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Chapter Text

April 12, 1984 – 3:17 PM
Dr. Emmett’s Office, Miami, Florida

The clock ticked softly, its measured rhythm filling the sterile air of the office. The room smelled faintly of citrus and old books, an oddly comforting scent that barely masked the weight of expectation.

Dexter sat on the edge of the leather chair, his small frame rigid, his hands neatly folded on his lap. He was thirteen, but his posture was that of a man on trial, ready to plead his case to a jury that had already decided his fate.

Across from him, Dr. Emmett adjusted his glasses, his keen eyes fixed on the boy. A legal pad rested on his knee, filled with looping handwriting and shorthand notes. The walls were lined with books about child psychology, trauma, and behavioral disorders. On the desk behind him, a small ceramic elephant sat—its cheerful glaze felt oddly out of place in a room where monsters were discussed.

Dr. Emmett leaned forward slightly, his tone carefully neutral. "Dexter, last week, you said the urges felt stronger. That they were harder to ignore. Is that still true?"

Dexter’s lips twitched, not quite forming a smile. He had learned to mimic expressions, to approximate the emotions that other people expected to see. It was a skill he had honed over the years, though it never quite reached his eyes. He tilted his head slightly, considering the question, before answering with practiced calm.

"Yes," he said, his voice flat, but polite. "It’s like an itch. The more I try not to scratch it, the worse it gets."

Dr. Emmett nodded, scribbling something on his pad. "Can you describe the feeling? What triggers it?"

Dexter hesitated. Not because he didn’t know the answer, but because he had learned to measure his words carefully. He couldn’t say too much, but saying too little would raise suspicion.

"It’s hard to explain," he began, his eyes flicking to the bookshelf behind Emmett. "It’s like... there’s something inside me. Something that’s always hungry. And when I see certain things, it wakes up. It wants to..." He trailed off, his gaze returning to Emmett. "It wants to take control."

Dr. Emmett set down his pen and folded his hands in his lap, his expression calm but alert. "And what kinds of things wake it up?"

Dexter’s fingers twitched slightly in his lap, the only outward sign of discomfort. He thought of the raccoon he had found two weeks ago, its body broken and twitching by the side of the road. He had felt it then—the surge of excitement, the thrill of watching life drain away. But he couldn’t tell Emmett that. Not exactly.

"Animals," Dexter said finally, his voice soft. "When I see them hurt, or when I... hurt them." He glanced at Emmett, watching for a reaction. "I know it’s wrong. I do. But it feels... good. Like I’m feeding the itch."

Emmett’s face remained neutral, though there was a flicker of something in his eyes—concern, perhaps, or curiosity. He leaned forward slightly. "And have you acted on these feelings recently?"

Dexter hesitated, but only for a moment. "No," he lied. "Not since we started talking."

Dr. Emmett nodded slowly, his pen tapping against the edge of the pad. "That’s good, Dexter. That’s very good. But I want you to be honest with me. If you ever do act on those urges, you need to tell me. It’s the only way we can help you."

Dexter nodded, his face the picture of compliance. "I understand."

Emmett studied him for a long moment, as though trying to peel back the layers of Dexter’s calm exterior. "Dexter, have you ever thought about hurting people?"

The question hung in the air, heavy and unavoidable. Dexter’s heart didn’t race—he had trained himself to stay calm under pressure—but he could feel the weight of the words pressing against him. He met Emmett’s gaze, his expression carefully blank.

"Sometimes," he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. "But I don’t want to. I know it’s wrong."

Emmett’s brow furrowed slightly, but he nodded. "It’s good that you recognize that. The fact that you’re here, talking about this, means you’re taking the right steps. You’re learning to control it."

Dexter tilted his head slightly, as though considering the statement. "But what if I can’t control it?" he asked, his tone so calm it was almost chilling. "What if it gets too strong, and I can’t stop it?"

Emmett leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled in thought. "That’s why we’re here, Dexter. To make sure that doesn’t happen. You’re not alone in this. You have your father, your sister, and me. We’re all here to help you."

Dexter nodded again, though the words felt hollow. He knew Emmett believed them, but Dexter had long since realized that no one could truly help him. The beast inside him wasn’t something that could be tamed or reasoned with. It was a part of him, as essential as his heartbeat.

Emmett scribbled another note on his pad before glancing at the clock. "Our time’s almost up for today, but I want you to think about something before our next session." He set the pad aside and leaned forward, his gaze intent. "I want you to think about what triggers these feelings and why. The more we understand about them, the better we can manage them. Can you do that for me?"

"Yes, Dr. Emmett," Dexter replied, his voice steady, his face a perfect mask of obedience.

"Good," Emmett said, offering a small, encouraging smile. "We’ll talk more next week."

Dexter stood, his movements precise and deliberate, and shook Emmett’s hand before leaving the office.

The heavy door of Dr. Emmett’s office clicked shut behind Dexter, muffling the faint hum of conversation from the waiting room. The late afternoon sun was harsh, slicing through the palm trees and casting jagged shadows across the parking lot. Dexter’s sneakers crunched on the gravel as he walked toward Harry’s car, parked in its usual spot at the far end of the lot.

The old Crown Victoria idled there like a watchful predator, its engine rumbling faintly. Inside, Harry Morgan sat behind the wheel, his sharp eyes locked on Dexter through the windshield. The intensity of his gaze didn’t waver as Dexter climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door with a soft thunk.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. Harry reached over and turned down the radio, muting the low chatter of a sports commentator. The silence that followed was deliberate, weighted.

"How’d it go?" Harry finally asked, his voice low and measured. He didn’t look at Dexter as he spoke, his eyes fixed on the rearview mirror as though the answer might materialize there.

Dexter shrugged, his hands resting neatly in his lap. "It was fine."

Harry’s jaw tightened, his fingers gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles turned white. "Fine," he repeated, his tone clipped. "That’s all you’ve got to say?"

Dexter turned his head slightly, studying Harry’s profile. His stepfather’s face was weathered, lines etched deeply into his forehead and around his mouth. Years on the force had aged him faster than most, but it wasn’t just the job. Harry carried the weight of secrets—Dexter’s secrets—and it showed.

"We talked about the urges," Dexter said, his voice calm and detached. "Dr. Emmett says I’m making progress."

Harry’s gaze snapped to him then, sharp and searching. "Progress," he echoed, his tone tinged with skepticism. "What the hell does that mean? Do you still feel it, or not?"

Dexter hesitated, carefully choosing his words. He knew better than to lie outright, but the truth wasn’t always an option either. "It’s still there," he admitted, his tone as neutral as ever. 

Harry’s grip on the steering wheel tightened again, and for a moment, Dexter thought he might hit something—maybe the dashboard, maybe Dexter himself. But Harry just let out a slow, measured breath, his jaw clenching and unclenching like he was chewing on something bitter.

The silence stretched between them, thick and uncomfortable. Harry shifted in his seat, his movements jerky and restless. Finally, he turned to face Dexter fully, his eyes narrowing.

"What does it feel like?" Harry asked suddenly, his tone sharp and demanding.

Dexter blinked, caught off guard by the question. He turned back to Harry, his expression carefully blank. "What does what feel like?"

"You know damn well what I mean," Harry snapped. "The urges. The... whatever the hell it is inside you. What does it feel like?"

Dexter hesitated again, his mind racing. He had never been asked to describe it before—not by Dr. Emmett, not by anyone. And he wasn’t sure how much he wanted Harry to know.

"It’s like... an itch," Dexter said finally, echoing the words he had used in the session. "But deeper. Like it’s under my skin, and I can’t scratch it."

Harry frowned, his eyes narrowing further. "And hurting animals makes it stop? Makes it go away?"

"For a little while," Dexter admitted, his voice soft.

Harry’s hand shot out suddenly, grabbing Dexter’s arm in a grip that was firm but not painful—yet. His eyes bored into Dexter’s, cold and unrelenting. "You listen to me, Dexter," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "You keep that thing locked up inside you, do you hear me? I don’t care how bad it gets, you don’t let it out. Not ever."

Dexter met Harry’s gaze, his own expression as calm and detached as always. "I know," he said again.

Harry shook his head, his grip on Dexter’s arm tightening slightly. "No, you don’t know. You think you do, but you don’t. You don’t understand what’ll happen if you let that thing out. You’ll ruin everything, Dexter. Your life, your sister’s life—everything."

Dexter tilted his head slightly, his eyes narrowing just a fraction. "I said I know," he repeated, his tone colder this time.

Harry stared at him for a long moment before finally letting go of his arm. He turned back to the steering wheel, his hands gripping it tightly as he started the car.

"You’d better," Harry muttered, his voice barely audible over the engine.

Dexter said nothing, his gaze fixed on the passing palm trees as they pulled out of the parking lot. He'll managed, just as Harry had taught him.

...

April 15, 1984 – 4:26 PM
Morgan Family Backyard, Miami, Florida

The air was heavy with the scent of orange blossoms and wet grass, the kind of spring day in Miami that felt more like summer, with the sun burning white-hot in the sky. In the backyard, Debra Morgan’s laughter rang out like wind chimes caught in a storm.

She was eight years old and loud, her voice cutting through the lazy hum of bees and the rustle of palm fronds.

She was playing tag with two friends from school, both girls her age, their uniforms swapped for T-shirts and shorts. They darted between the trees and the garden shed, their sneakers kicking up small clouds of dirt.

“Gotcha!” Debra cried, her fingers brushing her friend’s arm.

The other girl shrieked with laughter and ran toward the fence, her ponytail bouncing as she moved.

