nightdrafts

- 19, she/her, proud nyc born & raised 🤍

- sci/fi & fantasy enthusiast

living life in the clouds ☁️

18+ blog

current fixation: benjamin. fucking. poindexter.

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𝐹𝒾𝒸𝓈 ♡

Agent Ben Poindexter x Female oc // 18+

18+ 

dark, obsessive devotion/unhealthy obsession, slow burn, sexual tension, morally gray romance, hurt-comfort, stalker fantasy, secret identities, lowkey dom female oc, submissive dex, privacy violation, emotional dependency, action violence (mentions of blood), smut-gentle sex, masturbation, teasing, oral (f receives), arousal towards violence - some still upcoming, mentions of suicide (only in specific chapters which will have warnings before), psychological trauma/ptsd, guilt, original female character // lmk if I forgot anything !! 

-

*long ah chapter but one of my favs !! enjoy :)

Chapter 17 — The Shot She Didn't Take

Dex almost missed the turn.

Not because he wasn't paying attention.

Because he was thinking about her.

The city blurred past outside the windshield while the anonymous burner phone sat in the passenger seat beside him, dark and silent now that its purpose had been served.

An address.

Nothing else.

Just like always.

For weeks now the messages had arrived without explanation.

A location.

A shipment.

A warning.

Dex should have been asking questions.

Who was sending them?

Why him?

How did they know what he could do?

Instead, his thoughts kept drifting somewhere else entirely. To last night.

His apartment.

Dim lighting.

Coffee growing cold on the table.

Sam sitting on his couch.

Looking through case files.

Looking through his apartment.

Looking through him.

His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

She had been there.

Inside his space.

Inside the carefully controlled world he'd spent years keeping empty.

And somehow she hadn't looked disgusted.

Or afraid.

Or disappointed.

Even after everything.

Even after the banquet.

Even after he never visited.

The memory made guilt twist beneath his ribs.

She had looked tired.

Frustrated.

And somehow still willing to trust him.

"I think you're the only person who can help me find him."

The words hadn't left his head since.

Bullseye.

She had sat across from Bullseye asking for help finding Bullseye.

A humorless laugh escaped him.

If she ever learned the truth...

No.

He shoved the thought away immediately.

-

The warehouse appeared ahead.

Abandoned.

Dark.

Five stories of rusted steel and broken windows sitting along the edge of the river.

Perfect.

Dex pulled into a side alley and killed the engine.

Then reached into the backseat.

The suit waited there.

-

Sam hated stakeouts.

She hated the waiting.

The silence.

Rain tapped softly against the windshield while she sat in an unmarked sedan parked two blocks from the warehouse.

Beside her Ethan looked entirely too comfortable.

Feet propped up.

Coffee in hand.

Annoying.

"You know," Ethan said casually, "most people use evenings for normal things."

Sam didn't look away from the binoculars.

"Most people aren't hunting serial killers."

"Vigilante."

"Same difference."

"Legally very different."

"Thank you, counselor."

Ethan smirked.

"So."

Sam sighed immediately.

"No."

"You don't even know what I was going to ask."

"I know exactly what you were going to ask."

"You visited Poindexter."

There it was.

Sam lowered the binoculars.

"Ethan."

"What?"

"Don't."

His expression remained frustratingly neutral.

"The guy's suspended."

"So?"

"He was involved in the hotel incident."

"Allegedly."

"He was involved in the banquet."

"Also allegedly."

"Sam."

She stared at him.

Ethan leaned back.

"I'm just saying he's seems like a strange guy."

"You've never even met him."

Ethan blinked.

"Well ya but the way people describe him there's gotta be something wrong with the guy."

"That's ridiculously out of touch Ethan."

"You're missing the point."

"No, I think I'm getting the point."

Something sharp slipped into his voice.

"Everyone else in the bureau thinks he's unstable."

Sam looked away.

Toward the warehouse.

Toward the darkness.

Toward literally anything else.

"Everyone else doesn't know him."

The second the words left her mouth she regretted them.

Because Ethan noticed immediately.

A slow grin appearing.

"Oh really."

