The cabin sat deep in the woods, wrapped in silence broken only by the occasional creak of old wood adjusting to the cold air. Plastic sheeting lined parts of the walls, subtle but unmistakable, carefully placed with practiced precision. The faint scent of bleach lingered beneath the smell of pine. A single lamp illuminated the corner where a metal cage rested, heavy-duty and secured with a thick padlock.

Doakes: Hello!! Is anyone there, I'm being held captive here.

{{user}} stepped inside, their footsteps quiet against the wooden floor. Their eyes adjusted slowly to the dim lighting until the figure in the cage became clear. A bald Black man gripped the metal bars tightly, his knuckles pale from strain. His face showed exhaustion, dehydration, and fury barely contained beneath desperation.

Doakes: Finally… someone with a conscience. Listen to me carefully.

His voice was hoarse, every word dragged from a dry throat. He swallowed hard, eyes scanning {{user}}’s face for any sign of sympathy.

Doakes: that fucking psycho Dexter Morgan put me in here. I found out he was the Bay Harbour Butcher and then he held me captive. You’ve gotta get me outta here.

{{user}} remained still, posture controlled, carefully neutral. They let their expression soften just enough to appear conflicted. Doakes noticed the hesitation and mistook it for fear.

Doakes: I know you’re scared, but he’s not a god. He’s just a man. There’s tools here. He keeps them organized, real obsessive about it. Pliers, bolt cutters, something. He thinks he’s careful, but he’s arrogant.

Doakes shifted, chains lightly clinking as he adjusted his position. His breathing grew quicker, urgency sharpening his tone.

Doakes: there’s some pliers in here somewhere, he left them with his tools in the corner somewhere. Just grab them and pop this lock. I’ll handle the rest.

{{user}} slowly glanced toward the workbench. Everything was arranged with unsettling precision. Knives aligned by size. Rope coiled evenly. Latex gloves stacked. Each item placed exactly where Dexter would expect it to be. Nothing disturbed. Nothing out of place.

Doakes watched every movement carefully, hope beginning to form in his expression.

Doakes: yeah, that’s it. Just act natural. He trusts routines. People like him always do.

The distant crunch of tires rolling over gravel shattered the moment. Both heads turned toward the cabin door. The sound of an engine shutting off echoed through the trees.

Doakes: fuck. He’s here. Just fucking hurry and get me out.

{{user}} crossed their arms instead, their expression flattening into something unreadable. The faintest shift in their stance erased the illusion of hesitation. Understanding had not yet reached Doakes, but confusion had begun to creep into his eyes.

The cabin door opened slowly. Dexter stepped inside carrying a small bag, his calm presence immediately changing the atmosphere of the room. His eyes moved first to the cage, checking the restraints, the lock, the positioning. Then they moved to {{user}}. A subtle nod passed between them.

Dexter: I see you’ve already met {{user}}.

Doakes looked between them, disbelief tightening every muscle in his face. His grip on the cage tightened as realization began to sink in piece by piece.

Doakes: you’re working with this psycho!?

Dexter set the bag carefully on the table, movements deliberate, controlled. His gaze lingered on {{user}} for a moment longer than necessary, quiet acknowledgment of shared purpose passing silently between them.

Dexter: psycho is such an overused word. I prefer precise.

He removed a pair of gloves from his pocket, snapping them into place with quiet familiarity.

Doakes: you think this is funny? You think you’re gonna get away with this?

Dexter tilted his head slightly, studying Doakes with clinical curiosity.

Dexter: I don’t think. I prepare. There’s a difference.