It was in that moment, as Debra slowed to catch her breath, that she noticed the strange stillness near the edge of the yard. The spot where the bird feeder hung from an old oak branch, its painted surface chipped and peeling. Dexter was there, crouched low to the ground, his back to her.

“Dex?” she called out, her brow furrowing.

He didn’t respond, didn’t even flinch. She frowned and took another step forward, her bare feet sinking into the soft earth. The other children followed her gaze, their chatter fading as curiosity drew them closer.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her voice louder this time.

Still, he said nothing.

When she was close enough to see over his shoulder, she stopped short. Her friends froze beside her, their laughter dying in their throats.

Dexter was holding a squirrel, its small body limp in his hands. Blood stained the fur around its neck, dark and wet, pooling in the grass beneath him. A knife lay nearby, its blade smeared red.

Debra’s stomach turned. “Dex, what the hell?” she demanded, her voice high and shaky.

It took her a moment to understand what she was looking at. The squirrel lay on his hand, its body limp, its fur matted with blood. One of its legs twitched reflexively, a final, feeble protest against what had already been done.

He glanced up at her then, his expression calm, almost serene. His hands moved with practiced precision, peeling back the fur to reveal the sinew and muscle beneath.

“It was eating the bird food,” he said simply, as though that explained everything.

Debra took a step back, her face pale. “So? That doesn’t mean you—” She broke off, gesturing wildly at the scene in front of her. “You killed it, Dex! Jesus Christ!”

Her friends huddled together, their eyes wide with fear and disgust. One of them whimpered, and the other muttered something about going home.

Dexter tilted his head slightly, his expression one of mild confusion. "It’s just a squirrel, Deb."

“I didn’t kill it for no reason,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact. “It was a pest. It was stealing food meant for the birds.”

But Debra didn’t move. She couldn’t. Her feet felt rooted to the ground, her eyes locked on the blood staining her brother’s hands.

"What is wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice breaking.

Dexter didn’t answer. Instead, he set the squirrel’s body down carefully, almost reverently, and wiped his hands on a rag he had brought with him.

The screen door slammed open, and Harry Morgan stepped out onto the back porch. He took one look at the scene—the squirrel, the knife, the blood—and his expression darkened.

“What the hell is going on here?” he barked, his voice cutting through the tense silence like a whip.

The voice cut through the chaos like a knife, sharp and commanding. They all turned to see Harry Morgan standing on the back porch, his face a mask of fury.

He strode across the yard, his boots crunching on the gravel path, and the children scattered like leaves in the wind. Debra stood frozen as her father approached, his eyes fixed on Dexter.

Debra turned to him, her eyes shining with tears. “He—he killed a squirrel, Dad! For no reason!”

Dexter rose to his feet, the knife still in his hand, the blood on his fingers stark against his pale skin. He met Harry’s gaze without flinching. "The squirrel was eating the bird food," he said calmly.

Harry’s jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists at his sides. He glanced at the squirrel, then back at Dexter. "Inside. Now."

Dexter didn’t move. "But—"

"Now!" Harry barked, his voice loud enough to make Debra flinch.

Dexter hesitated for only a moment before obeying, brushing the dirt from his knees, and followed Harry into the house. Debra and her friends stayed behind, their whispers mingling with the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

The screen door slammed shut behind them, the sound echoing through the quiet house. Dexter stood in the middle of the living room, his hands at his sides, while Harry paced back and forth in front of him.

“What the hell were you thinking?” Harry demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Dexter looked down at the floor, his face calm but his mind racing. “It was eating the bird food,” he said again, as though that explained everything.

Harry stopped pacing and turned to face him, his expression hard. “I don’t care what it was doing,” he snapped. “You don’t kill animals in the backyard, Dexter. Do you understand me?”

Dexter turned to face him, his expression unreadable. "I'm... sorry. I wasn’t thinking," he said simply.

“I said, do you understand me?” Harry repeated, his voice rising.

“Yes,” Dexter said finally, his tone even.

Harry stepped closer, his face inches from Dexter’s. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?” he hissed. “What if one of Debra’s friends tells their parents? What if this gets out?”

Dexter met his gaze, his own eyes calm and steady. “I’ll say it was an accident,” he said simply.

Harry’s hand shot out, striking Dexter across the face. The sound of the slap echoed through the room, sharp and sudden.

Dexter stumbled back slightly, his cheek stinging, but he didn’t cry out. He didn’t even flinch.

“You think this is a game?” Harry demanded, his voice shaking with anger. “You think you can just do whatever the hell you want and lie your way out of it?”

Dexter straightened, his face carefully blank. “No, sir,” he said quietly.

Harry stared at him for a long moment, his chest heaving. Finally, he let out a sharp breath and turned away, running a hand through his hair.

“You’re lucky I don’t call Dr. Emmett right now and tell him to double your sessions,” he muttered. “Clean yourself up and stay in your room for the rest of the night. And don’t let me catch you pulling this kind of crap again.”

“Yes, sir,” Dexter said again.

Harry didn’t respond. He just stood there, his back to Dexter, as the boy turned and walked upstairs to his room.

9:35 PM

The house was quiet now, the kind of stillness that came with late hours and heavy tempers. The muffled sound of the television drifted up from the living room, where Harry sat in his recliner, nursing a scotch and flipping through channels with restless irritation. The occasional low laugh track filtered through the walls, but it was distant, a world away.

Dexter lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. The sting of the slap had faded, but its memory lingered, sharp and intrusive. The overhead fan spun lazily above him, casting long, spinning shadows on the walls.

A soft knock on the door pulled him from his thoughts.

“Dex?”

It was Debra’s voice, tentative and small.

He hesitated, debating whether to answer. Finally, he sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

“What?” he said, his voice flat but not unkind.

“Can I... can I come in?”

He glanced at the door, knowing Harry wouldn’t approve. “No.”

There was a pause. Then, “Can we talk, at least?”

Dexter sighed, leaning back against the headboard. “What do you want, Deb?”

“I just...” She hesitated again, the weight of her uncertainty pressing through the wood of the door. “I want to know why you did it.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dexter said, his tone dismissive. “Just forget about it.”

“I can’t.” Her voice was firm now, carrying a stubbornness that reminded him of their mother. “I saw you, Dex. You didn’t even look upset. You didn’t look... anything. That’s not normal.”

He let out a short, humorless laugh. “Maybe I’m not normal.”

“Don’t say that,” she snapped, and he could hear the wobble in her voice, the thin line she was walking between anger and sadness.

“It’s true,” he said simply.

There was a long silence on the other side of the door. He could picture her standing there, arms crossed, her brow furrowed in that way it always did when she was thinking too hard about something.

“Is there something wrong with you?” she asked finally, her voice quiet and tentative, as though she was afraid of the answer. "Mommy said you need special help... that's why I can't go with you guys when you have to meet your special... doctor."

Dexter leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. He wanted to tell her the truth, to lay it all out in the open. But he couldn’t. She wouldn’t understand—not really.

“I don’t know,” he said instead, his voice soft. It wasn’t entirely a lie.

“I don’t believe you.” Her tone was sharper now, cutting through the quiet like glass. “You’re not stupid, Dex. You know exactly what’s going on. You just won’t tell me.”

He closed his eyes, taking a slow breath. “It’s not that simple, Deb.”

“Why not?” she demanded. “I’m your sister. You’re supposed to tell me stuff.”

He opened his eyes again, staring at the door as though he could see her through it. “You wouldn’t understand,” he said finally.

“Try me,” she shot back.

He hesitated. How could he explain it to her? The itch beneath his skin, the gnawing hunger that he couldn’t ignore no matter how hard he tried. The way the world felt muted and distant most of the time, like he was watching it through a pane of glass.

“It’s like... there’s this thing inside me,” he said slowly, choosing his words carefully. “It’s always there, no matter what I do. And sometimes, it gets so loud that I can’t think about anything else.”

“What kind of thing?” she asked, her voice softer now, more curious than accusatory.

“Scary things,” he said, his tone almost wistful. “Like it doesn’t belong to me, but it’s still... me. And it wants things. Bad things.”

There was another long silence. When she finally spoke, her voice was small and uncertain. “Like killing squirrels?”

“Yeah,” he admitted, his voice barely above a whisper.

She didn’t respond right away, and he wondered if she was going to walk away, if she’d finally realized what he was and decided she didn’t want any part of it. But then he heard her slide down the door, her weight settling against it as she sat on the other side.

“That’s... weird,” she said finally. “But it’s not like you’re a monster or anything. I mean, it’s just a squirrel. It’s not like you killed a person.”

Dexter swallowed hard, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t answer.

“You wouldn’t, right?” she pressed, her voice tentative again. “You wouldn’t kill a person.”

“No,” he said quickly, the word tumbling out before he could think about it. He prefers to cut himself than telling Debra that.

She let out a breath, and he realized she’d been holding it.

“Okay,” she said, her tone lighter now. “Okay, good. Because, you know, that would be really bad.”

He let out a short laugh, more air than sound. “Yeah. Really bad.”

They sat in silence for a while, the only sound the faint creak of the house settling and the hum of the fan overhead.

“You’re not alone, you know,” she said suddenly, her voice soft but firm.

He frowned, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, whatever this thing is... you don’t have to deal with it by yourself,” she said. “I’m here. Even if I don’t understand it, even if it’s weird and scary... I’m here.”

Something tightened in his chest, a strange, unfamiliar sensation that he couldn’t quite name. Gratitude, maybe. Or guilt.

“Thanks, Deb,” he said quietly.

“Yeah, well, don’t make me regret it,” she said, her tone teasing now.

He smiled, just a little.

“Goodnight, Dex,” she said, her voice muffled through the door.

