Con took several quick steps backward, falling when the backs of his knees collided with the bed. He sat on the mattress, his knuckles turning white as he gripped the blankets. The butterfly didn't stir beyond continuing to softly flap its obsidian wings. Con furrowed his brow. He'd never seen a black butterfly before.

Then he realized that was hardly the problem. Con was pretty sure the butterfly wasn't actually there. But, compared to most of his delusions, it wasn't even that bad. In the soft, grey light, it was almost pretty. Its black wings gleamed, their shape graceful as they fluttered.

Cautiously, Con got to his feet, suddenly fascinated by what he was seeing. He managed one step forward before the butterfly burst into flight. It careened toward his head. Con choked on a surprised yelp and ducked. Its dark wings brushed against his cheek, velvet soft as it darted past him. Spinning on his heel in an attempt to see where it had flown, Con wasn't surprised when he couldn't find it.

The butterfly had disappeared.

With a sigh, Con rubbed at his face, wincing at a sudden sting. His fingers came away wet with blood. He stumbled toward the bathroom, flicking on the lights.

Along his right cheekbone, a neat red line had been scored. As he watched in disbelief, more blood welled up, spilling down his cheek in a slow seep. Con leaned forward, gently prodding at the cut. It was right where the butterfly's wing had touched him.

Except...the butterfly hadn't been real.

Con swiped at the blood, rubbing his fingers together as he waited. When it didn't disappear from his fingers, when the cut continued to sting, Con realized that the injury was real. That he'd really been cut.

Fear bolted through him, making his mouth taste metallic. The butterfly hadn't been real. Had he... Had he done this to himself?

Con darted back into the bedroom, hands scrambling over the food tray. But he found nothing that could have caused such an injury. Not even a butter knife.

Besides, Con realized as he went back into the bathroom, the cut was too clean. A dull knife wouldn't make such a neat wound. Disturbed, Con picked up a hand towel and began dabbing at the cut, wiping away the blood and trying to determine how deep it was.

Already, the blood was clotting. Con held the towel to the cut, pressing hard for a few moments. His blue eyes were wide as he looked at himself in the mirror, his skin drained of all color. When he peeled the towel away, the cut was still there, a bright red line against his chalky skin.

Con continued to stare at it, sure it would disappear with every blink. Except, it didn't.

Swallowing against a painfully dry mouth, Con dropped the towel. He couldn't explain the cut. And staring at it wasn't going to offer any answers.

Plus, he was still starving.

It was just...usually he remembered when his delusions drove him to injure himself.

Con lightly touched the edge of the cut once more. It probably needed a band-aid or something but he didn't have any with him. A cursory search of the few drawers beneath the sink didn't turn anything up, either. After a moment's consideration, Con decided it would keep while he ate. It wasn't bleeding anymore, at least.

Still puzzled and concerned, Con went back into the bedroom and looked at the food tray. Now, there was nothing but a delicious-looking omelette next to a few strips of crackly bacon. The smell made his stomach snarl and he picked up the tray, balancing it carefully so he didn't spill anything.

Carefully, he set it on the bed, sitting cross-legged behind it. A gunshot rang out, startling him, and he looked at the TV to find a pretty woman holding a smoking gun. The camera panned to show a betrayed looking man clutch his chest before sliding to the ground in an appropriately dramatic manner.

Con stuffed a strip of bacon in his mouth, wondering idly if the man had deserved it. The taste of food only seemed to increase his hunger, and he turned his full attention to the meal. When the plates had been cleared and all that remained was the coffee, Con put the tray back on the service cart and picked up the cup.

It was still mostly hot and Con took a sip, relishing in the sharp, bitter flavor. He wandered toward the window, squinting to see past the blur of rain on the glass. The hotel's property stretched toward the east, ending at a dark line of trees. Forest bloomed from there, the bare branches of the trees swaying in the wind.

A sparkling wall of rain-washed glass was just visible from where he stood. The hot springs. A solarium had been built around them, making them accessible even throughout the wettest of winters.

Con downed the last of the coffee, a jittery feeling making his skin prickle. Energy seemed to crackle through him. When he set down the cup, his shaking hands made the china rattle. Rain pounded off the roof and lightning illuminated everything in a sharp flash. Thunder rumbled, the sound shivering through Con.

Impulsively, Con dug through his bag, yanking his swim trunks free. He changed into them before pulling on an oversized red hoodie. He slipped on his running shoes, not bothering with the laces before he left the room.

The halls were dimly lit, the hotel the eerie quiet only found in the very early morning. Con placed his feet carefully, not wanting to risk disturbing anyone. He kept his eyes away from the pictures, but felt the familiar crawl over his skin, like he was being watched.

Lightning cracked again, just as Con reached the lobby.

"Just turn down the hall beneath the stairs. It'll take you right to the hot springs, dear."

Con practically jumped a foot in the air as Clarice's creaky voice came from the desk. He turned to find her watching him, bug-eyed and creepy as ever.

She offered a smile and pointed in the direction she'd mentioned. Con mumbled his thanks and walked as quickly as he could through the lobby. Maybe it was the coffee, or the storm, but Con was feeling restless. 

The pool first. He'd swim a few laps, then maybe he'd see if these hot springs were worth whatever Mercy had paid for them.

At the end of the hall, he found two frosted glass doors, one labeled Men and the other Women. Con slipped into the men's locker room and went to the far end of the room. There were no locks, just empty cubicles. Con frowned as he shed first his hoodie, then his shoes, stowing them neatly away. He slid his room key into his left shoe and opened the door leading to the pool.

A cool, metallic smell washed over him. It wasn't exactly the chlorine, pool scent he was used to, but near it. The room was awash in grey light, the pool stretching out before him, clear and crisp and blue.

He walked to the edge of the water, tilting his head back just as a fork of lightning snapped right above the glass building. That restless energy spiked, making his heart trip and Con took a deep breath before diving into the still water.

Lashing his feet to propel himself up, Con broke the surface, water streaming down his face. The sting across his cheekbone reminded him of the cut. Con flipped onto his back, watching the display of lightning zig-zagging through the clouds overhead as he swam toward the other end of the pool.

A line of brightly colored, triangular flags drew nearer, marking the edge of the pool.

So when his outstretched fingers hit something in the water, he wasn't expecting it. Con threw his other arm out, flinging a leg down to jerk himself to a halt. Water sloshed, slapping him in the face and making him cough and splutter as fluid filled his mouth and nose.

Treading water, Con forced a hard stream of air through his nose, shaking his head to get the water out of his eyes.

When he turned to see what he'd bumped into, he flailed backward in shock.

"Oh, Christ," he managed to gasp.