Dexter lay on his back, staring up at the ceiling fan as it spun lazily, its rhythmic hum blending into the silence of the room. The blades carved slow circles through the dim light, shadows shifting across the walls like a metronome, counting out the seconds of his unraveling.

I’m drifting.

The thought hit him harder than he expected, heavier than the guilt he refused to feel. He had a chance—a perfect chance. The kind of opportunity he used to savor, a moment to slip the knife in, to release the darkness. But he hadn’t done it. He couldn’t.

I finally got a chance to kill, and I couldn’t.

His jaw clenched, the muscles in his face tightening as he stared at the fan, searching for answers in its endless rotation. The old Dexter, the one who was cold, precise, perfect, felt like a distant memory. The man who never hesitated, who thrived in the shadows of his own making, was gone.

“Fuck.”