When Con finally managed to drag himself out of bed the next day, it was nearly five in the evening. His head pounded and his mouth tasted like carrion. The nightmares had been even worse than he'd expected.

Blurry-eyed, Con stumbled into the bathroom and turned on the water. Keeping his eyes closed against the glare of light off the tile, Con cupped his hands beneath the tap, waiting for the temperature to shift away from freezing. He splashed the water over his face, swishing the nasty taste out of his mouth. He spat into the sink and splashed his face one more time before turning off the tap and groping for a towel.

When he couldn't locate one, he opened his eyes, water clinging to his lashes and making his vision shimmer. Turning his head, he found a fluffy, white hand-towel sitting right beside the sink. Con frowned, sure he'd searched there.

"Very funny," he murmured, burying his face in the towel, ruffling it over the damp edges of his hair. "Just as long as you don't move my phone or keys."

Nothing responded, which wasn't surprising, though it was relieving. He hid a brief smile at himself in the towel, pulling it away from his face. Smears of red covered the white cloth, making Con blink in confusion. He brushed his thumb over one of the red streaks.

Blood.

"For Christ's sake," he muttered, shutting his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose with a thumb and forefinger. When he looked down, the blood hadn't disappeared.

Con glanced at his reflection, startled to find that he was actually bleeding. Several small cuts were scattered over his jaw, like he'd cut himself shaving. Even as he watched, blood beaded and streaked down his chin.

"The hell?" he murmured, dabbing at the cuts with the already ruined towel.

By the time he got the cuts to stop bleeding, his stomach was beginning to gnaw on his spine. Con brushed his teeth, removing the last traces of whatever had died in his mouth. He showered, removing the last traces of his nightmares, then ambled back into the main room.

He hadn't really taken the time yesterday to look at the room. Mostly all he'd done was collapse into the bed, eager to escape everything inside and outside his head. Now that he was paying attention, he realized it wasn't as bad as he'd feared. 

The walls were covered in a dark-green wallpaper with a satiny sheen. The furniture was made of dark wood that matched the floors, most of which were covered in cream rugs with dark gold edging. The material was so plush it seemed to seep between Con's toes as he crossed back to the bed.

No creepy pictures and no dolls.

On the ornate bedside table, an old-fashioned rotary phone sat. Con picked it up and made to sink onto the side of the bed when a whiff of sweat hit his nose. Grimacing, Con ran a hand over the rumpled sheets of the bed. They were soaked with sweat.

He stared down at the dirty sheets, sighing through his nose before he turned to the suitcase he'd propped next to the dresser. "Well, hell." 

Con couldn't remember for the life of him if Clarice had given him an extension to dial for a maid, but he definitely couldn't stay in here with the reek of sweat and fear lingering in the air. So much for room service and limited human interaction.

His short hair was still damp by the time he had dressed in loose jeans and a grey t-shirt. He was so hungry that he didn't care, but a glimpse of the red welts scored along his arms made him pause long enough to grab a flannel to pull on over the tee.

Cautiously opening the door, Con took a moment to peek down the hallway. It was blessedly empty of both aggressively attractive strangers and shadow figures. He let out a nervous breath and slipped out the door, stuffing his key in his pocket.

His luck held until he hit the landing on the last flight of stairs. He was walking quickly, head down, so focused on getting to the main floor that he smacked square into someone else.

A small squeak issued from whoever he'd run into and he stumbled back, an apology bubbling on his lips. It died an abrupt death when he saw the phone in a hand decorated with ridiculously long nail extensions. Con bit down hard on his irritation, looking at a teenager with long black hair and entirely too much makeup.

Glancing at the phone, he saw a social media feed. She hadn't been watching where she was going either.

"Um, excuse me," she said in what Con thought of as the Disney girl voice. Bubbly, fake, somehow bordering on rude—it immediately set his teeth on edge. Flashbacks of his time babysitting Mercy's two girls rose in his mind.

She blinked slowly up at him with big, green Bambi eyes, her lips slightly pursed. Con briefly wondered if all teenage girls had their mouth stuck like that. He considered apologizing, then decided that would make him sort of hate himself.

So he brushed past her, making his way down the stairs.

"Weirdo," he heard her mutter under her breath.

"Not quiet enough," he tossed over his shoulder, making his way down to the reception desk. He allowed a small grin when he heard the scamper of feet up the stairs. It changed to a scowl as he eyed the service bell.

But it didn't morph into anything creepy this time. The door behind the desk opened, a young woman with short, brown hair slipping through and giving him a small smile. "Good evening, sir," she chirped, brushing a few strands of hair out of her face. "How can I help you?"

"Uh..." Con frowned, suddenly sure he'd seen this woman somewhere before. When he realized he was staring like an idiot, he shook himself mentally. "Uh, sorry. I—could I get someone up to my room to change the sheets? I'm in 304."

"Is there something wrong with them, sir?" the woman asked, brow wrinkling in confusion. "Usually our maid service cleans the rooms in the middle of the day, when most guests are out."

"No, no, nothing's wrong." He managed a wry smile. "I think I must've had a bit of a fever last night. Sweated straight through my clothes."

Con winced, but the woman didn't seem fazed. Instead, she smiled. "Of course, sir. I can get someone up there right away."

"Thanks." His stomach growled at him. "Is, um, is the dining room still serving dinner?"

"Yes, sir." Light flashed off her glasses as she tilted her head toward the left. "Just go right through those doors. Everything will be put on a tab you'll be expected to settle upon check-out."

"Thanks," he muttered, already turning away. He threw one last, puzzled glance over his shoulder, trying to place the woman. Nothing came to mind, but a feeling in his gut insisted she was familiar.

All musings of that nature fled his mind as he entered the dining room, just to be met by over a dozen pairs of curious eyes. Most flicked back down to their dinner, unconcerned with the newcomer, but a few lingered. 

Con flinched when a passing waiter said, "There's an empty table near the windows. If you'll follow me?"

He nodded, letting his attention wander up to the magnificent chandelier dangling over the diners' heads. The itch of watching eyes on his skin prompted him to look to his left, and he groaned internally when he found Taemin at a table near a large, ornate fireplace. The man offered a knowing half-smile, and Con quickly jerked his eyes away.

By the time he was seated and the waiter had left him with a menu, Con was wishing he'd ignored the nasty sheets and stuck to his original plan of room service.