"Don't."

"Ohhh I see."

"Ethan."

"You actually like him."

"I absolutely did not say that."

"You defended him."

"Because you're being unfair."

"You visited him off the clock."

"Because I needed help."

"Sure."

Sam groaned.

"Just be honest, did you fuck him?"

Ethan smirked in a teasing way. Sam hated that.

"No Ethan I did not. I forgot how irritating you are."

"That's usually how people remember me."

A radio crackled.

Saving him from the glare she was preparing.

Both agents immediately focused.

Business replacing conversation.

Finally.

Movement.

Several vehicles approaching the warehouse.

Large trucks.

Exactly what they'd been waiting for.

-

Inside the warehouse.

Bullseye arrived first.

He always did.

The upper deck of the warehouse provided a perfect vantage point.

Three stories up.

Dark enough to stay invisible.

High enough to see everything.

Dex crouched against rusted metal beams watching the operation unfold below.

Crates.

Weapons.

Drugs.

Cash.

Enough illegal merchandise to fill multiple federal indictments.

Maybe twenty men.

Armed.

Organized.

Confident.

None of them knew they were already dead.

Dex adjusted slightly.

His knife rested between his fingers.

Simple.

Clean.

Easy.

-

The operation should've remained surveillance only.

That had been the plan.

Then a scream echoed from inside the warehouse.

Everyone froze.

Sam looked up sharply.

"What was that?"

Ethan was already reaching for the door handle.

"No."

He ignored her.

"Ethan."

"That wasn't part of a shipment."

"Ethan!"

The second scream came louder.

Ethan opened the door.

"Damn it."

Sam followed immediately.

Because she really had no choice.

-

Inside.

Chaos.

Pure chaos.

The first body hit concrete seconds before Sam entered.

A man collapsed from an upper railing.

Neck broken.

Dead before impact.

Shouting erupted everywhere.

Nobody understood what was happening.

Except Bullseye.

He moved through shadows above them.

Fast.

Silent.

Invisible.

A wrench flew from darkness.

Cracked against someone's skull.

Another man dropped.

Then a pipe fitting.

Anything became a weapon in his hands.

Every throw perfect.

Every impact lethal.

The criminals began firing wildly.

Bullets tearing through darkness.

Missing completely.

Then a voice pulled his attention.

"FBI! Don't move!"

His entire body locked up.

No.

The voice echoed through the warehouse floor.

Too familiar.

Too impossible.

Dex reached the edge of the stairs and looked down.

And immediately felt his stomach drop.

Sam.

Inside the warehouse.

Inside the middle of an active firefight.

And running directly into it.

Directly towards him.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She wasn't supposed to be here.

She can't know.

-

Sam saw Bullseye for the first time near the second-floor staircase.

Just a silhouette.

A shadow.

Ethan didn't hesitate.

"THERE!"

And immediately charged forward.

"ETHAN!"

Too late.

He was already running.

Dex saw him coming.

Saw Sam behind him.

Saw everything falling apart.

He needed to leave.

Now.

Except twenty armed criminals still stood between him and the nearest exit.

A shotgun blast exploded nearby.

Dex pivoted.

A metal nut flew from his fingers.

The shooter collapsed.

Another attacker appeared.

Then another.

Too many.

Every second spent fighting increased the chance Sam got hurt.

And that terrified him far more than the bullets.

-

The warehouse became a maze.

Ethan followed Bullseye up a stairwell.

"Bullseye!"

Idiot.

Ethan pushed forward.

Determined.

Reckless.

Third floor.

Dex rounded a corner.

Stopped.

Ethan appeared directly ahead.

Too close.

For one brief second all three of them froze.

Sam.

Ethan.

Bullseye.

Face to face.

The mask hid everything.

But Dex still felt exposed.

Like somehow she could see straight through it.

Ethan recovered first.

Gun raised.

"Freeze!"

Dex almost laughed.

Then Ethan moved.

Wrong choice.

A rusted lock sat on a nearby shelf.

Dex grabbed it instantly.

Calculated.

Adjusted.

Throw.