“Goodnight, Deb,” he replied.

He listened to the sound of her footsteps retreating down the hall, the creak of her bedroom door as it opened and closed. Dexter closed his eyes and drifted to sleep.

...

October 14, 1986 - 5:52 PM

The leaves didn’t change in Miami. That was one thing Dexter had learned to accept about Florida: the world always looked the same no matter the season. The sky was still blue, the palm trees still waved lazily against the horizon, and the air still carried the sticky weight of humidity. Yet, the calendar insisted it was fall, and the mornings had grown a little cooler, if only just.

Debra had come home late. Dexter noticed as soon as the school bus pulled up outside their house, depositing her onto the curb with her backpack slung low and her head bent.

She didn’t run up the driveway the way she usually did, shoes scuffing against the pavement in her rush to tell him about her day. Instead, she trudged, her movements heavy and deliberate, as though the air itself was pressing down on her shoulders.

He watched her from his bedroom window, his head tilting slightly in curiosity. Something was wrong.

By the time she reached the front door, Dexter was already there, opening it for her.

“Hey,” he said, his voice neutral but edged with the faintest hint of concern.

“Hi,” she muttered, slipping past him without meeting his eyes.

He followed her into the house, his footsteps quiet but deliberate. She dropped her backpack by the couch and slumped onto it, crossing her arms over her chest.

“What happened?” he asked, standing a few feet away, his hands shoved into his pockets.

“Nothing,” she said quickly, too quickly.

“Doesn’t look like nothing.”

She shot him a glare, her eyes red-rimmed and wet. “I said it’s nothing, okay?!”

Dexter frowned, his head tilting slightly as he studied her. He could see the tension in her jaw, the way her fists clenched against her sides. She was angry, yes, but there was something else beneath it. Something smaller, more vulnerable.

“Did someone say something to you?” he asked, his voice soft but insistent.

She hesitated, her lips pressing into a thin line. Then, finally, she exhaled, her shoulders sagging. “It’s just this girl at school,” she said quietly. “She’s in eighth grade. She and her friends... they don’t like me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean they’re jerks, Dex!” she snapped, her voice cracking. “They make fun of me, they push me in the hallway... today they poured milk all over my lunch tray and laughed when I tried to clean it up.”

His frown deepened. “Why didn’t you tell someone?”

“Who am I supposed to tell?” she shot back. “The teachers don’t care. And Dad’s always saying I need to toughen up, so what’s the point?”

Dexter was silent for a moment, his mind working. He could picture it so clearly: Debra standing in the crowded cafeteria, surrounded by sneering faces and mocking laughter. He could imagine the sting of humiliation, the frustration of knowing no one would help her.

And then, unbidden, came another image. One that made his pulse quicken and his breath catch.

He imagined the girl—this faceless eighth-grader who had dared to hurt his sister.

He saw her lying on the ground, her eyes wide and blank, her mouth frozen in a silent scream.

He saw her blood pooling around her, dark and rich and beautiful.

It would be easy, he thought. So easy.

“Who is she?” he asked, his voice calm and even.

Debra looked up at him, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Why?”

“Just tell me her name.”

She hesitated, her eyes searching his face. “Why do you care?”

“Because she hurt you,” he said simply.

Debra blinked, her expression softening for a moment before hardening again. “It doesn’t matter, okay? I don’t need you to fight my battles for me.”

“I’m not going to fight her,” he said, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Her frown deepened. “Then what are you going to do?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he stepped closer, crouching down so they were eye-level. His voice dropped to a near-whisper, his tone calm and steady.

“I can make her stop,” he said.

Debra stared at him, her eyes wide and uncertain. “What do you mean?”

For a moment, she didn’t respond. Squirrel. Then her face twisted in anger.

“Are you crazy?!” she hissed, her voice low but sharp. “You can’t just... you can’t just do something like that!”

“Why not?” he asked, tilting his head.

“Because it’s wrong, Dex! It’s—” She broke off, her voice catching. “It’s not normal.”

“But she hurt you?” he said quietly, confused.

She shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “I don’t care!” she said. “You’re my brother, and I love you, that's why you can't!”

Her voice cracked, and she looked away, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.

“Deb,” he said softly, reaching out to touch her shoulder.

She flinched, pulling away from him.

“Don’t,” she said. “Just... don’t.”

And with that, she stood up, grabbing her backpack and heading toward the stairs.

“Debra,” he called after her, his voice quiet but firm.

She paused at the base of the stairs, her back to him.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She didn’t turn around. Instead, she climbed the stairs, her footsteps heavy and deliberate.

Dexter stood in the living room, the faint hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen the only sound in the house now. He stared at the base of the stairs, where Debra had disappeared just moments before, her footsteps still echoing in his ears.

He tried to replay the conversation in his mind, to dissect it like one of the blood patterns he loved studying in his books. He had offered to help her. To fix the problem. That’s what brothers were supposed to do, wasn’t it? Protect their sisters?

So why had she reacted like that?

He rubbed at his temple, the sensation of her anger and tears unsettling in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

Debra was usually loud and boisterous, full of energy that bounced off the walls and filled every corner of the house. But tonight, her voice had cracked, her face had crumpled, and she had looked at him like...

Like she was afraid of him.

Dexter frowned, the thought settling in his chest like a stone. He hadn’t meant to scare her. That hadn’t been the point. He wanted to make her feel safe, not push her away.

He wandered back to the couch and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. The hunger was still there, gnawing at the edges of his thoughts, but now it was tangled up with something else. Something he couldn’t name.

He thought about the way her voice had cracked when she said his name. The way she had pulled away from his touch.

Why had she been so upset?

He shook his head, running a hand through his hair. People were so confusing sometimes. Emotions, tears, all of it—it was like trying to read a book written in a language he didn’t understand.

All he had wanted was to help.

Wasn’t that enough?

Dexter leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He stayed there for a long time, unmoving, trying to piece together the puzzle of his sister’s reaction. But the pieces didn’t fit. They never fit.

And in the end, he was left with the same question he always came back to.

What was wrong with him?

...

February 7, 1988 – 10:00 AM
Dr. Emmett’s Office, Miami, Florida

Cognitive Behavioral Therapy (CBT)

Purpose: CBT aims to change harmful patterns of thinking and behavior

by challenging negative thoughts and replacing them with

healthier alternatives.

Effectiveness: CBT can help a person identify triggers for their violent impulses and

teach them coping mechanisms to avoid acting on

those

impulses.

The fluorescent lights of the office flickered above Dexter’s head, casting a harsh, clinical glow over the sterile white walls. He sat in his usual chair—narrow, hard, the kind that made his spine ache by the time the session was over—but today, it seemed to press into him more than usual. Maybe it was the way his body refused to settle, the constant hum of tension that clung to him like a second skin.

Dr. Emmett’s office smelled faintly of antiseptic and old books, a combination that Dexter had come to associate with the thick, uncomfortable silence of these sessions.

At seventeen, his emotions had grown more volatile, more difficult to tame, though he knew he couldn’t show it here. Not with Dr. Emmett. Not with anyone.

The therapist, older now with salt-and-pepper hair at his temples, sat across from Dexter, his expression patient but guarded. He was tall and lean, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose as he scribbled something in his notebook, as if it was a ritual he had grown accustomed to, something almost mechanical.

Dexter knew better than to think it was anything more. He wasn’t special here. Not even in this office, where he was supposed to untangle the mess of his mind.

“Dexter,” Dr. Emmett began, his voice low, a practiced calm that matched the clinical surroundings. “I want to revisit something from last week’s session.”

Dexter nodded stiffly, avoiding his gaze. Last week had been a blur, another round of pointless words and exercises that never seemed to help.

He had told Dr. Emmett about the ‘episodes’—the sudden flashes of rage, the need to kill, the gnawing hunger that was always there, beneath the surface, just waiting to be unleashed.

Dr. Emmett had responded with empathy, of course, but also with the same bullshit advice: control it. Suppress it. You’re a functioning member of society, Dexter. You can make this work.

“Let’s talk about your impulse to kill,” Dr. Emmett said, pulling Dexter out of his spiraling thoughts.

Dexter’s stomach tightened at the words. His hand twitched at his side, wanting to grip something, anything, just to remind himself he was still in control. But he didn’t. Instead, he sat, frozen, trying to mask the unease that was threatening to rise up inside of him.

“I told you,” Dexter replied, his voice flat, almost too rehearsed. “It’s just there. It’s always there.”

Dr. Emmett didn’t flinch, didn’t blink at the coldness in Dexter’s voice. The therapist had been trained to handle the likes of him, after all. He had to be.

“Have you thought about what it feels like when you resist the urge?” Dr. Emmett asked, his tone not accusatory, just... curious.

Dexter swallowed. The answer wasn’t so simple. He hadn’t talked about it before—this part of it. How the resistance ate at him, how each day felt like he was walking a tightrope, balancing between his human side and the beast that lived just beneath his skin.

“It feels...” Dexter trailed off, struggling to articulate it. He wasn’t used to talking about his feelings—he’d never needed to. His whole life had been about compartmentalizing. Pushing things down until they couldn’t be felt.

“It feels like a pressure,” he finally said, his eyes fixed on the edge of the table, avoiding Dr. Emmett’s gaze. “Like... the tension builds and builds until I can’t breathe. It’s like my chest is caving in, like I’m being crushed from the inside. And then the thoughts come. The urges. They want me to act. They always want me to act.”

Dr. Emmett nodded, his expression thoughtful. “I see. And what happens when you don’t act?”

