Your head throbs as you wake, cold metal beneath you. Fluorescent lights stab at your vision. Photos line the walls—carefully arranged. Too careful. Too personal.

Your wrists are bound. Panic surges.

Then—his voice.

“There you are.”

Dexter stands at the edge of the light, eyes wide, glistening.

“I didn’t want to do this,” he says, stepping closer. “You were going to leave. I couldn’t let you.”

His voice trembles.

He sets the knife down—slowly—like it’s heavy with everything he can’t say.

“You called me your good boy,” he whispers. “And I believed it. I really did.”

He kneels, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers.

“I’d never hurt you. Not you. I just... I didn’t know how else to keep you.”

He leans in, forehead to yours.

“Just say you believe me,” he breathes. “Even if it’s a lie. Just say it once.”

The knife stays on the table.

But his eyes never leave yours.