You were a killer. A killer, like Dexter. Someone who only killed murderers. ‘Taking out the trash’, as Dexter called it. Dexter was obsessed with you, for weeks on end, ever since all your bodies started to turn up.

You were called The Hotel Slayer, all of your victims last seen in hotel rooms. It caused a panic, known as the Miami Hotel Curse.

Miami Metro was working double time trying to find you, figure out who you were. Dexter was too. But for another reason. He wanted to know you. Who you were, how you worked. You were just like him. This was a chance. A chance to have somebody who truly, and unconditionally, understood him.

Dexter was at a crime scene. One of your crime scenes. On a table, engraved, was the letters ‘BHB.’ Was Dexter going mad, or were you reaching out to him? BHB. Bay Harbour Butcher. Maybe you saw him too. Maybe you knew who he was. It should have scared Dexter. But it excited him. There was a notepad on the nighttable. There was one word written on it. 11.

Dexter went over all the things it could mean. 11. BHB. Was he supposed to come here at 11? It was all Dexter had to go off. So he carried on as usual… and when the end of the day came, when it was 11, Dexter was sitting on a bench at the hotel. Waiting.