Chapter 4: The Miami Masquerade
Miami International Airport assaulted Elijah's senses with the familiar chaos of transition. The humid air tasted of jet fuel and ocean salt, thick enough to chew. His second identity—David Chen, forensic equipment salesman—sat heavier on his shoulders than Marcus Reid ever had. Maybe because he was two thousand miles from Walter and Jesse, and his chest already felt tight with the beginning symptoms of fading.
The Entity's countdown had started the moment his plane lifted off from Albuquerque.
He caught a taxi to downtown Miami, watching the city unfold through tinted windows. Palm trees and art deco facades painted a postcard-perfect vision that masked the predators swimming beneath the surface. Somewhere in this metropolitan aquarium, Dexter Morgan was carving up monsters and calling it justice.
Elijah needed to find him before the fading took hold permanently.
Miami Metro Police Department squatted on Northwest 2nd Avenue like a concrete fortress, all right angles and bureaucratic authority. Elijah parked his rental car across the street and focused on the name that would either save his life or end it.
"Dexter Morgan."
The vision hit immediately—laboratory setting, fluorescent lights, microscopes and chemical analyzers. A man in his thirties bent over a laptop, dark hair swept back, wearing a pristine lab coat that suggested obsessive attention to detail. Blood spatter analysis photos covered his desk like abstract art.
Cost: $600.
Same city, never met. The coordinates placed Dexter eight blocks away at a crime scene. Elijah drove through Miami's arteries, following GPS guidance toward what would either be salvation or suicide.
The crime scene was cordoned off with yellow tape and swarming with uniformed officers. Elijah parked nearby and assumed his David Chen persona—clipboard in hand, confusion on his face, the universal costume of the lost businessman.
He was studying the scene, calculating his approach, when opportunity walked out of the perimeter in the form of a thin man with an inappropriate smile and knowing eyes.
"Excuse me," Elijah called, approaching with practiced uncertainty. "I'm looking for the forensics lab? I'm supposed to deliver some new luminol formulations, but I think I'm lost."
The man's smile widened. "Vince Masuka, forensics. And you just said the magic words." He gestured toward Elijah's briefcase. "New luminol formulations? Please tell me they glow brighter colors. I'm so tired of basic blue."
Elijah felt the conversation shifting beyond his control, but he needed this connection. "David Chen, Chen Scientific Supply. We've developed some exciting new compounds that might interest your department."
"Interest me?" Masuka practically bounced on his toes. "Brother, you've just made my week. Listen, we're hitting Murphy's Tavern after shift—me, Batista, Deb, the whole crew. You should come. Shop talk over beers."
"This is moving too fast. But I need access to Dexter's circle."
"I'd like that," Elijah said, accepting the business card Masuka thrust at him. "Seven o'clock?"
"Seven sharp. Ask for the cops' table. They'll point you in the right direction."
Masuka disappeared back into the crime scene, leaving Elijah standing on the sidewalk with his heart hammering. He'd just infiltrated Miami Metro's inner circle through enthusiasm for better blood-detection chemicals.
The Entity's reality had a twisted sense of humor.
Murphy's Tavern was the kind of cop bar that existed in every city—dim lighting, cheap beer, and conversations that stopped when strangers walked in. Elijah entered at seven-fifteen, late enough to seem busy but not late enough to appear rude.
The cops' table was in the back corner, exactly where authority figured it belonged. Masuka spotted him immediately and waved him over with the enthusiasm of a man who'd already started drinking.
"David! Come meet the gang."
Angel Batista rose first—a compact man with warm eyes and a handshake that suggested both strength and restraint. "Angel Batista, detective. Vince says you've got some interesting new products."
"Always looking for better tools," Elijah replied, accepting a beer he didn't want but needed for cover.
Debra Morgan was next—sharp-eyed, aggressive, suspicious of anyone who hadn't earned their place at this table. She studied Elijah like he was evidence at a crime scene.
"Debra Morgan, detective. What company did you say you work for?"
"Chen Scientific Supply. We specialize in forensic enhancement solutions."
Her stare didn't waver. "Never heard of it. How long you been in business?"
"Three years. Mostly west coast contracts until recently."
Debra's expression suggested she'd be running a background check before midnight. But before she could probe deeper, the final member of their group returned from the bar.
Dexter Morgan moved with the controlled grace of a man comfortable in his own skin. Dark hair, darker eyes, a smile that seemed perfectly calibrated for social interaction. He shook hands with practiced warmth, and Elijah forced himself to match the pressure without flinching.