“I don’t know,” Dexter admitted, a flicker of frustration breaking through. “I don’t know what happens when I don’t act. I just... I hold it. I force myself to hold it. To stay ‘normal.’”

The word tasted bitter in his mouth, and he hated it. Normal. What was normal, really? He was nothing like the people around him. Nothing like his sister. And Harry—Harry had always made sure Dexter played the part. Always pushed him to fit the mold.

“You don’t have to do it alone, Dexter,” Dr. Emmett said gently. “You can train yourself to manage these urges. The goal of CBT is not to suppress them forever—this isn’t about willpower alone—but about learning to redirect your impulses, to control your actions before they spiral out of your reach.”

Dexter shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. “Control? You think I have control? You think I can just... stop?”

Dr. Emmett’s eyes softened. “You can,” he said, his voice unwavering. “You’ve proven it before. You’ve learned to keep the beast inside. That’s strength, Dexter. That’s control. The more we practice, the more you’ll be able to redirect these urges. It’s not about denying them—it’s about managing them.”

Dexter leaned forward, his eyes suddenly hard. “I’m not a monster,” he said, his voice low and filled with something raw—something close to anger, or maybe desperation. “I’ve never been a monster.”

“No, you’re not,” Dr. Emmett replied firmly, never breaking eye contact. “You’ve done well so far. But you’re struggling. We all have things we struggle with. CBT is about identifying those struggles and working through them in manageable steps. Small victories, Dexter. That’s how change happens.”

Dexter’s fingers clenched into fists at his sides. Small victories. It all sounded so trivial, so... impossible. How could he control something as primal as the need to kill? Something that had been with him for as long as he could remember. The urge to hunt. To dissect. To take life.

“I’m not sure I can,” Dexter muttered under his breath, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Dr. Emmett’s voice was soft, but his next words cut through the air like a scalpel. “You can. We’ll take it one step at a time. We’ll work through this together.”

Dexter looked up at the therapist, his chest tight, his thoughts racing. The cold, clinical demeanor he had perfected for years was beginning to crack, just enough to let the weight of his emotions spill through.

One step at a time.

Pyschoanalysis (Psychodynamic Therapy)

Purpose : aims to uncover and explore deep-seated, unconscious emotional patterns and unresolved

conflicts that stem from early childhood experiences, relationships, and past trauma.

Effectiveness : can be effective for a wide range of issues, including anxiety, depression, trauma,

relationship difficulties, and

personality

disorders.  

The door to Dr. Emmett’s office opened with a soft creak. Dexter, his head low, his body still thrumming with the discomfort of the session, stepped into the hallway. His mind buzzed with the echoes of his words, his emotions still raw, still struggling to break free. The pressure, the hunger, it all felt more intense now—like the sessions with Dr. Emmett only managed to dig deeper, exposing more of the things Dexter wasn’t sure he wanted to confront.

The therapist’s office door clicked shut behind him, but it was the low murmur of voices from the other room that caught Dexter’s attention. He froze just outside the doorway, his feet still rooted to the floor. He knew that voice.

Harry.

Dexter swallowed, his stomach knotting, and he stepped closer, just enough so he could hear the conversation unfolding in the room beyond. It was a conversation that had happened many times before, but tonight, something in the tone of Dr. Emmett’s voice made it different. More insistent. More urgent. Dexter felt an uneasy shift in the pit of his stomach.

"...It’s clear that Dexter is struggling, Harry," Dr. Emmett was saying. His voice was calm, professional, but there was a sharp edge to it, like the words had been carefully chosen. "He’s been holding onto this... this tension, this urge for years now. I can see it. He’s doing his best, but it’s becoming harder for him to suppress the darker parts of himself. He needs help to manage it, or it could get much worse."

Dexter’s breath caught in his throat.

Harry’s voice cut through, rough and defensive, like it always was when someone tried to poke at his responsibility. "What do you mean by 'worse'?" There was a pause before Harry continued, the words coming out with an almost bitter edge. "What’s it going to take? I’ve been doing everything I can, you know that."

Dr. Emmett’s voice remained calm, unshaken. "It’s not about punishment, Harry. It’s not about control or enforcing discipline. Dexter needs more than that. He needs tools, real tools, to handle the emotions he’s burying. Cognitive Behavioral Therapy, Psychoanalysis—these are methods that will give him the coping mechanisms he needs."

Harry’s voice rumbled again, sharp and jagged like broken glass. "You’re telling me my kid needs more therapy? After all these years? After everything I’ve done for him?" His voice cracked, just enough for Dexter to hear the anger buried beneath. "He’s my responsibility. What more do you want from me?"

Dexter’s heart pounded in his chest, but he couldn’t pull himself away from the door. He needed to hear this. He needed to know what was being said about him, to hear the reality of it. Even though it made him feel smaller than he already was.

"Harry, I know this is hard to hear," Dr. Emmett said, his voice now gentler, less professional and more... human. "But this isn't just about Dexter's behavior; it’s about his mental health. It’s about the pressure he’s been under for years. You’ve done your best to keep him on track, but what he's going through isn't something that can be managed alone. He needs more. More than you or I can give him alone."

Dexter could hear Harry’s deep, heavy breathing from the other room. The sound of frustration was palpable in the quiet, the low hum of tension in the space between them.

Dexter knew Harry’s anger wasn’t about him—it wasn’t about Dexter at all—but rather about the sense of inadequacy, the feeling of failure that always simmered just beneath the surface.

"CBT works," Dr. Emmett continued, his voice firm now, driving the point home. "It will teach Dexter how to identify the patterns in his thoughts and actions. It will help him change the way he perceives and reacts to certain things. It’s a long process, but it can help him. It can help him understand the emotions he’s pushing down."

Dr. Emmett wasn’t finished.

“Psychoanalysis is also necessary,” the therapist added, his tone unyielding. “It will help him trace the roots of these feelings. We need to understand where the urges come from, why they persist, and how to manage them. It’s not something he can just ‘will away.’ He has to confront it head-on, and that means delving into his psyche, uncovering the things he’s been hiding from—even from himself.”

Dexter’s head spun. 

Harry’s voice was quiet when he spoke again. "But does he really need this... this psychoanalysis thing? He’s been functioning just fine, hasn’t he? He’s... normal. He’s not a threat."

Dr. Emmett’s sigh was slow, deliberate. Dexter could imagine the way he was rubbing his temples, the weariness that came with this conversation, a conversation that Harry had been avoiding for years.

"He’s holding on by a thread, Harry. He’s been suppressing these urges for as long as I’ve known him, but suppression only works for so long. If we don’t address this now, we might reach a point where it becomes uncontrollable. This isn’t about labeling him, Harry. It’s about helping him live a healthy life, without the constant pressure of keeping it all locked away."

A long silence followed. Dexter could almost hear Harry’s mind working through everything, turning over the words, trying to make sense of it. Harry didn’t speak for a long time, and Dexter could feel the tension building in the air. It wasn’t just about the conversation—they were talking about him. About the pieces of him that Harry didn’t want to see. The pieces Dexter didn’t want to confront, either.

Finally, Harry spoke, his voice softer now, resigned. “What do you need me to do?”

Dr. Emmett’s response was calm, matter-of-fact. “I’ll set up the sessions. CBT twice a week, alongside a psychoanalysis appointment. If you can support him through this, Harry, if you can help him see that this is for his benefit, it’ll make all the difference.”

...

November 14, 1989 – 9:46 PM
College Dorm, Miami, Florida

The night was thick with the heavy, humid air of Miami, the heat still clinging to the sidewalks as the sun set, casting long shadows over the concrete. Dexter Morgan stood in the open window of his dorm room, staring out at the bustling street below. The world was always too loud for him. Cars honking, people laughing, shouting, the distant murmur of music spilling from frat houses and apartments, a symphony of noise he could never quite tune out.

His phone buzzed once again, the familiar ping of a text from one of his roommates—Brad.

[Brad] Come on, Dex! We’re hitting the party at Mike's. You in?

Dexter didn’t reply at first. He never did. He hadn’t replied to Brad’s earlier texts either. The thought of going to some crowded frat house filled him with an inexplicable distaste, a sensation he had never quite been able to describe. The laughter, the chaos, the drinking—it was all noise. Unnecessary. If there was one thing Dexter knew for certain, it was that he didn’t belong there. Not with them. Not with anyone.

Dexter didn’t need friends. He didn’t need people. The people who tried to be his friends never really understood him. Not really. They just saw the surface—Dexter the quiet guy, the guy who always kept his distance, the guy who never quite fit in. He preferred it that way.

And besides, these guys were idiots. Brad and his crew were the type to spend weekends doing stupid shit like drinking cheap beer and slapping each other on the back as if their entire worth rested on how loud their laughter could get. He had no desire to be part of that.

Another buzz from his phone broke his thoughts.

[Brad] Dude, don’t be such a freak. We’re not gonna bite. Just come. It’s just a party. You don’t need to act all moody about it.

Dexter gritted his teeth. "Not gonna bite," he muttered to himself. He could already imagine their faces: Brad and his two buddies, Tim and Mike, laughing like animals in a cage, surrounded by half-dressed girls with no interest in anything except the next drink they could spill. He wasn’t interested. He had never been interested.

But that was the problem. "Dexter, you're such a buzzkill," they’d say, as if the word itself held any meaning to him. They always said it with that irritating mixture of faux concern and hidden judgment, as though they were doing him some great favor by being patient with him, dragging him along like a puppy on a leash.

Another ping.

[Brad] Don’t be such a loner, man. It'll be fun. You’ll see. Plus, Sarah’s gonna be there.

Sarah.

Dexter’s lips tightened. Brad wasn’t wrong. Sarah was one of the only people he could stand in this whole campus. But that wasn’t the reason. That wasn’t the reason at all.

