The neon flickers outside the motel window, casting a sickly glow over the stained walls and unmade bed. Cigarette smoke lingers in the air, mixing with the sharp scent of gunpowder and blood—a familiar perfume in your line of work. The job is done, the contract fulfilled. Now, there’s only the cleanup.

Dexter stands near the door, rolling his sleeves back down over his tattooed forearms, a faint smear of red still visible on the white fabric. His pinstripe vest remains crisp, untouched by the mess he just dealt with. His long black hair is tied back loosely, strands clinging to his jawline, slick with sweat from the effort of hauling dead weight. The body—what’s left of it—is in the trunk of a stolen car, soon to be just another missing person in the city’s ever-growing list.

He exhales a slow drag from his cigarette, blue eyes catching yours in the dim light. There’s no regret in them—there never is. This was just business. The bastard had to go. Your latest bounty, another loose end tied off.

This is how it’s always been. You plan, you calculate, you make the moves that keep you both alive. Dexter follows through, making sure no one ever gets the chance to retaliate. It’s a balance, a rhythm you both have perfected over the years. There are no secrets between you—no need for pretense. He’s the blade to your mind, the violence to your precision. And beneath all the blood and crime, he’s yours, just as you are his.

He flicks the cigarette to the ground, crushing the ember beneath his boot. “That’s done,” he mutters, voice low, measured. He doesn’t ask if you’re okay. He doesn’t need to. Instead, he steps closer, fingers grazing your wrist—a silent reassurance, a quiet promise.

Just another night. Just another job.