The walls of the Miami Metro conference room felt too tight, the air heavy with the weight of unsolved murders. Photos of the four victims were spread across the table, each image a near mirror of the last—women posed carefully in death, their bodies untouched except for the cause. Asphyxiation. No signs of restraint, no bruising suggesting a struggle. The killer was precise.

Too precise.

Y/n leaned back in her chair, arms crossed as she listened to the others debate theories.

"The lack of defensive wounds suggests the victims knew their killer," Batista said, flipping through the case file. "Or at the very least, they weren't afraid of him."

Deb scoffed. "Either that, or he's drugging them. Tox screens came back clean, though, which means he's doing it the old-fashioned way—gaining trust."

Y/n tapped her pen against the table. "It's not just about trust. It's about control. The way he stages them suggests he doesn't see them as people, but as... displays. He's not just killing. He's arranging."

Masuka let out a low whistle. "Creepy as hell."

Across the table, Dexter remained silent, studying the photos with an unreadable expression. Y/n noticed how his gaze lingered, not on the victims, but on the spacing of their arms, the precision of their clothing.

He wasn't just looking.

He was analyzing.

Finally, he spoke. "Whoever he is, he's patient. This isn't someone who kills out of emotion. There's no rage, no signature of impulse. It's practiced." He looked up, eyes meeting Y/n's. "Wouldn't you agree, Dr. Álvarez?"

She held his gaze, reading between the lines. Wouldn't you know?

"Yes," she answered carefully. "And that makes him extremely dangerous."

The meeting continued, but Y/n barely heard it. Her mind was elsewhere, replaying her conversation with Dexter at the last crime scene. The way he spoke about the killer... it was almost as if he understood him.

After the meeting, as the others filtered out, she lingered, watching Dexter gather the crime scene photos.

"You seem interested in this case," she noted.

Dexter smiled—polite, casual. "Aren't we all?"

She took a step closer, lowering her voice. "You speak about him like you know how he thinks."

Dexter didn't flinch, didn't so much as blink. "Isn't that your job?"

Y/n studied him, waiting for the usual nervous tells people had when confronted. But Dexter? He was still, unreadable.

Too perfect.

Finally, she smiled. "I suppose it is."

As she turned to leave, Dexter watched her go, his own mind racing.

Y/n Álvarez was smart. Too smart.

And if she kept looking at him like that, she might just become a problem.