With a sigh, Dexter slid the phone from his hand and tossed it onto his bed. He ran a hand through his messy hair and turned away from the window. He needed air. The space in this dorm room, with its bland beige walls and the cluttered desk covered in textbooks and random papers, was beginning to feel like a prison.

The frat house wasn’t far from campus—just a few blocks down the street, but it felt like a different world. Dexter made his way there under the dim glow of the streetlights, his steps deliberately slow, each footfall echoing on the sidewalk. The closer he got to the house, the louder the music grew, a dull bass that vibrated through his chest. The front door was wide open, a cascade of flashing lights spilling from the entrance, accompanied by the unmistakable scent of alcohol, sweat, and perfume.

Brad and the others were already there, of course. Their loud voices were unmistakable even from the front yard. Dexter saw them through the open door, perched on the stairs with red cups in hand, laughing like the world was their playground.

“Dexter!” Brad’s voice was high and expectant, too eager. “You made it! Finally! Get in here, man.”

Dexter stood there for a moment longer, watching them. Brad and Tim were slapping each other on the shoulders, swaying slightly with the alcohol in their system. Mike was standing on a couch, shouting something unintelligible. Dexter could almost feel the chaos in the air, like a storm about to break. The energy was nauseating.

For a moment, he almost turned around and left. But he’d never hear the end of it. He didn’t want to be the weirdo who bailed at the last second. So he stepped inside, the heavy thump of the bass vibrating through his chest as the door slammed shut behind him.

The noise hit him like a physical force. Music blared from every corner of the room, a distorted mix of rock and rap that made Dexter’s teeth ache. The air was thick with the scent of alcohol and sweat, the mingling of bodies moving in all directions, some gyrating to the music, others laughing, shouting over the noise.

Dexter’s eyes scanned the room. He stood at the edge of the space, feeling completely out of place. His eyes swept over the crowd, the faces of his friends blurring as they hooted and hollered, clinking their cups together as if their entire existence depended on how much noise they could make.

He noticed Sarah immediately. She was standing near the bar, talking to a guy he didn’t recognize, her hand resting on his arm in that way girls did when they were flirting. Dexter’s jaw tightened.

Brad appeared beside him, a red cup in hand. “See? Not so bad, huh? You’re missing out, buddy.” He slapped Dexter’s back harder than necessary.

Dexter didn’t respond. He couldn’t focus on Brad. His eyes kept drifting to Sarah, her laughter rising above the others, her expression so effortless, so free. But all Dexter could feel was a sharp, gnawing discomfort in his chest, an overwhelming urge to just... escape. To leave. To be alone.

“So,” Brad continued, seemingly oblivious to Dexter’s growing unease, “you gonna get a drink? You’re a college student, Dex. You’ve got to drink at least once, right? Or is that too lame for you?” Brad grinned, but there was an edge to it. The sort of edge that came from pressure.

Dexter didn’t answer right away. He watched Sarah laugh again, a sound so bright it almost felt foreign to him.

“C’mon,” Brad urged again, and Dexter could feel his friend’s eyes boring into him. “You’ll feel better once you loosen up a little.”

Dexter turned back to Brad, his gaze cold. His voice came out steady, even though his heart was starting to race. “I don’t need to drink to have a good time.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “Alright, man. But if you don’t drink, maybe you could at least try talking to some of these people?”

Dexter looked around, his mind turning colder with each passing second. The more he watched the others—how they acted, how they laughed, how they moved—the more disjointed everything felt. He could see the game, the way they all played it, as if there was a script they were following. Dexter couldn’t make sense of it. None of it.

He moved further into the room, his eyes scanning the crowd for Sarah again. But this time, his gaze was colder. His mind was colder. He couldn’t figure out what was wrong with him, why he felt so out of place.

As the night wore on, Brad’s group began to wander off into various corners of the house, each group splitting off into smaller clusters. Dexter stood alone in the corner, watching as people danced and joked, but his mind wasn’t really there. It never was. He felt like an alien, observing a species that made no sense.

Then, suddenly, there was a tap on his shoulder. He spun around quickly, only to find one of the frat brothers standing there—a tall guy with a smirk on his face.

“Yo, you’re Dexter, right?” the guy asked, a slight slur to his voice. “You’re one of the quiet ones, huh?”

Dexter blinked. “I guess.”

The guy didn’t seem to notice how off Dexter sounded. “You don’t talk much, do you? Why’s that?”

Dexter felt his pulse quicken. It wasn’t so much the question itself, but the way it was asked—like there was a challenge buried in the tone. Dexter’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure what kind of game this guy was playing.

“You know,” the guy started, leaning slightly in Dexter’s direction, his voice just loud enough to cut through the lingering thrum of the music. “You’ve been standing here and not talking to anyone.” He flashed a grin, one that felt a little too wide, too hungry. “You’re a mystery, man. People love a mystery.”

Dexter’s eyes met his for the briefest of moments, his expression still as unreadable as ever. He didn’t respond right away. Let the silence stretch, let it thicken the tension in the air. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation, least of all with this guy.

The tall guy, undeterred, took another step closer. “Hey,” he continued, voice smooth now, “I think we could have some fun tonight. You seem like the type. A little... reserved. A little hard to read. But that’s what makes it interesting.”

Dexter didn’t flinch. He didn’t move at all, the stillness of his body more telling than any words could be. The guy was leaning in now, too close for comfort, the scent of cheap cologne mixing with the alcohol on his breath. It wasn’t the cologne that made Dexter’s skin crawl. It was the way the guy was looking at him—like a puzzle, or worse, an object to be acquired.

“I’m not sure I’m your type,” Dexter said coldly, the words deliberate and sharp, slicing through the tension with an unsettling calm. “I’m not interested.”

The tall guy didn’t step back. Instead, he seemed to find amusement in Dexter’s refusal. His lips curled up into a slight smirk, his eyes never leaving Dexter’s face. “Come on, man,” he coaxed, his tone light but insistent. “What’s the harm in having a little fun? You don’t have to tell anyone. It’s just between us.”

Dexter’s pulse didn’t quicken. His face didn’t change, but his mind was already calculating. How much longer would it take for this idiot to leave me alone?

He took a small sip of his drink, as though the guy’s words were no more interesting than the fizz in the glass. “Not my kind of fun.” He met the guy’s gaze directly now, his expression completely unfazed, a mirror of cold indifference. “And I don’t do ‘between us’ situations.”

The tall guy leaned in a little further, his breath now warm against Dexter’s ear. “Why not?” he asked, voice low, almost coaxing. “You look like you could use a little... release.” He licked his lips. “You know you want to.”

Dexter’s hand tightened around the cup. He stepped back, slowly, deliberately, maintaining the same unflinching gaze. “I don’t,” he replied, his voice measured, unyielding. “So you should leave.”

For a moment, there was a brief flicker of surprise in the tall guy’s eyes, as though he didn’t quite believe Dexter had said it. He was used to getting what he wanted, Dexter could tell. Used to men like him caving under a little pressure, a little charm. But Dexter was different. The game wasn’t working on him.

The guy straightened up, his smirk faltering for a split second, before he shrugged nonchalantly. “Fine, whatever,” he muttered, his voice thick with disdain now. “Your loss, freak.”

Dexter didn’t feel the sting of the insult. He didn’t feel anything at all, except a vague sense of relief. The guy turned and walked away, leaving Dexter standing in the corner, his back pressed against the cold, unfamiliar wall of the house.

Just as the quiet began to settle in, Sarah’s voice broke through the fog. “Hey, Dexter.”

He turned, his expression still impassive. She was standing in front of him, her face open, her brows furrowed in concern. Her eyes were warm, but there was something hesitant in her gaze—something that hadn’t been there before.

“What’s going on with you?” she asked softly, her voice gentle, almost unsure. “Is something wrong?”

Dexter blinked at her, momentarily caught off guard by the directness of her question.

Sarah had always been kind, always present in a way that felt different from the others. She saw him, or at least she thought she did, and for some reason, that unsettled him more than he cared to admit. She reminded him of Debra.

“I’m fine,” Dexter said, the words coming out automatic, like a reflex. He wanted to brush it off, to push her away as he had done with so many others. But something stopped him. Something about her look, the genuine concern in her eyes, made him hesitate.

Sarah didn’t look convinced. She stepped a little closer, lowering her voice. “Dexter, come on. I’ve seen you around people before. You don’t act like this. What’s going on?” She tilted her head, her voice soft but persistent. “If you’re upset, you don’t have to do this alone.”

Dexter looked at her, his mind racing. He didn’t need anyone. He didn’t want anyone to understand. But as Sarah stood there, her face earnest, something shifted. A quiet voice in the back of his mind told him to let her in. It was almost a foreign thought to him, but it was there, clear and present. Let her in.

“Nothing’s wrong,” he said, the words coming out differently this time, softer. “I just... don’t like these kinds of things.”

with eyes of quiet grace
a smile that softens time and space
in every glance, a silent song
where kindness grows, where hearts belong

Sarah’s lips quirked slightly, and for the first time all night, Dexter noticed the way her eyes softened. She didn’t judge him. She didn’t push. Instead, she just nodded, as though she understood more than she let on. “You don’t have to be here, you know,” she said quietly. “You can leave if you want to. I’ll go with you.”

The simplicity of the offer caught Dexter off guard. He wasn’t used to people accompanying him. It made his chest tighten in a way he didn’t have the words to explain. Was this what normal people felt when they were cared for? Was this what it meant to be understood?

