Chapter Text
Miami, 1991.
The sun scorched mercilessly, melting the asphalt like an oven’s furnace. The air shimmered above the roads, turning the horizon lines into trembling mirages. The city was suffocating. Miami was perfect for those who loved beaches and one party after another — but not for Brian. He hated the heat. There was something disgustingly intrusive about it, sticky, like a drunk’s hands clawing at someone’s soul. He had always preferred the cold. Cold was honest. It didn’t hide behind fake smiles and burning rooftops.
Brian stepped outside after another session with his therapist. The doctor had looked at him over his glasses with a mild expression of satisfaction, as if Brian’s “progress” was his own personal victory. But Brian knew better. It was just a game. He was playing at getting better, while inside, everything still boiled and churned, just like before.
Yes, he said the things they wanted to hear. Yes, he nodded and pretended it was getting easier. But the real part of him — the one that grinned in the dark — hadn’t changed. It just pretended.
The doctor had forbidden him from seeing his brother.
“He’s your trigger, Brian. You can’t heal as long as Dexter’s around.”
“Nonsense,” Brian thought as he walked out of the office. “What’s the point of all this if I’m being denied the one thing that matters? My goal? My reward?”
He stopped at the side of the road, watching a bus rattle past. His thoughts were sharp and clear. If the doctor wouldn’t help him — he’d help himself. At any cost.
He knew where to start.
Harry Morgan.
The name echoed in his head like a rusted nail sticking out of the wall of his childhood. He hated that name with every fiber of his soul.
Harry — the one who ruined everything. Because of him, their mother was dead. He was the reason for the first and most brutal separation from Dexter. The container. The blood. Dismembered bodies. Cold metal and the wet squelch beneath their feet. And their mother — torn apart, defenseless. Harry had ripped Dexter from his arms right as their world collapsed. And then he did it again — abandoning Brian. Dumping him into the system like unwanted luggage. From family to family. From slap to beating. Until he ended up in an institution, with pills that made him want to scream.
Everyone had abandoned him. Everyone — except Dexter. He had just been too small to understand how to help. He couldn’t. But that wasn’t his fault.
Brian gripped the steering wheel. His fingers turned white. He had stolen the car. Just walked up when the driver — a man in his forties with a beer belly and a newspaper tucked under his arm — was getting in. Quick. Clean. Without a word. A cold blade slid across the man’s throat. He didn’t even have time to realize what had happened before he was lying on the curb, blood trickling between the stones.
The car — now it was Brian’s. And that meant he was one step closer.
Miami Police Department.
The yellow glow of the streetlights reflected off the car hood. Brian sat behind the wheel, unblinking, watching. An hour passed. Then another. Then four. He didn’t move — like a predator hidden in the grass.
“You’re either on vacation, Harry… or you’re dead,” he muttered. And the second thought didn’t just seem tempting — it felt right.
He got out of the car, straightened his shirt, and walked inside. The blast of air conditioning hit him like a wall. At the reception desk sat a young blonde woman with a friendly smile. She looked up and blinked — the guy in front of her looked about twenty-something, but there was something… icy in his eyes.
He smiled. The way he knew how. Warm. Charming.
“Hi,” he began, leaning casually on the counter. “I’m looking for someone. I need to pass on a message. Could you tell me where Gary Morgan is right now?”
The girl paused for a moment, then returned the smile, almost automatically.
“Hi. Um… I don’t want to disappoint you, but… Sergeant Morgan is in the hospital right now. He had a heart attack. Been at Saint Mary’s for about a week. I’m sorry…”
Brian raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Really? Damn… Sorry for asking. I hope he recovers. Thanks a lot and… have a nice day.” He turned and left, leaving the girl slightly bewildered.
St. Mary’s Hospital. Evening.
Dusk was falling over the city, painting the sky in a faded shade of lilac. The air here was different — still humid and warm, but without that urban grime, without the stink of gasoline and asphalt. The hospital stood like an island amid chaos — gray, glassy, orderly, sterile.
Brian pulled a plain orange cap over his head, slightly obscuring his face, and stepped out of the car. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew exactly what he was doing. But inside — his heart was racing. Too fast. Not from fear. From anticipation.
He entered the spacious lobby, which smelled of antiseptics, fresh flowers, and a barely-there trace of pain. People sat on benches — some crying, some reading, some just waiting, eyes fixed on the floor. The reception desk was lit by a soft lamp, casting reflections across its surface. Behind it — a tired but polite nurse.
“Good evening,” Brian said gently as he approached. He tilted his head slightly, as if being polite truly mattered to him. “I need to find the room of Harry Morgan. He was admitted here last week after a heart attack.”
The nurse muttered something, staring wearily at the screen, then found what she needed.
“Room 317. Third floor, straight down the corridor and to the right.”
He nodded and turned to go — but stopped.
He felt it before he saw it.
Like someone had opened a window and a chill stabbed down his spine. He slowly turned his head — and there it was. That look.
Dexter.
He was walking down the corridor. A girl walked ahead of him — maybe a high schooler or a college student — someone he clearly liked, judging by the way he looked at her. He was smiling. His hair was longer than Brian remembered, slightly wavy, almost light brown. His movements were light, confident. He was slightly shorter than Brian, slimmer in the shoulders, but looked strong, solid.
But the most important thing — the eyes. Brown. Just like his. Just like their mother’s.
Brian froze. And for one terrifying moment, the whole world disappeared. No hospital. No heat. No people, no sound. Only him — and Dexter. His heart. His lost half. His blood.
He inhaled as if he had just come home after decades in exile.
