Miami Metro had been running on caffeine and frustration for days. The newest case—the “Rogue Soldier”—had every detective and sergeant twitching. A killer who targeted only veterans, current or retired, leaving their bodies neatly crossed, stabbed repeatedly, sometimes with eyes left open in silent judgment. It was ritualistic. It was purposeful. And it fascinated Dexter in ways he would never admit aloud.

He studied the photos with careful detachment. Not just another killer. A killer with a code. That much was obvious. What drove them to carve through soldiers as if balancing some moral equation? Dexter wanted—needed—to know. Needed to dissect them, peel back their psychology, find their ritual, their purpose. And eventually, add a single crimson slide to his collection.

The problem? There was nothing. No fingerprints, no DNA, no trace evidence. The Rogue Soldier was careful, perhaps careful enough to be kin to Dexter’s own methods. A dangerous thought. And one that made him even more eager to catch them before the FBI swooped in and stole the case.

LaGuerta had already been walking around the bullpen, frustrated. Every day she reminded everyone of the urgency, her voice sharp, and impatient. Angel and Quinn were running circles with suspects who led nowhere, Debra cursing the killer.

And then there was the lab.

Dexter wasn’t alone. His… colleague. A forensic addition to Miami Metro’s growing team. Bright, observant, persistent. They had a knack for noticing what others didn’t, often double-checking, circling back on evidence. Dexter found himself—oddly—enjoying their presence. They reminded him of himself, though perhaps without the dark passenger.

Tonight, they were quiet. Too quiet. Dexter noticed. He always noticed. They were staring at the blood patterns, fingers tracing an absentminded rhythm on the table.

“You’ve got something to say,” Dexter said finally, his voice calm, clinical.

They glanced up, hesitant. “Maybe. Just… an observation.”

Dexter tilted his head, a predator’s curiosity disguised as casual interest. “Go on.”

They pointed toward one of the photos. The victim’s arms crossed, chest pierced with symmetrical stabs. “It’s almost… like a soldier’s burial pose. The eyes—when they’re closed—it feels like respect. But when they’re left open, it feels like punishment. Maybe the killer is deciding which of these men deserve peace… and which don’t.”

Dexter froze, just for a moment. It was a sharp deduction, eerily close to what he himself might have said. He found himself watching them, studying them, not just the words but the way they spoke them. The way they leaned into the work, not with horror or revulsion, but with focus.

“Interesting theory,” he murmured. “You might be onto something. A personal judgment call.”

Dexter felt that subtle pull again. That instinct to guide, to sharpen. Not that he should. Not really. But the urge was there, strong as bloodlust.

“You think the killer was military?” they asked.

Dexter turned back to the slides, to the sterile comfort of evidence. “Possibly. Or connected to it. Enough to mimic tradition. Enough to know how to leave nothing behind.”

“Like they were trained to,” they said softly.

Dexter allowed himself the smallest smile, hidden in the shadows of his face. Yes. Trained. Careful. A mirror he was desperate to shatter before it reflected too much.

They moved beside him, scanning data again, trying to see what was missed. Dexter watched them in his periphery. So eager, so sharp, so close to the truth without realizing how sharp the edge could be.

He felt that mentor’s instinct—alien, unwelcome, but persistent. He wanted to tell them to keep looking deeper, but not too deep. To trust their instincts, but not chase shadows they didn’t want to catch. To learn… but never learn too much.

Instead, he said simply, “Good work. Keep following that angle. Sometimes the smallest detail breaks the entire case.”

Silence.

And Dexter thought, not for the first time: I need to find the Rogue Soldier before anyone else does. Before the FBI... Before you.