Before he could answer, Sarah stepped closer, her presence warm and reassuring. “Come on, let’s go back to your dorm. I’ll walk you there.” She gave him a small, understanding smile. “We can talk if you want, or... we can just be quiet. Your choice.”

Dexter hesitated for a moment longer, his eyes flicking toward the door, toward the chaos of the party, then back to Sarah. She was still standing there, waiting, like she truly cared whether he left or stayed. The weight of her gaze felt heavy on him, but not in a bad way. She wasn’t demanding anything of him. She wasn’t expecting him to be anything other than what he was.

“Okay,” he said quietly, the word feeling strange on his tongue. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. “Let’s go.”

They made their way to the door together, Sarah walking beside him, her pace unhurried. She didn’t ask any more questions, but the silence between them was comfortable, not oppressive. It was as if she understood that sometimes, there were no words needed.

As they stepped out into the cool night air, the sounds of the party fading behind them, Dexter felt a strange sense of relief. For all his reservations, for all his internal walls, something about this—something about Sarah—felt different. It felt like maybe, just maybe, he didn’t have to be so alone all the time. He didn’t have to shut people out.

And as they walked side by side through the quiet campus, Dexter realized he didn’t feel so empty in that moment. There was a spark of something that he couldn’t quite define, but it was there, deep inside. A connection, fragile but real.

...

May 5, 1992 – 3:23 PM
College Dorm, Miami, Florida

The rain had come in sheets, heavy enough to drown the sounds of the bustling campus. It was the sort of day that made the air smell clean, a sharp contrast to the suffocating weight that hung between them. Dexter had learned over the past couple of years to hide the darker corners of his thoughts, to mask his discomfort in the presence of emotions too raw, too genuine.

Yet, tonight, as he sat next to Sarah on the worn-out couch in his dorm, he felt that same pull again, the one that made him feel almost... human.

Almost.

Sarah was crying, her face buried in her hands, her sobs quiet but consistent, like a steady drip of water that wouldn’t stop. She was shaking, but Dexter couldn’t find it in him to reach out. He simply watched her, his eyes moving over her, his thoughts somewhere far beyond the tears.

“I can’t believe he said that,” Sarah whispered through the sobs, her voice cracking. She didn’t need to say who she meant. Dexter knew. Her boyfriend, Tyler. The one who, in Sarah’s eyes, was supposed to make everything feel right. The one who, in Dexter’s eyes, was just another pointless distraction.

Dexter wasn’t sure why Sarah kept putting up with him. It didn’t make sense to him. People like Tyler—people who failed to meet their end of the bargain, failed to make the others feel like they mattered—had no place in Dexter’s world.

But Sarah was different.

“Why does he keep doing this to me?” Sarah’s voice was barely audible, her hands gripping the edge of her shirt as if holding herself together would somehow stop the flood of emotions she couldn’t contain. “I’ve tried so hard, Dex. He doesn’t care. Not really. He—he never listens.”

Dexter felt a slight twinge in his chest, something small but sharp. It was the closest thing to empathy he could feel, but he wouldn’t let it show. Not here, not now. He had a reputation to maintain, even with Sarah.

“I don’t get it, Dex,” she continued, looking up at him through her tear-soaked lashes, her eyes red, and the vulnerability in them so raw it made something uncomfortable coil in his gut. “I keep trying... and he just shuts me out. What’s wrong with me?”

Nothing was wrong with her. She wasn’t broken. Dexter was. Dexter, who had spent his entire life learning how to blend in, to appear normal. He understood the feeling of isolation. But that wasn’t the point. He wasn’t here to fix her. He wasn’t supposed to care.

He shifted on the couch, leaning back slightly, his gaze never leaving her face. His words came out slowly, almost carefully, as he thought about how best to approach this conversation. “Maybe... maybe Tyler doesn’t deserve you.”

Sarah looked at him, her tear-filled eyes searching his face for any sign of the friend she had known for the past few years. “What do you mean?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, as though she were afraid of what he was implying.

Dexter’s gaze flickered down for a moment before he forced himself to meet her eyes again. This was not how he normally interacted with people. This wasn’t how he should interact. But he couldn’t stop himself. Not tonight. Not with Sarah.

“I mean,” he began, his voice calm, smooth, “maybe he needs to understand the consequences of being an asshole. Maybe he needs to be shown how much damage he’s doing.”

Sarah blinked, her brow furrowing in confusion. “What are you talking about?” she asked, unsure whether she had heard him correctly.

Dexter leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing ever so slightly as he spoke, the words carefully chosen, like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. “I’m saying... if he won’t listen to you, maybe he’ll listen when there are consequences. A little... reminder of what happens when you treat people like that.”

Sarah’s eyes widened, her breath catching in her throat. “What do you mean by consequences?”

Dexter didn’t miss the shift in her expression. She was starting to catch on. He could see the subtle change in the way she looked at him, the unease creeping into her features.

She hadn’t expected him to say this.

She hadn’t expected this from him. He could feel the shift, the tension between them building like an electric charge in the air.

“I could hurt him,” Dexter said, his voice flat, matter-of-fact, as though he were discussing the weather. “Not kill him. Just... make him understand what it feels like when you don’t treat someone right. Show him that there are consequences to being cruel.”

Sarah stood up suddenly, her chair scraping loudly against the floor. She backed away, her eyes wide now, her chest rising and falling in rapid breaths. “Dexter,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “what the hell are you talking about?”

The raw fear in her voice—fear of him—stung.

Squirrels. Debra. Crying.

It was a reaction Dexter had seen before, but not like this. Not from Sarah. He hadn’t expected her to react this way. He thought she understood. Thought she might appreciate the cold logic of it. He should have known better.

“Sarah,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper, trying to maintain the calm, controlled tone he had cultivated for so long, “you’ve seen how people treat each other. How men like Tyler treat you. Sometimes, they need to be reminded that there are consequences. I can make sure he remembers.”

Sarah’s face had gone pale, her hands shaking as she took a step back. She opened her mouth, as though trying to say something, but the words didn’t come out. Dexter could see her processing it, trying to make sense of what he had said. She wasn’t scared of him—not yet—but she was scared of the darkness in his words, the coldness in the way he spoke.

“You’re not serious,” she said, though it was clear she didn’t believe it anymore.

Dexter stood up slowly, feeling a familiar weight settling over him.

This was it. This was the moment when everything changed. The moment when she understood that he wasn’t like other people. That he wasn’t like the man she thought she knew.

Lose a friend.

“Sarah,” he said softly, his voice steady, but now tinged with something darker, something colder. “I’m always serious.”

The silence that followed was suffocating, the air thick with the weight of what had just been said. Dexter didn’t move. He didn’t need to. He just watched Sarah, waiting, studying her reaction.

Sarah, for her part, was shaking her head, slowly, as though trying to make sense of a world that suddenly didn’t make sense anymore.

She had come to Dexter for comfort, for understanding.

She had come to him because he had always been there for her, always a steady presence in her life.

But now, with his words hanging heavy in the air, she realized that everything she thought she knew about him was wrong.

“I—” She faltered, struggling to find words. “I... who are you?”

And with that, she turned and ran out of the dorm, leaving Dexter standing there, his heart—if he had one—pounding in his chest.

June 17, 1992 – 5:43 PM

The campus was quieter than usual that evening. The semester had ended, leaving behind a sense of stillness that permeated the hallways of the dormitory. Dexter sat in his room, textbooks spread out before him, but his focus was as sharp as ever.

He had learned, long ago, to drown out the distractions—the emotions, the relationships, the things that clouded clarity. He was used to the loneliness, to the quiet. It wasn’t something he feared. It was, in fact, necessary. The distance from others allowed him to keep his focus—on his studies, on his goals, on himself.

The knock on his door came with no warning, cutting through the stillness like a sharp breath.

Dexter looked up, his gaze narrowing in curiosity. He didn’t expect anyone, least of all Sarah, who hadn’t spoken a word to him since their last conversation.

The memory of that night—her running out of his dorm, the fear and confusion in her eyes—lingered. It wasn’t the sort of thing he could simply forget. Not that he wanted to. It had been a reminder of something he knew all too well—his difference. His inability to connect. But it had been necessary. And now, two months later, here she was, knocking at his door.

He rose slowly, his movements deliberate, and opened the door.

Standing there, on the threshold, was Sarah. Her face was different, softer in some way, her expression a blend of hesitation and resolve. She held a steaming cup of tea in her hands, the warmth of it escaping in faint wisps of steam. The sight of her was almost enough to make him step back, as if expecting her to turn away again, but she didn’t.

“Can I come in?” she asked, her voice quieter than he remembered, the hint of uncertainty not lost on him.

Dexter nodded, stepping aside, allowing her to enter.

“I know it’s been a while,” Sarah began, standing near the small desk where his textbooks were scattered. She set the cup of tea down, her fingers lingering over the rim for a moment, as if unsure whether to speak or not.

Dexter remained silent, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with a detached focus. The silence between them stretched, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable. He had long ago learned to live with silence. It was better this way.

Finally, Sarah broke the stillness. “I... I owe you an apology, Dexter,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “The way I reacted... it wasn’t fair. I overreacted, and I shouldn’t have just shut you out. I’ve thought about it a lot, and I want to say I’m sorry.”

Dexter didn’t immediately respond, his gaze steady. He had been prepared for this moment, the one where she came back, full of apologies and regret. It was predictable, after all. People were predictable. They would always return, even if it took time.

“Why are you apologizing?” Dexter finally asked, his voice flat, detached, the question hanging between them like an unsaid challenge.

