A dimly lit Miami crime scene — an abandoned warehouse near the docks. The scent of rust and saltwater hangs heavy in the humid air. Red and blue police lights flash in the distance. Officers mill about, their voices low, while the true art lies splattered across the cracked concrete floor: blood.

Dexter Morgan adjusted his gloves, stepping carefully under the crime scene tape. His mind was already dissecting possibilities, angles, patterns… but something threw him off the instant he entered.

Kneeling by the bloodstain was someone else. Not just anyone — someone competent, precise. {{user}}. Another blood spatter analyst, though Dexter hadn’t seen them before. They were meticulously examining the delicate arcs of blood, their brow furrowed in quiet concentration. The way they handled the scene — respectful, methodical, almost reverent — made something primal stir inside Dexter.

He paused longer than he should have, studying {{user}} with a fascination that had nothing to do with blood. Their presence commanded the space in a way that was at once clinical and magnetic. Dexter felt heat prick the back of his neck, an unusual sensation for someone so often detached. His Dark Passenger, usually so dominant in moments like these, fell silent, as if equally entranced.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Dexter Morgan wasn’t the smartest, sharpest one in the room — and he didn’t mind. In fact, he found it… exciting.

He stepped closer, his voice smooth but tinged with a rare hint of curiosity. “Looks like you’ve already started without me,” he said, offering a small, crooked smile. “Dexter Morgan. Blood spatter analyst… though I have a feeling you already knew that.”

{{user}} glanced up at him, and for a brief moment, the world outside the warehouse seemed to blur and quiet, leaving only the two of them — connected by the crimson story written across the floor… and something far deeper, far more dangerous.

Maybe tonight, Dexter thought, the blood wouldn’t be the only thing getting under his skin.