Dexter: Blood (fanfiction)

Dexter - BLOOD - Hannibal

I never imagined I would find myself knee-deep in the very darkness I had cultivated over the years. As a blood splatter analyst for the Miami Metro Police Department, I had my routine. By day, I examined the gruesome evidence left behind by very real monsters. By night, I transformed into my own monster—Dexter Morgan, vigilante serial killer, targeting those who had slipped through the cracks of justice. But today, my fractured world collided with an unimaginable twist.

The call came on a Tuesday, as insidious and cold as the steel of a blade. The FBI needed me on a high-profile case. The Chesapeake Ripper, they said, was a calculated predator, an enigma who thrived in the shadows of society and operated with an elegance befitting a master butcher. After slicing through victims with unparalleled precision, he left behind a chaotic tapestry of blood, but there was a meticulous pattern lying beneath that chaos. The pattern was what they needed my eyes for.

I was pulled from my familiar haunts, shipped north to a city oozing with grit and polished crime. My loyalties lay with Miami, but curiosity and the thrill of the chase lured me in. The thought of scrutinizing staging and blood spatter while surrounded by the agency's brightest minds filled me with a pulse of excitement—a rush that nestled between the thrill of hunting and the chill of being hunted.

We gathered in a sterile conference room in an FBI field office. Investigators shuttled stacks of evidence at eleven miles-per-hour, flooded with caffeine and the constant hum of urgency. Gradually across the horizon of their faces, a single name emerged amidst the buzz—a name that sent an involuntary shiver curling down my spine: The Chesapeake Ripper, He was as mercurial as he was notorious, a ghost who left breadcrumbs of terror trailing through ordinary lives. It became clear that the Ripper was far more than the average killer.

Frank Lundy approaches me, "Dexter, I need you to follow me to talk to a colleague of mine, I met when I was just a rookie and his insight with your gift might be all we need to catch The Ripper."

I nod with a smile and simply say "Okay."

Once we got to the asylum they brought us down to we're all the most notorious crazies were, I wonder if this is we're I'll end up. Finally at the very end I'm greeted with Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

He emerges from the shadows..

"Dexter Morgan," he said, the deep timbre of his voice cutting through the din as I suddenly felt all eyes on me. "The man who splits blood apart, both metaphorically and literally."

"Dr. Lecter," I replied, forcing a congenial smile while my insides twisted themselves into a knot. "Is it true you have insights into the Ripper's mind?"

"Of course," he said, a glint of something sinister flashing in his eyes. "Understanding the artist is paramount before you can decipher the art."

A game began, one that neither of us had agreed to but both were compelled to play. I wasn't a pawn on his board—I was a king, holding my own knife, and the stakes could not be higher.

As days turned into nights, and I worked alongside the Frank Lindy, I felt Lecter's eyes always watching. He scrutinized my movements, as if attempting to peel back layers of my own carefully constructed self. I shared with him details—the patterns I observed in the blood spatter of the Ripper's victims—each drop singing songs of the killer's psyche. And like a maestro, Lecter weaved theories about the Ripper's identity, orchestrated his thoughts in a way that both fascinated and terrified me.

"Tell me, Dexter," Lecter once mused, as we persistently dissected the profiling charts and surveillance footage of previous kills, "what drives you to cleanse the world in your own peculiar manner?"

I paused, scanned the room for the nearest agents who might hear, and then quietly, I revealed a piece of myself—a snippet of my existence shrouded by darkness. "I feel compelled to rid the world of the monsters it has failed to restrain. I am...a monster disguised as a hero."

Lecter smiled, clearly intrigued. "The duality of man. How beautifully tragic. But tell me, does your 'dark passenger' differentiate between the innocent and the of the damned?"

I felt the weight of his stare. I had spent years navigating the delicate dance between good and evil, aware that my habit might mirror those I hunted. "The code keeps me in check. Rules govern my nature."

His laugh dripped with honeyed malice. "Yet here you are, arm-in-arm with the monster who leaves no code in his wake. Fascinating."

The FBI eventually tapped into connections that led us to an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the city—rooms smeared with tainted memories, corpses which had succumbed to the elegance of the knife. Inside, we found mirrors reflecting darkness in each corner and chill that seeped into our bones.

Amidst the chaos of the scene—bloody remnants, twisted metal, and flesh—my instincts as a killer flared. In that moment, I realized I was hunting a part of myself, monstrous but beautiful, lying in wait in the form of the Chesapeake Ripper.

But as the investigation unfolded, so did my uneasiness. Could I trust Lecter? The lines between prey and predator blurred as I engaged in a tantalizing chess match, where he was both my ally and my nemesis.

The pursuit of the Ripper reached fever pitch; the city drummed with a persistent terror that clawed at me. And then, one fateful night, an urgency drew us there we confronted the reality—the Ripper unveiled, an orchestrator behind the madness, claiming more lives than we had anticipated.

Lecter hung back, his eerie calm stark in the frenzy; he understood the rules of this deadly game. It became apparent that he had already ensnared the Ripper into his web, subtly manipulating him into revealing himself.

With every exchange, I felt the tension rise, my own darkness bubbling to the surface as the monster within fought for control.

As the Ripper attempted to escape, I stood frozen—a decision blooming in my mind, trailing the edges of ethics, justice, and my own insatiable hunger for blood.

"Welcome, Dexter," he said. "The true experience of artistry is in the sacrifice."

In that moment, I realized that darkness was not just my canvas—it was my home, and I had invited its most dangerous occupant in.

The night swallowed the sounds of sirens echoing in the distance, and with it, I embraced both Dexter and the darkness