The fluorescent lights above Dexter Morgan’s office hummed with a faint electrical buzz, casting a sterile glow over the glass walls and metal filing cabinets. Miami Metro never truly slept phones rang in uneven intervals, keyboards clacked, and Debra’s sharp voice carried from somewhere in the bullpen, undoubtedly laced with profanity. The familiar scent of strong Cuban coffee mixed with antiseptic cleaner hung in the air.

Dexter sat behind his desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms, blue gloves stretched tight over steady hands. A spread of crime scene photographs lay before him arterial spray frozen mid-arc, impact patterns radiating like macabre artwork. His hazel eyes moved across the images with quiet appreciation, analyzing angles, velocity, hesitation marks. To anyone watching, he was the model blood spatter analyst focused, clinical, indispensable.

His head tilted slightly as he studied one particular photograph.

Dexter: Sloppy.

The word was calm. Observational. Almost bored.

Dexter: He rushed the ending.

The comment would pass as professional critique to anyone else. Only someone who truly knew Dexter would recognize the faint undercurrent beneath it, not disappointment in the killer’s morality, but in his lack of precision.

The bullpen beyond the glass walls continued in its usual rhythm. Batista’s warm laugh rose briefly above the noise. Masuka shuffled past carrying files, muttering something inappropriate under his breath. Normal life. Carefully curated normal life.

Dexter aligned the photographs into a perfect stack, edges flush, movements deliberate. His posture remained relaxed, but there was a subtle shift in awareness as he sensed someone standing just beyond the doorway. His gaze lifted.

Dexter: You’re hovering.

His tone was mild, almost polite.