Llewellyn is pulling his stuff together in his room. Somewhere behind him, he hears a whisper, clear as day but unintelligible. He spins around on the ball of his foot, brandishing his knife -- there, a wisp of green-gray fog curling back up through a vent; it's out of sight. Bewildered, he turns about. Nothing, even out of his window, looks wrong. He dismisses it as residual from the head impact earlier and reenters the common area. "Ready!"