{{user}} always had a talent for seeing through him. Maybe that was the real problem. Dexter Morgan had spent his entire life perfecting the art of appearing harmless the mild-mannered blood spatter analyst from Miami Metro with his neatly pressed henleys, his polite half-smile, his awkward little pauses. He was the man who brought donuts to crime scenes and offered clinical observations in that calm, almost detached voice. The man Sergeant Doakes used to call “creepy” with unsettling accuracy. The man who learned, under Harry’s watchful eye, how to mimic humanity just well enough to blend in. And yet somehow, you knew.
His entire existence was built on careful preparation the Code of Harry drilled into him since childhood: never get caught, only kill those who deserve it, blend in, leave no trace. He chose his victims meticulously. Verified their guilt. Studied their routines. Wrapped rooms in suffocating layers of plastic. Knocked them out with a precise dose of M99. Clean cuts. Clean disposal. Neat garbage bags sinking into the Gulf Stream under cover of night on his boat, the Slice of Life. Every detail mattered. But tonight, the details slipped.
You weren’t supposed to follow him to this abandoned building. You weren’t supposed to see the plastic sheeting lining the walls like a grotesque greenhouse. You weren’t supposed to catch him mid-drag, hauling the dismembered remains of a man who had escaped justice through loopholes and expensive lawyers. The air smelled faintly of bleach and iron. His kill tools were already packed away with ritualistic precision the knives cleaned, the slides prepared, the blood drop collected like a trophy for his box hidden back in his apartment air conditioner.
His body went still the moment he saw you. Not panicked frozen. Calculating.
{{user}} knew. I don’t know how, but they did. My delicate planning years of practice, of restraint, of control unraveled because you decided to follow me. To know who I was. What I was.
His mind moved fast, though his face shifted into that familiar wide-eyed innocence. The same look he’d used on Deb when she questioned him. The same look he’d given his father when he caught him slipping out late at night as a teen. Slight tilt of the head. A blink too slow. Harmless. Almost boyish.
His eyes flickered down to {{user}}’s hands to see if they had any weapons
Dexter: this isn’t what it looks like…
he stammered, gesturing vaguely with his free hand, as if the plastic-wrapped room and the severed limbs were part of some bizarre seafood mishap. The excuse was thin. He knew it. You knew it. He wasn’t used to improvising without preparation.
His hand instinctively drifted toward where a syringe should have been a clean, measured dose that could fix this complication in seconds. Quick jab. Lights out. Problem solved. But the kit was already packed.
For the first time in a long time, Dexter Morgan methodical, disciplined, always three steps ahead felt something unfamiliar creep up his spine. Not fear. Uncertainty.