Johnny's lip curls at the counter, and he turns away, angry at having been called out. Who the hell does he think he is? He doesn't know. He couldn't.

"It's only a dream," he mutters, somewhat petulantly, and without heart. He's died enough in dreams to know how much it still hurts, how much it still fucks with you, crawls into your head and sits there, reminding you in the night when your body trips over nothing and you jerk awake.

He looks at his hands, hesitant, for lack of another action. "I'm bleeding," he says, almost surprised by it.