And Dexter walked right past him. Didn’t even glance.
Maybe he didn’t recognize him. Maybe he forgot. Or maybe he just didn’t notice — Brian had changed. Grown up. Faded. Become... a shadow.
And damn it — that was for the best. At least for now. Brian pretended to study a nearby bulletin board, and only once Dexter disappeared from view did he let himself clench his fists. His nails dug into his palms, but he didn’t feel the pain.
He didn’t go to Harry. He didn’t need him anymore.
Dexter had come to him.
Had shown he was alive. That he was near. And now Brian knew — he wasn’t alone anymore.
Later. Night.
He sat in the car — the stolen one that now felt like his own. The moon reflected in the windshield like a drop of milk in black coffee. In front of him — a blue pickup truck. Brian followed it, keeping his distance. Not too close. Not too obvious. He knew how surveillance became an art when done with the right amount of love. And he had plenty of love. More than he could bear.
The Suburbs.
Dexter stopped near a modest, unremarkable house with a tidy lawn and a white picket fence. A house like any other. A life like anyone’s.
Brian parked two houses down. His eyes never left the target. He could sit here for hours. Days. Years. Because now he knew where Dexter lived. How he breathed. When he left. Who he talked to. Now he knew everything he needed.
And he waited. Calmly. Like a predator.
Late night. The city fell still. Windows darkened one by one. Miami, like a living organism, slowly drifted into sleep. Even in the Morgan house, silence fell — not a single light, not a single silhouette behind the curtains. Peace.
Brian sat in the car, swallowed by darkness, like a shadow, like a forgotten fear under the bed. His hands trembled. From longing. From exhaustion. From barely restrained excitement.
He was close. His brother. Real. Alive.
A storm raged inside. He wanted to come closer, to peer through the windows. To touch — not the glass, but life itself, what had been stolen from him. To slip inside the house, the past, the blood, their shared childhood. He knew he could. Wanted to. But...
It would be foolish. Too soon. Too dangerous.
He couldn’t risk it. Not now. Everything had to be just right. Beautiful. Perfect.
He took a deep breath, pushing the desire away. Then turned the key, started the engine, and drove back. Reluctantly — like tearing himself away from his own heart.
Rented apartment. Dead silence.
A small, smoky room on the second floor. Faded wallpaper, second-hand furniture, a bulb in the corner flickering like a stuttering pulse. The place smelled of loneliness, sour leftovers, and other people’s lives.
Brian parked by the neighbor’s building — so he wouldn’t be tracked. Climbed the creaking stairs, unlocked the door, and entered his hideout. Without turning on the lights, he walked to the bed and collapsed onto it, still dressed. He hugged the pillow like he once used to hug his mother.
Sleep came instantly. The exhaustion of his body and the sweet aftertaste of Dexter’s face — those eyes, those features — pulled him into the abyss where everything was right.
Was he… happy? Maybe.
As much as someone like him could ever be.
A month passed. He watched. Methodically. Coldly. With love. Like a fan following a favorite actor. Like an archaeologist guarding an ancient relic.
He knew more now. Dexter was graduating soon. University. Top of his class. A straight-A student.
The girl at the hospital wasn’t his girlfriend. That was Debra. His stepsister. The one Brian once tried to strangle. Back then, she screamed — shrieked like a wounded animal. He hated that scream — too loud. She’s seventeen now. She walks beside Dexter. Talks a lot. Laughs. Touches his arm.
And he lets her. And all this time, Brian watched.
He noticed something. Dexter had no friends. Barely spoke to anyone. He kept to himself, like a shadow, like a wolf among sheep. He smiled — but the smile was mechanical, forced. He spoke — but his voice was empty.
And in that, he was like Brian.
A strange, frightening warmth spread through Brian.
A thought crept in like a whisper:
He’s like me.
He’s one of us.
He feels… the thirst.
The feeling scared him. And thrilled him. For the first time, he didn’t feel alone.
Another session with the therapist.
A living room. It smelled of coffee and folders.
The therapist — tall, well-built, about forty-five, Black, with a calm voice and a slightly distant look.
Brian sat with his arms crossed, talking. Not right away. First he waited. Then he brought up Dexter. Again.
The doctor sighed heavily.
“I warned you. You can’t go back to this. If you try to find your brother again — you’ll go back to the institution. For a long time. No car. No keys. No streets. No sun. Just white walls. Just pills. Is that what you want?”
Brian froze. Something clicked inside him.
“You… are wasting my time,” he said quietly.
The doctor didn’t understand what was happening. By the time Brian lunged and struck — it was already decided. A precise blow. To the temple. The therapist’s head hit the edge of a cabinet. Blood spilled across the floor. The man groaned, crawling toward the door, leaving a dark red trail behind him.
But Brian didn’t rush. He savored it. He stepped closer. Bent down.
“You don’t understand. He is my purpose. You wanted to take that from me?”
He picked up a golf club — a gift standing in the corner — and brought it down with force. Once. Twice. Three times. The skull cracked like a watermelon. Blood. Bone. Brain. It splattered the walls, his face, the ceiling.
Only then did he stop. He looked. He smiled.
“Wasting my time? He was wasting my time?”
No. Now it was all clear.
He took the car keys, wiped his face with his sleeve, and walked out of the house.
The road back to Miami.
Night wrapped around the city once again. The air had turned cooler, as if even the climate sensed — everything had changed.
He wasn’t going to hold back anymore.
No more holding back the beast, the voice, the darkness.
All this time, he’d waited. Watched. Observed.
But now — his moment was coming. He was going to his brother. He was going home.