaching out with spindly fingers. It couldn't touch him. If it touched him, the darkness would bleed inside.

"Let me," a low voice said.

The pain in his shoulder was radiating up the side of his neck. His mouth was dry and his stomach heaved. He swiped his sleeve across his forehead, blinking rapidly to clear his vision. The shadows receded, chittering in agitation.

The solid click of the lock unlatching made him nearly jump out of his skin. He glanced up just as the door swung open. He caught a glimpse of hunter-green walls and a huge, canopied bed. Then his key was being held up in front of his face. 

Con held his breath for a moment. Not long enough to notice, but long enough to make him feel like he was in control of something. Angry—at his shaking hands, at the fact that he couldn't keep it together—Con snatched the key away. He shoved it in his pocket, then rubbed a hand over his mouth before risking a glance to the side.

He blinked several times, his lips parting in confusion.

He never saw things this beautiful when he was having a spell. He'd been expecting gouged-out eyes, rotted skin, a mouth full of fangs.

Instead, he found a man leaning against the doorframe, a vaguely entertained expression on his lovely face. His hair had been dyed a color closer to silver than blond. His eyes were so dark brown they looked black, their shape sketched out with the faintest trace of eyeliner. His face was all delicate angles and impossibly symmetrical lines. And his mouth...

Con licked his dry lips, tearing his eyes away.

"You're new."

It wasn't a question. Con nodded, using the twisted strap of his bag as an excuse not to look at the stunning stranger.

"I'm Taemin," he offered. He held out his hand. This time, Con noticed a few silver rings, some plain while others were engraved with painstaking attention to detail.

"Con," he finally rasped, giving the briefest handshake he could manage. 

He was suddenly terrified that this was another delusion. That the man in front of him was about to sprout wings and fangs. That his beautiful eyes would suddenly rupture, spraying Con with blood that didn't exist. There were so many horrifying options, he began to suffocate under his mind's potential to torment him.

Con couldn't come up with a way to slide past Taemin that didn't seem rude. So he decided he might as well bite the bullet.

"Thanks for your help," he said, meeting Taemin's curious gaze. "But I'm tired. I'd like to get settled in my room. So...if you don't mind." He finished with a vague wave of his hand, indicating he would like nothing more than if Taemin were to make himself scarce.

Rather than looking affronted, Taemin's smile stretched into an amused grin. He tilted his head, a few strands of silky hair falling into his eyes. He looked up at Con through his lashes, though he was about the same height as Con was.

Puzzled by this trick, Con once again caught himself sweeping his gaze up and down someone. Uncomfortable and annoyed, he focused on the flawless skin just below Taemin's right eye. It was the safest place to look, giving the illusion of eye contact without the risk of seeing something terrifying in the reflection in his irises. 

"Are you staying long?"

Did everything he said sound like that? Like the low purr of a big cat? Just to test it more than out of a desire to know the answer, Con asked, "Are you?"

Taemin laughed, the sound sending a chill down Con's spine. It wasn't an entirely pleasant sensation. 

"Yes, I believe so." He once more leaned back against the doorframe, subtly blocking Con's path. He touched his tongue briefly to his lower lip, taking his time with his own assessment of Con.

He straightened abruptly, a strange, pleased smile lighting his face. "Have breakfast with me tomorrow."

"What? No!" The harsh words were out of his mouth before he realized it.

Taemin didn't seem phased. "Fine. The day after tomorrow."

Con could do little more than gape, amazed by the sheer audacity of the man. What little control he had over his reactions slipped completely. "Look, dude, I don't even know you. I'm tired. I don't really want to be here." 

He picked up his suitcase and brushed past Taemin. Throwing his luggage onto the bed, he whirled on the stranger, knuckles whitening as he gripped the edge of the door. His muscles twitched and jumped under his skin, feeling like bugs skittering inside him.

"And I don't really like breakfast."

With that, he slammed the door in the stranger's face. His chest heaved with ragged breaths, his long-sleeve sticking to sweaty skin. Snarling, Con stripped both the jacket and shirt off, nails scrabbling along his skin, carving red lines in their wake.

There's nothing there. You know there's nothing fucking there.

But that couldn't stop him from tearing at himself, chasing the feeling of bugs beneath his skin.

He was saved from drawing blood by the sharp ping of his phone. Sweat dripped from the end of his nose as he fell still, anxious eyes darting to the bed where his jacket had landed. He saw the brief glow of his phone's screen before it went dark.

Slowly, Con walked over and pulled the phone free. He unlocked the screen and opened his messages, just for the phone to chime again and again as he was assaulted by a deluge of messages from Mercy.

Are you there? How was the plane ride? Did you find the place okay? What's it like? Is it nice? Have you used the hot springs yet? Are you okay?

Con stared at the messages, a hysterical laugh bubbling in his throat. He tapped to respond. Halfway through his message, he erased it.

"I'm fine," he murmured as he typed it out. "Everything's great. This place has a bunch of creepy pictures."

He threw the phone on the bed and turned to the bathroom. Pleasantly surprised by the modern fixtures, he turned the shower to a blistering heat, shedding the rest of his clothes. The water stung his raw skin as he stepped beneath the spray.

His mind replayed the insane exchange between himself and Taemin. He was pretty sure he hadn't imagined it, which made him groan. So much for not drawing any attention. That thought immediately led to memories of Ella Park. To the handful of sideways glances she'd given him.

Room service was sounding better and better by the moment.

"No," he admitted to no one but himself and maybe the ghosts. "I'm not okay."