The Arrival of the Predator

The oppressive Miami sun beat down as you stepped into the air-conditioned sanctuary of the Miami Metro Police Department. The scent of burnt coffee and something metallic filled the air, a stark contrast to the humid heat outside. You adjusted your bag strap, taking a moment to observe the bustling bullpen.

"Dr. Álvarez, welcome." A voice cut through the noise.

You turned to see Lieutenant María LaGuerta approaching, her smile practiced, her eyes sharp. She extended a hand, already assessing you.

"It's a pleasure, Lieutenant," you replied, shaking her hand firmly. "I appreciate the opportunity."

"We're glad to have you. A forensic psychologist of your caliber—well, let's just say, it's about time we had someone who understands the minds of these criminals before they strike again." She led you through the desks, past detectives you'd soon know by name.

LaGuerta stopped abruptly, her gaze fixed on a man at the far end of the room. He was focused on something at his desk, radiating a stillness that felt out of place.

"And, of course, Dexter Morgan. Our blood spatter analyst," LaGuerta introduced.

He turned at his name. His expression shifted, mimicking polite curiosity. As your eyes met, you felt it – a blankness, an emptiness that was fascinating and unnerving. He was good at blending in. Too good.

He approached with smooth, deliberate steps, extending a hand. "Dexter Morgan," he said with a small, polite smile. "Welcome to the madhouse."

His voice was even, controlled. Another mask.

You held his gaze, your own expression unreadable. "Dr. Y/n Álvarez," you replied, shaking his hand. His skin was cool against yours. "And I like madhouses. Makes my job easier."

A flicker crossed his eyes – gone before you could name it. Amusement? Intrigue?

"Good to know," he said, withdrawing his hand. "I'm sure we'll be seeing a lot of each other."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," you murmured, watching him turn back to his desk.

Dexter Morgan.

Interesting.