The lock struck Ethan's knee with a sickening crack.

Not lethal.

Just enough.

Ethan collapsed instantly.

Shouting.

Pain exploding across his face.

Sam stared.

Shock flashing across her features.

Because the throw should've hit her too.

She had been directly in front of him.

Yet somehow it hadn't.

Not even close.

Bullseye had curved the shot around her.

The realization lingered for half a second.

Then vanished beneath adrenaline.

Sam dropped beside Ethan calling backup.

Dex was already moving again.

Upward.

Toward the roof.

Away from her.

—

Everything narrowed.

Footsteps.

Breathing.

Rain.

Sam left Ethan and continued the pursuit alone.

She didn't know why.

Maybe anger.

Maybe instinct.

Maybe something else.

Bullseye reached the rooftop first.

The city stretched endlessly beyond him.

Rain blowing across rusted metal.

He stood near the edge.

Perfectly still.

For one brief second.

Then he turned.

And looked directly at her.

Sam raised her weapon.

He froze.

Neither moved.

The distance between them suddenly felt enormous.

Her breathing sounded loud.

His didn't.

Bullseye looked calm.

Too calm.

Like he already knew how this ended.

"Stop!"

Bullseye didn't run.

Didn't attack.

Just watched her.

There she was, pointing a gun towards him with every opportunity to kill. The sight filled him with sadness. With pain.

Why did it have to be this way?

After last night was so perfect?

-

Rain slid down the mask.

Hiding everything except his eyes.

And in his eyes Sam could see almost pain. Sadness.

Why was this vigilante killer looking at her this way?

She had a clear shot.

Head.

Aim.

Fire.

Simple.

So why wasn't she pulling the trigger?

The hesitation didn't last long.

But it existed.

And that bothered her immediately.

Because she didn't hesitate.

Not normally.

Not ever.

Yet here she stood.

Looking at a killer.

Unable to shoot.

Why?

Bullseye shifted slightly.

Almost like he'd noticed.

Almost like he understood.

Then he stepped backward.

Toward the fire escape.

The movement snapped her out of it.

Finger tightening.

Decision made.

The gun fired.

The bullet struck low.

Not where she'd intended to aim.

But where she wanted it to go.

Bullseye jerked violently.

One hand immediately pressing against his lower abdomen.

Hit.

She hit him.

For half a second she thought he'd fall.

Instead he grabbed the fire escape railing.

Jumped.

Disappeared.

Gone.

Just like that.

Backup flooded the rooftop seconds later.

Too late.

Sam lowered her weapon slowly.

Rain continuing to fall around her.

Bullseye was gone.

Again.

And she couldn't stop thinking about one thing.

The shot.

Not the one she took.

The one she didn't.

Because she had a clear shot.

A perfect shot.

And somehow—

she'd hesitated.

-

Far below.

Somewhere in the darkness.

Bullseye pressed a hand against the bleeding wound in his side and kept moving.

Ignoring the pain.

Ignoring the blood.

Ignoring everything.

Except one thought.

She shot me.

And somehow

he couldn't help but smile.

-

18+ 

dark, obsessive devotion/unhealthy obsession, slow burn, sexual tension, morally gray romance, hurt-comfort, stalker fantasy, secret identities, lowkey dom female oc, submissive dex, privacy violation, emotional dependency, action violence (mentions of blood), smut-gentle sex, masturbation, teasing, oral (f receives), arousal towards violence - some still upcoming, mentions of suicide (only in specific chapters which will have warnings before), psychological trauma/ptsd, guilt, original female character // lmk if I forgot anything !! 

-

Chapter 16 - After Hours

The door opened.

Dex stared at her.

For a second he genuinely forgot how to speak.

She was here.

Actually here.

Standing in the hallway outside his apartment holding the Bullseye case file against her side.

Not a dream.

Not through a window.

Not from across a room.

Here.

Close enough that he could see the faint shadows beneath her eyes.

Close enough to notice she still shifted her weight slightly away from her injured shoulder.

Close enough to remember exactly how much blood had covered her dress that night.

Sam held up the case file.

"I think you're the only person who can help me find him."

