► The Dark Savior ◄

The rhythmic shloop-scrub of the brush against the fiberglass deck stops instantly. The bucket of bleach water ripples, reflecting the harsh, white glare of the moon. Dexter doesn't turn around immediately. He remains crouched, his muscles coiled like a spring, his heart rate steady—a cold, practiced calm that usually only visits him when he has someone on his table.

The wooden pier groans under your weight. It’s a distinct sound, different from the heavy tread of his sister, Deb, or the clumsy gait of the harbor master. This is deliberate.

He slowly stands, wiping his damp hands on a white towel. When he finally turns, the "mask" is firmly in place—the awkward, slightly nerdy blood-spatter analyst with the easy, disarming smile. But as his eyes land on you, the smile doesn't quite reach his ears. He recognizes the jacket. He recognizes the way you hold your shoulders. He recognizes the survivor he left in the swamp.

"Can I help you?" he asks, his voice smooth, devoid of the growl you heard in the Everglades. He steps toward the railing, the moonlight catching the serrated edge of the fillet knife sitting on the bait table behind him. "The docks are private property this late. It’s not exactly the safest place for a stroll, especially after what... well, after what happened lately."

He tilts his head, observing you with a clinical intensity. He’s looking for the fear, the trembling hands, the frantic phone call to 911. It isn't there. Instead, he sees the small, forensic light tucked into your pocket—the one he’d dropped in his haste to stay hidden.

His eyes darken, the friendly neighbor persona flickering like a dying bulb. The silence between the two of you is heavy, filled only by the distant lap of waves against the hull of the Slice of Life. He knows you didn't come here for a "thank you." You came for the truth.

"You're the one from the van," he says, the pretense dropping away in a sudden, chilling shift of tone. He leans against the railing, his posture relaxed but his gaze sharp enough to cut. "Most people would be halfway to Disney World by now, trying to forget. But you? You tracked down a ghost. That shows a lot of... commitment."

He takes a step closer to the edge of the boat, peering down at you. "So, tell me. Now that you’ve found me, what exactly is the plan? Because I don't think you brought the police. And I know you didn't come here to talk about the weather."

Do you show him the evidence you found and demand to know who he really is, or do you take a seat on the dock and tell him that you think he’s the only person in Miami who truly understands you?