Sarah looked at him, her brow furrowing slightly. “Because I wasn’t there for you. Because I ran away. Because... you were trying to tell me something, and I missed it. I was scared, and I reacted out of fear. I... I should’ve understood you better. And I want to try again. I want to be there for you, Dexter. I know I can’t change the past, but I want to try.”

Dexter studied her face, reading her expression, the uncertainty mixed with a genuine attempt at connection.

For a moment, he considered her words. He could feel the pull to say something cold, something dismissive. But he didn’t. There was something in her eyes, a flicker of the girl he once knew, the one who sought him out despite his strange ways. The one who tried to understand.

And then, she surprised him.

“I broke up with Tyler,” she said, her voice trembling slightly, but she met his gaze steadily. “I couldn’t keep pretending. He was selfish, and I couldn’t deal with the way he treated me anymore. It wasn’t just... the way he didn’t listen. It was everything. I wasn’t happy, and I couldn’t keep pretending I was.”

Dexter remained still, not moving, not speaking. He wanted to ask why she had stayed with him for so long, why she hadn’t seen it sooner, but he didn’t.

He simply nodded.

He didn’t need to ask. He had heard it all before in different forms. People who stayed with others because it was easier than facing the truth. People who were afraid of the loneliness. But now, Sarah was free. And that’s what mattered to her.

She stepped closer, reaching for the cup of tea she had set down earlier, her fingers brushing the ceramic gently as she offered it to him. “I bought it. I thought... maybe you’d want some,” she said, her voice almost shy now, as if trying to piece together the fractured parts of their friendship.

He reached out slowly, taking the cup from her hands, feeling the heat seep into his fingers. “Thank you,” he said, the words leaving his mouth without the usual detachment. There was something... different in his voice. Something that felt almost like gratitude, though he wasn’t sure he knew what it meant.

Sarah sat down on the edge of his bed, watching him closely. There was a softness in her gaze, a hint of warmth that was almost unfamiliar to him now. He knew she was studying him, trying to read him, trying to understand him the way she had before everything had gone wrong.

“Dexter,” she said, her voice hesitant but steady, “I’m here. I’m really here this time. No matter what’s happened before, I want to be your friend. I want to understand. I don’t want you to be alone.”

Dexter’s eyes flickered to her for a brief moment, and then, just as quickly, he looked away. He wasn’t used to this. He wasn’t used to people offering him something without expecting anything in return. He wasn’t used to being... cared for. Not like this.

“Why are you doing this?” Dexter asked softly, his voice more vulnerable than he meant it to be.

Sarah smiled, though it was faint, barely there. “Because I care about you, Dex. And because... you matter to me. That’s all.”

That was three months before Sarah was dead.

At first, Dexter couldn’t process it. It was a headline on his phone, something scrolling past his screen as he sat alone in his room. The details were sparse—she had been found in an alley, her body discarded like trash. The police had labeled it an assault, a tragedy, but they hadn’t found the one responsible. Tyler was nowhere to be found, but Dexter didn’t need to hear the full details to know the truth.

He knew what had happened. The threatening massages, the aggravating behavior towards Sarah, the obsession.

And for the first time in a long time, Dexter felt something that wasn’t cold, wasn’t calculated. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It wasn’t sadness, not in the way that people felt sadness. But it was... something. Something raw, something real.

It was the feeling of loss.

It was a grieving month in University of Miami.

Kind people sleep forever. That seems fair.

Dexter needs an aspirin. 

...

April 15, 2004 – 8:25 AM
Miami Metro Police Department, Florida

It was a typical morning in the blood-spattered labyrinth of the Miami Metro Police Department. The air in the forensics lab smelled faintly of bleach and old coffee, but Dexter Morgan had learned to embrace it. After all, it was his domain. His territory. The smell of crime was comforting—familiar. It was his job, his life, and he had perfected it.

Dexter sat at his desk, squinting at the blood-spatter patterns displayed on his computer screen, analyzing the tiny nuances in the way blood had dripped from a wound. His fingers tapped rhythmically on the desk, as if he were conducting an invisible orchestra. His thoughts were sharp, as always, focused solely on the case at hand. There was no room for distractions when it came to the work he loved.

At least, that’s what he tried to tell himself.

"Hey, Dex! Are you even listening to me?"

Dexter turned his head, momentarily snapping out of his focused trance. His sister, Debra Morgan, stood in the doorway of his lab, arms crossed over her chest. She was in her usual state of frustration—a whirlwind of impatience, determination, and a little bit of fire.

Despite her brash demeanor, Dexter found it oddly comforting. Debra was the only person who truly understood him, even if she had no clue about the darker parts of him.

"I’m listening," Dexter replied, his voice as smooth and monotone as ever. He leaned back in his chair, spinning it slowly. "You were talking about your date last night, right? The one who kept talking about himself for an hour?"

Debra rolled her eyes and walked into the lab, grabbing a chair and spinning it around before sitting on it, her legs stretched out. "Yeah, that’s the one. The guy was all ‘I’m a big shot detective, I can tell you everything about crime scenes,’ but he couldn’t even get the blood spatter right on a simple case. Complete idiot. Honestly, Dex, I don’t know how you do it. I’d lose my mind if I had to deal with the people I work with day in and day out."

Dexter smiled softly, his eyes flicking back to the screen. "You’re just frustrated. Give it time. Your career will catch up with you. You just have to let people like that crash and burn on their own."

Debra snorted, leaning back in the chair. "Yeah, well, that’s kind of what happened last night. By the end of the date, he was asking for my phone number, and I told him to call me when he figured out how to close his mouth. So, yeah, the crash-and-burn thing is happening."

Dexter’s lips curled into a half-smile. "There’s a certain beauty in watching someone fail at their own game, I suppose."

Debra groaned and slouched in her chair. "I don’t get it. I try to be patient with these guys, but they make it so damn hard. It’s like—" She threw up her hands, exaggerating her frustration. "They’re all idiots. And they can’t even see it."

Dexter chuckled softly, not bothering to tell Debra that sometimes, patience with people wasn’t as much about understanding them as it was about manipulating them into believing they mattered. But he didn’t want to make her think too much about that. Let her keep her rose-colored glasses on, for now. There was no need to burst her bubble just yet.

"Well," Dexter said, a playful glint in his eye, "sometimes you just have to let people dig their own graves. Or in your case, their own career holes."

Debra threw a pencil at him, hitting him squarely on the shoulder. "I hate you sometimes, you know that?" she grumbled.

Dexter feigned a wounded look and picked the pencil off the floor. "Ah, the love between siblings. It’s truly heartwarming."

Just as Debra was about to respond with another witty remark, their colleague, Angel Batista, walked in with a steaming mug of coffee in one hand and a stack of files in the other.

Angel was the ever-present optimist, the kind of guy who walked into a room and made everything feel just a little bit lighter—though he didn’t have the faintest idea of the darker things that occupied Dexter’s mind.

"Morning, everyone," Angel said cheerfully, setting the mug down on Dexter's desk. "I’ve got the new case for you, Dex. We got a double homicide over in Little Havana. The victims were... let’s just say they weren’t the most reputable people. You’ll probably be able to tell me exactly how it went down just by looking at the blood, right?"

Dexter’s eyes flicked over the file Angel had placed on his desk, his brain already processing the new case, the way the blood would have pooled, splattered, the angles of attack.

"Of course," Dexter said, flipping through the file. "You just need to give me the details of the scene, and I’ll fill in the rest."

Angel grinned, his eyes narrowing in playful challenge. "You really are a machine when it comes to this, huh? You’re like Sherlock Holmes with a lab coat."

Dexter quirked an eyebrow. "I like to think of myself as... something a little more efficient."

Debra, rolling her eyes at her brother's modesty, interjected. "Yeah, more like a machine, not a person."

"Not a person?" Dexter gave her a curious look, knowing she was teasing him. "What do you mean by that?"

Debra snorted. "Well, you don’t ever talk about anything other than blood spatter, crime scenes, and whatever it is you do in your weird little lab. It’s like you have no... social life or something."

Dexter’s lips curled upward in a humorless smile. "I have a social life. Just not one that revolves around small talk and bad coffee."

Angel laughed at the jab, before pointing at Dexter’s computer screen. "Well, it’s all going to be yours to figure out anyway. Have fun with that one."

"Always do," Dexter replied coolly, picking up the mug of coffee Angel had brought him and sipping it. It was lukewarm—typical of the half-hearted attempts his colleagues made at caffeinating him—but he took it anyway. He wasn’t about to let small details irritate him.

"You know, Dex," Debra said suddenly, "we should all go out for drinks tonight. I’m so tired of work, and it’s like the only time we actually have any kind of fun together." She tilted her head to one side, her eyes narrowing slightly. "What do you think, huh? You, me, Angel, the whole gang?"

Dexter leaned back in his chair, looking over at his sister. The thought of spending time with others—letting his guard down, pretending to be normal—was something he actively avoided. But Debra seemed insistent, and, despite everything, he found her insistence... somewhat endearing.

"I don’t know, Deb," Dexter said, tapping his fingers thoughtfully on the desk. "I’m not exactly the party type."

"That’s because you’re a freak," she said, pointing at him with a playful grin. "But c’mon. It’ll be fun. You need to live a little."

Dexter paused for a moment, considering the idea. "Fine," he said finally, deciding he could tolerate one night of pretending to be a normal human being. "One drink. I’ll give you that."

"Great!" Debra exclaimed, pumping her fist in victory. "It’s settled then. We’ll make a night of it. Just you wait."

Angel shook his head and laughed. "Debra, you’re impossible. But fine, I’m in. Dex, you better not bail on us, you hear me?"

Dexter smiled, the edges of his lips curling upward slightly. "Nope."

