Monday morning dawned. Or, Con assumed it did. It was hard to tell from the weak, grey light that managed to seep through the clouds. It washed everything into a paler version of itself and drained what little energy Con had.

He hadn't slept well after his run in with Taemin last night. His mind had swung like a pendulum between guilt-inducing memories of Jenna and fevered imaginings of what might have happened if he'd taken Taemin up on his offer. And, when he'd finally managed to drift off, the usual line-up of nightmares had been waiting, poised to jerk him from sleep every few hours.

At about three in the morning, after a dream that sent him running down a familiar alleyway—one that ended in blood and pain, Con gave it up as a bad job.

Most of the morning was spent in a restless doze, with Con tuning in and out of Fresh Prince re-runs. When those ran out and gave way to Saved by the Bell, Con turned the TV off and closed his eyes. He tugged the heavy coverlet up over his shoulder, letting the light tap of rain off the window lull him.

Three hard raps on his door jerked him fully back to consciousness. His heart pounded as he sat upright. He rubbed at his eyes again, wondering if he had been slipping toward a dream. But then the knocks sounded again, three steady strikes against the heavy wood of his door.

"Who is it?" Con called, brow furrowing. It was barely five o'clock in the morning.

There was no answer. Silence reigned long enough that Con began to wonder if it was just a stupid prank. He'd seen quite a few families with kids and teenagers at dinner last night. Then again, he'd never known a teenager to get up before noon if they could help it.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Con threw the covers back and leapt across the room, yanking the door open, a few choice words already on his lips. He skidded to a halt when he found absolutely no one. Poking his head out the door, he looked up and down the hall. Still he saw no one. Heard no running footsteps.

"Right," he murmured, eyeing the picture of a sick-looking young woman on the wall across from his door. "Ghosts." He looked up and down along the hall again. "I have a hard enough time sleeping. I don't need any help, if it's all the same to you."

He was rewarded with a resounding silence. Not even a chilly breeze or the flicker of a lightbulb came in response. As far as he could tell, he was the only thing stirring at this hour.

"So, still just crazy then." He sighed and went back into his room, shutting the door softly behind him. Con slumped against the door and rolled his head from side to side, sighing when the joints in his neck popped, relieving a little of the tension he walked around with.

A low growl made him jump.

When he realized what had made the sound, Con laughed. His stomach growled again, still surprising him. Usually, he wouldn't feel hungry until around 11:30 or 12:00, if he felt hungry at all. But the sounds coming from his stomach were more substantial than the knocks that had pulled him from bed. 

Con flopped back onto the mattress, closing his achy eyes. As much as he would have loved more sleep, he knew that wasn't going to happen. So he rolled onto his side and picked up the phone. Balancing precariously on the edge of the bed, Con reached forward and spun the rotary. The slight ticking noise as it spun back around echoed in his ear, followed by a tinny ringing sound.

Keeping his eyes closed, Con rolled back more fully onto the bed, the cord stretching across his body. He kept the phone tilted slightly away from his ear. Sometimes repetitive sounds like the ring of a phone would trigger a delusion. 

He wasn't having the worst morning, all things considered, and wanted that to continue.

Thankfully, the phone only rang twice before it was picked up.

"Room service," a pleasant, male voice said. "We are currently serving breakfast, what can we get started for you?"

"Um..." Con's mind went suddenly blank. He didn't eat breakfast enough to know what he really liked.

"There should be a menu in the drawer of the bedside table," the voice prompted politely.

Con sat up and scrambled to open the drawer, scooting a small Bible out of the way before he found a booklet protected by a laminate covering. "Just—just a second, if you don't mind."

"Not at all, sir."

Gritting his teeth against the awkwardness of silence on the line, he flipped through the menu as quickly as he could with his anxious, clumsy fingers. When he found the breakfast menu, he rattled off the first thing that caught his attention.

"The western omelette with, um, with a side of bacon and the fruit bowl." His eyes scanned over the menu wildly. He hated speaking over the phone. Especially to strangers. Again, the first thing that came up, came out. "Some s-strawberry crepes. Coffee. And orange juice."

"With pulp or without?"

"What?"

"The orange juice, sir. Would you like—"

"Without pulp." Con grimaced. Why would he want to chew his drink? "Please."

"Very good, sir. Someone will be up with that in a jiffy."

"Thanks."

"Our pleasure, sir."

Con hung up as quickly as he could, the receiver making a satisfying click. He collapsed back onto the pillows, a weird shivery feeling in his chest marking how stressed something as simple as a phone call made him. Irritated, Con rolled onto his stomach and groaned into the pillows as loudly as he dared.

When he began to feel more smothered than was comfortable, Con sat up on the bed, scrubbing a hand through his hair. Most of the red scratches he'd given himself Saturday had faded to almost nothing. Only a few remained as thin, scabbed lines.

Con traced his fingers over them with a grimace before turning the TV back on. Unless he'd like to add to the collection, it was best to keep himself distracted. He flipped mindlessly through the channels, turning the volume up to drown out the rain now pounding off his window.

He'd finally settled for an old black-and-white movie when a light tap came on his door. "Room service," a feminine voice chimed.

Con hopped out of bed, took a moment to agonize over the fact that he'd forgotten to put a shirt on, and opened the door. To his surprise, the girl he remembered from last night pushed a trolley into his room.

Her short, brown hair was wavy today and she was wearing what he assumed was the hotel's service uniform, but it was definitely her.

"You're not at the front desk," he blurted as she stopped the trolley just beside the door leading to the bathroom.

The girl turned, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"Nothing," he mumbled, briefly meeting her curious blue eyes. "I just... Weren't you at the reception desk?"

"Oh." The corners of her eyes crinkled in a smile. "Yeah. I'm sort of a jack-of-all around here. Perks of being the owner's granddaughter." She stuck her hands in the pockets of an honest-to-goodness apron. "I'm Clara, by the way."

"Con," he replied, gaze straying to the food hidden by a silver tray cover.

"I know," she said with a laugh. "Granddaughter, remember?" She winked at him before moving out into the hall. "Don't hesitate to shout if anything's wrong." She frowned. "I mean...not, like, literally. That would be rude. Call us."

Then she shut the door behind her, leaving a bemused Con alone with his breakfast. His growling stomach prompted him to remove the tray cover.

It dropped to the floor with a clang and Con stumbled backward. A slight flutter of movement made his brain realize what he was seeing. Breathing rapidly through his mouth, Con edged forward, afraid of startling it into flight.

There on his breakfast plate, its wings beating gently, was a monstrously large, black butterfly.