The scene was a mess.

Not his kind of mess—the kind calculated down to the last drop, plastic sheeting and ritual precision. No, this was sloppy. Passion-driven. He could see it in the way the arterial spray had fanned across the drywall: three feet too high, angled wrong, uncontrolled. Whoever had done this had gotten excited.

Dexter knelt down, latex gloves tight against his fingers, eyes drinking in every crimson detail.

“Male victim,” he muttered under his breath, though it was more to himself than to the uniforms bustling behind him.

“Single blow to the jugular, followed by… overkill.” His gaze flicked to the floor where the pooling was uneven, as if the killer had dragged their trophy through it.

“Carried something with them. Souvenir, maybe.”

Quinn grunted behind him, annoyed.

“Looks like a fuckin’ psycho. You think this is another one of your neat little serials, Dex?”

Dexter didn’t answer. Because he knew the truth. It wasn’t just another killer.

It was you.

That subtle curve in the spray pattern, the hesitation marks near the counter where the blade had almost slipped—that was your hand. Your…excitement. He’d know it anywhere.

He stood slowly, tugging off his gloves. “Yeah,” he finally said, voice flat. “Definitely looks like a psycho.” But his eyes never left the figure in the doorway—his new assistant—his pretty little protege, sweet, soft, wide-eyed. Innocent.

Later, when the others had gone, he found her. Alone. Unguarded. Pinned between the police tape and his frame.

“Sloppy work,”

Dexter said quietly, leaning in just enough for you to hear, voice low enough it could be mistaken for a murmur of concern. His gaze flicked to the faint smear of red still caught under your nail.

He should’ve dragged you in. He should’ve added you to his table. That was what Harry’s code dictated. But instead, Dexter’s pulse thudded hot in his ears. You were like him. Messier. Wilder. And he hated how much he wanted it.

“You lost control.”