Y/n had always known that getting too close to the truth could be dangerous. But there was something intoxicating about it, something that pulled her deeper into the abyss with every passing day. And now, as she stared across the dimly lit room at Dexter, she wasn't sure what scared her more—the case or the man sitting before her.

"You're pushing yourself too hard," Dexter said quietly, his voice almost gentle.

Y/n's fingers drummed on the edge of the desk, her mind racing. "You don't know that."

"Maybe not," Dexter agreed, his eyes flicking to the case file on her desk. "But I've seen it before. People getting too close to something, thinking they can control it, and then—" He paused, as though weighing his words carefully. "And then they find themselves swallowed whole."

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and unspoken. Y/n couldn't quite tell if he was speaking about the case or something else entirely—her.

"You think I'm in over my head?" she asked, her voice flat, but there was an edge to it now. She wasn't just questioning the case anymore. She was questioning him.

Dexter's gaze softened slightly, but there was something behind it that she couldn't quite place. It wasn't pity. It was something far more unsettling. "No. I think you're starting to see things that weren't meant for you."

Y/n stiffened. She wasn't sure if it was the directness of his words or the way he said them, but something inside her shifted. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

Dexter didn't answer immediately. Instead, he took a step closer, his expression unreadable. There was a stillness about him now, a quiet that contrasted sharply with the storm swirling inside of her.

"You're chasing something, Y/n," he said, his voice low. "But what happens when you catch it?"

His words were almost too soft, too knowing, as if he had seen this scenario play out a thousand times in his mind. He wasn't just speaking about the case anymore. He was speaking about her.

Y/n swallowed hard, her pulse pounding in her throat. "I'm not afraid of the truth."

For the briefest moment, Dexter's eyes darkened—just a flicker of something that sent a chill down her spine. "I never said you were. But you should be."

A silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken words, the tension crackling like static in the air. Dexter took another step closer, the distance between them closing slowly, almost deliberately.

"Why?" Y/n asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because you're not the first person to think they can handle the truth," Dexter replied. "But most of them end up being consumed by it."

There was something in his eyes now—a flicker of recognition. Or maybe it was something darker, something that made Y/n's breath catch in her chest. She couldn't tell.

Dexter leaned in just enough that his presence seemed to fill the entire room. "The truth, Y/n, is a dangerous thing. And if you're not careful, it'll swallow you whole."

Y/n's mind raced. Was he talking about the case? Or was he talking about himself?

For a moment, she thought she saw something—something raw, vulnerable, buried beneath that carefully constructed mask of his. And for the first time, she wasn't sure if she was afraid of the killer... or if she was afraid of the man standing before her.

"Why do you care?" she asked suddenly, the question tumbling out before she could stop it.

Dexter didn't flinch. He simply watched her, his gaze unwavering. "Because you're getting too close to the edge, Y/n. And I don't want to see you fall."

Y/n's heart skipped. She didn't know if he was lying or if there was something deeper in his words—a warning or a subtle threat. Maybe both.

She opened her mouth to respond, but the words caught in her throat. Because in that moment, she realized something: she was already falling.

And she wasn't sure if she was willing to stop.

The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. And as Dexter turned to leave, his eyes lingering on her for just a moment longer than necessary, Y/n knew that nothing would ever be the same again.

She was no longer just chasing a killer. She was chasing a truth—one that was bound to break her, no matter how much she tried to control it.