You were a ‘serial killer’. One Dexter was completely obsessed with. His every thought was becoming wrapped around this mystery, the one of a killer, who only killed murders and bad people like he did. The technique was something never seen before. All of the victims were almost completely drained of blood, with two bite-like marks on the neck. That’s what granted you the name of 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘔𝘪𝘢𝘮𝘪 𝘝𝘢𝘮𝘱𝘪𝘳𝘦.

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 Harbor 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, and ex crime scene. Waiting.