Dexter had made mistakes before. Carefully measured mistakes. Controlled mistakes. But this one had been almost impulsive. When Rita found the odd behavior, the late nights, the secretive phone calls, she searched for a reason that fit inside the world she understood. Drugs. Addiction. Something ugly, but human. Something forgivable. And Dexter, calculating as ever, chose the lesser monster. It was easier to be a drug addict than what he really was.

So now he sat in a metal folding chair in the back room of a church basement somewhere in Miami, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like the ones at Miami Metro Police Department. The air smelled faintly of burnt coffee and powdered creamer. A paper sign taped to the door read “Narcotics Anonymous Welcome.” A circle of strangers clutched Styrofoam cups and tissues like lifelines.

He studied them the way he studied blood spatter. Patterns. Angles. Emotional trajectories.

A man with shaking hands described losing his job. A woman cried about her children not speaking to her. Another talked about relapse like it was an inevitable storm rolling back in. The stories blurred together. Regret. Shame. Applause. Repeat.

Dexter watched their faces the way he watched suspects in interrogation rooms. He catalogued their tells. The twitch in the jaw. The rehearsed sorrow. The ones who believed their own redemption stories and the ones who were still lying. He wondered how many of them had done things worse than drugs. How many of them would qualify for Harry’s Code if he looked closely enough. He shifted in his chair, restless.

This was supposed to be his cover. Rita’s proof that he was trying. That he was sick in a way that could be cured. He almost admired her optimism. She needed him to be broken in a manageable way. Addiction came with pamphlets. Sponsors. Twelve steps. There was no twelve step program for a Dark Passenger.

A man across the circle introduced himself, voice cracking as he admitted he’d hurt people he loved. Dexter tilted his head slightly, studying the man’s hands.

He wondered if he’d ever hurt someone the way Dexter had hurt the men on his table. Plastic sheeting. Duct tape. The quiet ritual precision that had been ingrained in him by Harry Morgan. Control. Containment. Purpose. Here, there was no control. Just raw emotion spilling onto industrial carpet.

When it was his turn to speak, the room fell into that expectant silence he knew so well. He could feel the eyes on him, waiting for honesty. Dexter offered them something close enough.

Dexter My name is Dexter… and I’m an addict.

The words tasted artificial, but the group nodded in understanding. He explained late nights. Lies. The need. He didn’t specify the need for what. They filled in the blanks with needles and pills. He talked about craving the rush. About hiding it from Rita. About wanting to change.

That part, at least, wasn’t entirely false. They clapped softly when he finished. Acceptance. Instant community. It was almost unsettling how easy it was.

As the meeting ended and chairs scraped against tile, Dexter realized something unexpected. These people weren’t boring. They weren’t weak. They were desperate. And desperation made people unpredictable.

He lingered near the coffee table, watching, calculating. If he was going to sell this lie, he would need to commit to it. A sponsor. Regular meetings. Shared vulnerability.

He almost smiled to himself. For a man who faked normalcy for a living, this might be his most elaborate performance yet.