Miami was quieter than usual. The air was thick with that strange tension that came just before a summer storm—a quiet unease, as if the city itself was holding its breath. Dexter Morgan felt it too. But the storm he sensed had nothing to do with weather.
He stood in his lab at Miami Metro, staring down at the single piece of evidence they had: a shard of tempered glass retrieved from the scene of David Moreno's dismantling. But scene wasn't quite the right word. It had been a display. A message.
The silence of the victim had haunted Dexter ever since. Alive, but vacant. A body with the lights turned off.
Dexter had begun his own investigation quietly, after hours, tracking property deeds, abandoned facilities, power usage spikes—anything that could lead him to Elios Danco. But it had all gone cold.
Until now.
A plain manila envelope had arrived on Dexter's desk that morning. No name. No postage. Inside was a photo: a grainy still of a security camera feed. The image showed a rusted warehouse. A single folding chair stood at its center, lit by one overhead bulb.
Dexter had memorized every pixel.
He waited until nightfall. The warehouse stood at the edge of the industrial district, not far from the water. Abandoned for over a decade. The fence was bent back at the corner—a perfect entry point. Dexter slipped through without sound.
Inside, the air was musty, stale with salt and dust. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long shadows. And there it was: the chair. Just like in the photo. But no victim. No instruments. Just a note.
He approached slowly.
"TOO SLOW, MORGAN"
The handwriting was crisp, mechanical. Not rushed. Not angry. Just... certain.
Dexter stared at the name. Not "Mr. Morgan." Not "Dex." Not "analyst."
Just: Morgan.
He looked around. No cameras in sight. But the back of his neck prickled.
He was being watched.
Back at Miami Metro, he logged the glass shard for analysis. Masuka glanced over.
"You look like you didn't sleep," he muttered.
"Didn't," Dexter replied.
Masuka raised an eyebrow but said nothing. The shard would come back as lens glass, likely from a small camera. Planted on purpose, Dexter was sure of it. A trail of crumbs Danco knew he'd follow.
Debra stopped him later in the hallway.
"You're chasing this guy, aren't you?"
Dexter hesitated. "I'm following leads."
"Don't play semantics with me. You think you're the only one who sees patterns? I've seen the way you look at that Moreno report. Like it's personal."
He wanted to tell her. Part of him. But what could he say? That this man—Elios Danco—was more than a killer? That he dismantled people the way a neurosurgeon unmapped a brain?
Debra walked away before he could lie.
That night, Dexter received a text from a blocked number:
"IT BEGINS WITH PURPOSE. ENDS WITH UNDERSTANDING."
He stared at it, heart rate steady, but mind racing.
The next morning, he found a single slip of paper tucked under his windshield.
"Are you hunting me, or studying me?"
He turned, scanning the parking lot. Nothing. Just the ordinary hum of Miami Metro coming to life.
And then it hit him: Danco wasn't just escaping. He was circling. Watching. Studying.
The predator had become the subject. And the subject was beginning to feel like prey.
Across town, Elios Danco clicked through images on a secure laptop. One paused frame showed Dexter slipping through the warehouse fence. Another showed him bending to pick up the note.
He zoomed in. Expression unreadable. Movements deliberate.
Danco tilted his head.
He opened Dexter Morgan's file. Blood spatter analyst. Clean record. Survivor of childhood trauma. Adopted by a cop.
But something didn't add up. There was too much control. Too much precision.
Danco leaned forward, typed a new search query: "Bay Harbor Butcher — suspect profiles — redacted."
The screen pulsed. Restricted access. But Danco smiled.
There was always a way in.
And if Dexter Morgan was more than what he claimed to be, Danco intended to dismantle him too.
Carefully.
Piece by piece.