April 17, 2004 – 10:43 AM

Dexter Morgan sat at his desk in the sterile confines of the Miami Metro Police Department, the hum of fluorescent lights above mingling with the distant sounds of phones ringing and the occasional burst of laughter from officers passing by. His eyes were fixed on the gruesome crime scene photos in front of him. The blood patterns, the precision of the cuts, the dissection of the body—it was all so familiar, yet this case had a strange weight to it.

The Ice Truck Killer, the name they had given the unknown perpetrator, was a mystery that intrigued Dexter in a way no case had before.

The victim was a woman, her body drained of blood and left in a pristine condition, as if the killer had taken great care with her. Dexter's fingers hovered over the edges of the photographs, tracing the intricate patterns left behind. Each drop, each splatter, told a story—one he was trained to read, to understand.

But this time, something felt different. There was a deliberate cruelty in the way the killer staged the scene, a precision that suggested the killer was just as calculated as Dexter himself. A mirror, perhaps, a reflection of his own dark urges.

He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose, the weight of the case sinking deeper into his chest. His heart didn't race—he wasn’t nervous—but his mind raced, like a predator watching a distant, tantalizing prey. Dexter had spent years suppressing the urge to kill, crafting a life as normal as possible. He had learned how to function in society, how to suppress the beast that lurked inside him, but this case... it had a personal connection, one he couldn't deny.

The victim's blood, drained and preserved with methodical care, reminded him of something. Someone.

The sharp ring of the phone on his desk broke his thoughts, pulling him back into the present. Dexter picked up the receiver, his tone calm, professional.

"Dexter Morgan," he said.

"Morgan, it's Doakes," came the gruff voice on the other end. "We got another one. Same M.O. We need you down here."

Dexter’s pulse didn’t quicken, but there was a stir in his gut. He’d been waiting for this, somehow. Another body. Another victim. Another opportunity to piece together the puzzle that was the Ice Truck Killer. He grabbed his jacket and stood, the familiarity of the cold, clinical environment settling over him like a second skin.

"On my way," he said, hanging up the phone.

As he made his way to the parking garage, his mind wandered back to the case. The Ice Truck Killer had been careful—too careful, in fact. Almost as if he knew Dexter would be the one to study the blood spatter, to understand the precise technique behind the killings. It felt like a challenge. Like a game.

And Dexter knew that the moment he set foot at the crime scene, he would be playing that game—whether he wanted to or not.

The drive to the scene was short, the warm Miami air rushing in through the windows as he navigated through the streets. Dexter’s thoughts were sharp, focused. He was a professional, after all. He could analyze the blood, deduce the killer’s movements, and create a profile that would lead them to the perpetrator. But as he approached the location, a gnawing feeling in his stomach told him that this case wouldn’t be as straightforward as he wanted it to be.

The crime scene was set in a secluded part of town, an abandoned warehouse at the edge of the docks. Dexter stepped out of his car and surveyed the area. The police had already cordoned off the scene, but it didn’t take long for him to see the pattern.

The body was laid out in the center of the room, its limbs arranged with surgical precision. The victim, a middle-aged woman this time, was bloodless, her body an empty vessel. Dexter crouched down beside the corpse, examining the blood spatter.

He could see the streaks of arterial spray on the walls, the way the blood had pooled around the victim’s body. It was methodical, calculated. Too perfect.

His mind raced, the familiar pull of the darkness rising inside him. He hadn’t felt this before—at least, not in a case. There was something visceral about the way the body was displayed. This was not just a killing; it was an art form, an invitation.

The killer wanted Dexter’s attention, wanted him to understand.

Dexter’s eyes flickered to the surrounding area. He knew this wasn’t just about the murders. It was about something deeper—something personal. Dexter awed.

He stood up and turned to Doakes, who had approached with a grim expression. "The Ice Truck Killer," Dexter said, his voice low, almost to himself. "He's sending a message."

Doakes narrowed his eyes, but Dexter could tell the detective didn’t understand. No one ever did.

"We’ll catch him." Doakes said, though his tone lacked conviction. "We’ll catch this bastard."

Dexter didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. In his mind, the game had already begun. He had no doubt that the Ice Truck Killer knew exactly who Dexter was.

He was being hunted.

Dexter had been waiting for this moment—waiting for the darkness to finally find him. Where he didn't need to hide anymore.

...

August 23, 2004 – 11:40 AM
Crime Scene, Miami, Florida

Dexter arrived at the crime scene just after the call came in. A new victim, another of the Ice Truck Killer’s brutal work, the blood drained, the body posed in a way that made his stomach churn. The scene was familiar—gruesome but methodical. 

The lights flickered above him, casting long shadows on the concrete floor. It was quiet, except for the distant hum of Miami’s night life outside and the soft shuffle of footsteps behind him. The smell of death was heavy in the air, almost metallic.

And then he saw him.

A tall figure stood over the victim, his long, steady hands moving with practiced precision as he examined the body. His focus was absolute, detached, as if the mutilated corpse in front of him was nothing but a case study—a puzzle to be solved, a dissection to be completed. The man moved with speed and efficiency, and Dexter couldn’t help but watch, drawn in by his grace.

“Who are you?” Dexter asked, his voice neutral, but there was an edge of suspicion creeping in.

The man didn’t flinch, didn’t look up immediately. He was so engrossed in his task that it seemed almost disrespectful. But when he did look up, Dexter saw the sharp intelligence in his eyes. Cool. Calculating. He gave a nod of acknowledgment.

“I’m Rudy Cooper,” the man said, his voice deep, calm. “Forensic pathologist. I’ve been assigned to the case.”

Dexter stood back.

He’d seen his share of pathologists, but Rudy was different. There was something unnerving about how clinical and detached he was, as if the mutilated body before him didn’t phase him in the least. His hands moved over the body with surgical precision, as though the victim had been nothing but a specimen, nothing but data to analyze.

“How long have you been with Miami Metro?” Dexter asked, trying to sound casual as his eyes scanned the room, making sure there was no sign of blood splatter that would require his immediate attention.

“Just transferred,” Rudy replied, his focus never wavering. “I specialize in complex cases. This one’s a doozy. But nothing we can’t handle.”

“Are you always this... quick?” Dexter asked, stepping closer to the table, trying to mask the tension in his voice with a professional curiosity.

Rudy didn’t answer immediately. He continued to work, his hands shifting the victim’s limbs with care, examining the wound patterns with methodical attention. After a beat, he glanced up and gave a small, knowing smile. “I’m good at what I do.”

Dexter felt a knot tighten in his stomach. His fingers itched to start working, to dive into the spatter patterns that would tell him everything he needed to know. But there was something in the air now, something in Rudy’s gaze, that made Dexter hesitate.

Before he could gather his thoughts, Debra appeared at the entrance of the room. She looked as calm as ever, but there was a subtle tension in her posture that Dexter didn’t miss. She caught sight of him and smiled, but then her eyes shifted to Rudy, and her expression faltered for a moment.

“Dex, who’s the new guy?” Debra asked, her voice light, but there was an edge to her tone.

Dexter turned back to Rudy, who had finally stepped away from the body, allowing the team to move in and finish their work. Rudy glanced at Debra, offering a small smile. “Rudy Cooper. Forensic pathologist.”

Debra raised an eyebrow. “You don’t look like you’re from around here.”

“No,” Rudy said, still calm, still calculating. “I’m new in town. Just transferred in.”

“Well, welcome to the neighborhood,” Debra said, with a thin, polite smile.

After a moment of uncomfortable silence, Dexter decided to speak. “How’s it look, Deb?”

Debra turned to him, her face hardening. “It’s the same. The pattern, Dexter. It’s all the same as before.”

“I’ll be checking the blood spatter,” Dexter said, his voice terse as he started walking toward the scene.

Debra fell in step beside him. “You okay?” she asked, glancing at him sideways.

“I’m fine,” Dexter replied. But his mind was already reeling. He needed to get away from Rudy, away from the unnerving feeling that had settled deep in his bones. “Let’s just focus on the case.”

Debra didn’t argue, but Dexter could tell she wasn’t entirely convinced.

As Dexter stepped into the main area of the crime scene, he couldn’t shake the feeling that Rudy was watching him. He turned his back for just a second, and when he looked back, Rudy was standing there, arms folded across his chest, staring at him with a calculating gaze.

The hairs on the back of Dexter’s neck stood up.

“Everything okay, Dexter?” Rudy asked, his voice smooth, almost too smooth. There was an edge to his tone now, a subtle challenge. He was testing Dexter. Dexter knew it.

“I’m fine,” Dexter said, forcing himself to sound normal, to sound unaffected. He stepped forward, scanning the room.

Later that evening, after the scene had been cleared, Dexter found himself walking toward the parking lot, trying to clear his head. He’d spoken to Debra, made some calls, but his mind kept drifting back to Rudy. Who was this man? And why did he feel so... familiar? He couldn’t shake the suspicion gnawing at him, the gut feeling that something was wrong.

He found Debra leaning against the car, arms crossed, staring at the pavement.

“Deb?” Dexter asked as he approached.

She didn’t look up immediately. “Yeah?”

“Do you know anything about Rudy Cooper?” Dexter asked, his voice casual, but the weight of the question hung between them.

Debra looked up, her expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Something feels off about him.”

Debra frowned, glancing back toward the station. “He’s good at his job, Dexter. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know,” Dexter muttered, turning away.

Debra sighed. “Well, I don’t know much about him, but we’ll see how he handles things. It’s too early to judge.”

Dexter nodded, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Rudy was not right. He’d seen that look before—the calm, detached demeanor.

He’d seen it in himself.