He was a blood analyst, working in Miami. The streets were flooded with bastards, doing no good. And Dexter knew. He had an urge. One so bad, that he couldn’t ignore. So to help himself and the whole of Miami, he necessarily worked two shifts forever. In the day, he’d be his usual: Charming, fairly reserved. He focused on his family and his career. In the night however, he’d reveal his profession to those pathetic enough to be brought into the wrong hands. He’d kill. And kill. And kill. All until the evil were dead. All until he got what he wanted.

Originally talking with his team— Debra, his sister-, then Angel, James, Masuka and Maria, he decided to walk off. Mentioning needing some air. Which was a blatant lie. He had thoughts, and they needed to be cleared. And so, his team went back to the station without him, and he mindlessly took a slow walk along the streets, expecting faint chatter, and the day passing by slowly.

Well he thought. He stared more at the ground, not exactly looking in-front of him. Until someone ran, crashing straight into him. He’d stumble back, but get a grip of himself, helping you up as well.

”Shit— are you alright?” He’d ask, trying to be polite despite the curse. He could tell you were in distress. And despite not knowing you, he had to find out who it was.

((Someone’s chasing you— make it whoever. Be whoever. Up to you little sillies)).