Dexter had felt people's eyes on him before. He had perfected the art of evasion—becoming just likable enough, just normal enough to exist undisturbed. But this was different.

Y/n Álvarez wasn't just looking at him. She was studying him.

From the moment they shook hands, he sensed it. That sharp, unyielding gaze dissecting him, measuring the weight of his presence like a scalpel slicing into flesh. He had spent years mastering his mask, but something about her made him wonder: had she already noticed the cracks?

He didn't like that feeling.

From his desk, he watched her settle into her new space across the bullpen. She moved with a quiet confidence, speaking to Debra Morgan and Angel Batista, already slipping into the rhythm of the team. He knew her type—analytical, methodical, someone who understood what lurked beneath the surface of human behavior.

Someone dangerous.

"So, what's the deal with the new doc?" Debra dropped into the chair beside him, sipping from her oversized coffee cup. "She's kinda intense, huh?"

Dexter kept his expression neutral. "She seems competent."

"Competent?" Debra scoffed. "Dude, she read Masuka like a goddamn book in two minutes. He was trying to flirt with her—obviously—and she just smiled and said, 'You use humor as a shield to mask deep insecurities, but that's what makes you endearing.' He looked like he was about to propose."

Dexter smirked at the thought. "Sounds like she's good at her job."

Debra sighed, leaning back in her chair. "Yeah, which means we all better be on our best behavior. She's supposed to help us with case profiling, but I have a feeling she's gonna be watching us just as much as the killers."

Dexter turned his gaze back to Y/n.

That makes two of us.

Later That Night

Dexter moved like a ghost through the abandoned warehouse, the scent of saltwater and rust heavy in the humid Miami air. His latest target—a human trafficker with a taste for cruelty—was bound to the table before him, eyes wide with fear as the plastic crinkled beneath him.

This was where Dexter felt most like himself.

The mask was gone. The polite smiles, the carefully crafted lies—all stripped away, leaving only what he truly was.

He raised his knife, ready to carve justice into flesh—

A voice echoed in his mind. "And I like madhouses. Makes my job easier."

Y/n.

His grip on the blade tightened. He had never worried about being seen before. Not really. But now?

She was different.

She wasn't just someone who hunted monsters.

She was someone who might recognize one when she saw it.

And that made her a problem.