The moon hung low over Biscayne Bay, a pale eye watching through ragged clouds. The water lapped against the hull of the Slice of Life like a whispered secret—soft, insistent, guilty.

Dexter Morgan stood alone on the deck, his back to the city’s distant glow, staring into the black mirror of the sea. He’d just come from another clean-up. Another sinner sent to the void. His hands were spotless. His conscience—quiet.

Or it should’ve been.

A sound.

Not the creak of rope. Not the sigh of tide.

Footsteps.

Heavy. Deliberate. Familiar.

Dexter didn’t turn. He didn’t need to. He’d felt this presence before—like a shadow with a heartbeat.

“Evening, Morgan.”

The voice was gravel wrapped in steel.

Jenna Doakes stepped into the dim amber halo of the boat’s cabin light, his silhouette broad, his stance unshakable. He wore no uniform—just a black jacket, sweat on his brow, and eyes that burned with months of suspicion finally confirmed.

“You’ve been busy,” Doakes said, voice low, dangerous. He held up a small evidence bag. Inside: a blood slide. Dexter’s blood slide. “Found this in your locker. Funny thing… lab says it matches tissue from all the Butcher’s victims. You made everyone think i'm the bay harbor butcher” she threw handcuffs towards him pointing her gun at him.