"Dexter Morgan, blood spatter analysis."
The moment their hands touched, Elijah activated his most expensive power.
Leverage Finder activating...
The secret hit him like a physical blow—images cascading through his consciousness in brutal succession. Dexter's kill room. Brian Moser's dismembered corpse. Harry's code written in blood and necessity. The Bay Harbor Butcher's victims feeding fish in the Gulf Stream.
Nuclear tier secret: Dexter Morgan is a serial killer operating under strict code. Killed the Ice Truck Killer. Responsible for dozens of deaths. No law enforcement knowledge of activities.
Cost: $18,000.
Elijah nearly gasped aloud, covering his shock by taking a long pull from his beer. Eighteen thousand dollars for confirmation of what he'd already known. The Entity's pricing system was ruthlessly accurate—Dexter's secret was worth every penny because it could destroy lives.
Dexter's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Are you alright? You look pale."
"Just tired. Long flight from the west coast."
But Dexter was studying him now with the same intensity Debra had shown earlier. Different kind of threat assessment, though. Debra saw a potential security risk. Dexter saw something that made his Dark Passenger whisper warnings.
POV: Dexter
The forensic equipment salesman was lying. Dexter knew it the way he knew blood spatter patterns—through instinct honed by necessity and survival. David Chen's handshake had been too controlled, his responses too carefully measured. Most salesmen were eager, desperate for connection. This one calculated every word.
Dexter excused himself to the restroom, and when David followed a few minutes later, the Dark Passenger screamed louder.
The parking lot was dimly lit, perfect for conversations that required privacy. Dexter positioned himself between David and his car—casual but strategic.
"You're not a salesman."
David's face went pale, then shifted into something more calculating. He pulled out a pen and napkin from his pocket, wrote quickly, and handed it over.
I know what you are. I can help you stay hidden. I need your expertise occasionally.
Dexter read the note twice, mind racing through possibilities. How could this stranger know? Harry's code was secret, buried deeper than any of his victims. Yet this man had walked into their circle with perfect timing and impossible knowledge.
"How?"
David wrote again: Pattern recognition. Behavioral analysis. Professional hazard.
The explanation was too vague to be true but too specific to be accidental. This man knew something dangerous, but he was offering alliance instead of exposure. The Dark Passenger urged caution, but Dexter's analytical mind saw opportunity.
Someone who could identify his nature might be useful for identifying others who shared it.
"We'll talk," Dexter said quietly, pocketing the napkin. "Tomorrow. Alone."
David nodded and walked to his car with steady steps. No fear, no backward glances. Either very brave or very stupid.
Dexter watched him drive away, already planning their next conversation. The Dark Passenger whispered that this David Chen might be more dangerous than any prey he'd ever hunted.
For the first time in years, that possibility excited him.
POV: Elijah
Elijah collapsed onto the bed in his South Beach Airbnb, every muscle in his body finally releasing tension he'd carried since landing in Miami. The ocean breeze through the windows tasted of salt and possibility, but more importantly, his vision had stopped blurring.
The Entity's rule was confirmed: proximity to main characters equals survival. He'd successfully anchored himself to Dexter's timeline just as he had with Walter and Jesse. Now he was juggling two criminal masterminds on opposite sides of the continent, each deadly in their own particular way.
His phone buzzed with a text from Walter: Next cook is Wednesday. Be here.
Elijah booked a return flight for Tuesday night, already calculating the financial cost of constant travel between timelines. His bank balance had dropped to $18,600—the Leverage Finder scan on Dexter had been brutally expensive, but necessary.
"I can't verbally explain what I know about Dexter. The speech curse would turn it into gibberish. But written communication bypasses the restriction. I've found a loophole."
The realization was crucial. He could share his knowledge through notes, texts, written warnings. It made him seem calculated and robotic, but it also made him useful. Dexter had noticed the mechanical precision, but instead of being repelled, he'd been intrigued.
Elijah stared at the Miami skyline through his window, neon reflecting off dark water like broken promises. Somewhere out there, Dexter Morgan was probably planning his next kill. And tomorrow, Elijah would help him do it more efficiently.
The Entity had turned him into an accessory to murder before he'd even committed his first crime.
Sleep didn't come easily, but when it did, he dreamed of the Curator's smile and woke wondering if he was becoming the monster he'd been sent to observe.
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