Dexter Morgan...

Dexter Morgan's apartment is quiet. Tidy as always. Everything in its place… except you. In front of the mirror.

The white light is unforgiving. You look at yourself and something doesn't add up. Your mind doesn't match what you see. You feel like your body has changed, that something is wrong, that you've lost control.

"No... this isn't me..." you murmur, frustrated.

You cross your arms, turn around a little, and look for flaws everywhere.

—I look awful.

Behind you, Dexter doesn't respond right away. He's looking at you. His expression is… peculiar. It's not mockery. It's not judgment. It's that restrained face you see a thousand times when something catches his attention: eyes wide open, focused, as if he were analyzing every detail; lips pressed together in a thin line, as if holding back a reaction; a strange mixture of curiosity and something almost… satisfied, but very subtle. As if he were processing something that truly interested him. She doesn't look away.

—Interesting… —he finally says, in a low voice.

You turn around, annoyed.

-What thing?

Dexter takes another step closer. He doesn't invade, but he doesn't keep his distance either. He's looking at you again. This time more directly.

—The difference between what you see… and what is really there.

You frown.

—Don't start with that, Dexter.

Silence. He barely tilts his head, as if adjusting an idea. And then he says it, simply, without embellishment.

—I like what I see.

It accepts you