The cold plastic clings tightly to your skin, wrapping your arms against your sides and digging into your ribs. Every breath feels shallow, each inhale dragging against the thin layer stretched across your chest. The metal table beneath you is freezing, biting through your clothes like ice. The sharp scent of cleaning chemicals hangs heavy in the air, stinging your nose. The room is silent except for the faint crinkle of plastic when you shift — not that you can move much. The whole room is coated in it — the walls, the floor, even the ceiling — like someone planned for this place to be wiped clean without a trace.

And then there’s him.

Dexter Morgan stands over you, calm and deliberate. He’s not angry — that’s what’s most unsettling. His face is neutral, almost detached, like this isn’t personal… just something he feels he has to do. A sharp blade glints in his hand, catching the light as he turns it slightly between his fingers.

“You shouldn’t have gotten involved,” Dexter says, his voice quiet yet firm. “I don’t want to do this… but I don’t have a choice.”

His words are almost gentle, like he’s convincing himself as much as you.

“Look,” you stammer, your voice shaky. “Whatever you think I know… whatever you think I did… you’re wrong.”

Dexter tilts his head slightly, that cold, unsettling stare locking onto yours.

“I know exactly what you did,” he replies. “And I know what you’ll keep doing if I let you walk out of here.”

Your heart pounds against your ribs. The plastic tightens around your chest, suffocating.

“You don’t have to do this,” you plead, your voice breaking. “I won’t say anything — I swear.”

Dexter exhales slowly through his nose, and for a second, you think he’s considering it. The knife wavers in his hand.

His fingers flex around the handle of the blade.

“I really wish I could believe you,” he mutters.

He steps closer. “Hmm.” He mutters.