Dex forgot how to breathe.

Not because of Bullseye.

Not because she was asking for help hunting him.

Because she came to him.

Out of everyone.

She came here.

His apartment suddenly felt very small.

Very exposed.

Very real.

For a horrible second he wondered if she'd somehow figured it out.

If she knew.

If she'd connected something.

Seen something.

But her expression didn't look suspicious.

Just exhausted.

Frustrated.

Normal.

"Please, come in."

The words came out quieter than he intended.

Sam stepped past him.

The smell of rain followed her inside.

Dex shut the door and immediately felt trapped.

Not by her.

By himself.

Because now she was walking through his apartment.

Looking at things.

Seeing pieces of him.

The apartment wasn't large.

One bedroom.

Small kitchen.

Clean enough to look staged.

Everything where it belonged.

Just how he needed it to be.

Sam slowly turned once.

Taking it in.

"You know, your apartment looks exactly how I thought it would Dex."

How she thought? She thought about where he had lived before?

Dex smiled shyly.

"I'm not sure if that was meant to be a compliment or not."

"Compliment for sure." She said teasingly. Almost proud she got him to smile.

Her eyes lingered on him briefly.

Then moved away.

Something still felt off.

Different.

Dex couldn't tell if she was angry.

Couldn't tell if she'd forgiven him.

Couldn't tell if she hated him.

That should have been obvious.

He told her to stop following him at the banquet.

Then disappeared.

Then never visited her in the hospital.

Any normal person would've been furious.

But Sam wasn't acting furious.

And somehow that made him even more nervous.

-

She set the Bullseye file down on his kitchen table.

"Honestly it's a nice place. Vey clean."

"Thank you."

Another shy smile.

He'd missed this.

More than he should have.

Sam opened the file.

Immediately shifting into work mode.

Which felt safer.

For both of them.

At least until she spoke again.

"I actually didn't expect you to answer the door."

Dex leaned against the counter.

"Why?"

She shrugged.

"You kind of disappeared."

The guilt hit immediately.

She didn't mention the hospital.

Not directly.

But he heard it anyway.

The thing she wasn't saying.

You never came.

He lowered his eyes.

"I'm sorry."

The words came out before he could stop them.

Sam blinked.

"For what?"

Everything.

The banquet.

The hospital.

The lies.

The shooting.

Bullseye.

Instead he said:

"For disappearing."

Something shifted briefly in her expression.

As if she was expecting a different answer. Which he couldn't give her.

"It's fine."

It clearly wasn't.

And somehow that made it worse.

Why wasn't she angrier?

Why wasn't she yelling at him?

Why wasn't she demanding an explanation?

Instead she'd shown up at his apartment asking for help.

As if he hadn't hurt her.

As if he hadn't left.

Dex hated it.

Because she deserved better than that.

"Anyway," Sam said, forcing the conversation forward.

She tapped the file.

"This psychopath is about to get me fired."

Bullseye.

The word twisted inside him.

She looked exhausted.

Not normal tired.

The kind of tired that settles into a person.

The kind created by weeks of failure and pressure and obsession.

His fault.

His stomach tightened.

Because he knew exactly why she looked like that.

He was the reason.

The case.

The killings.

The sleepless nights.

The pressure from supervisors.

Every ounce of it led back to him.

Sam sat down.

Opened the folder.

Crime scene photos spread across the table.

Maps.

Reports.

Witness statements.

Dead ends.

Dex took the seat across from her.

Close enough to see the frustration in her face.

"Walk me through it."

And she did.

At first cautiously.

Then faster.

Once she started talking about the case she didn't stop.

Bullseye became the center of everything.

The attacks.

The patterns.

The missing pieces.

The political pressure.

The impossible lack of evidence.

-

Hours seemed to disappear.

The rain outside gradually faded.

The city darkened.

Coffee appeared somehow.

Then another coffee.

Time stopped feeling normal.

At one point Dex realized she'd taken off her jacket. Watching the rain water roll down her warm skin.

Then later noticed she'd rolled up her sleeves.

Then later realized she'd moved her chair closer without either of them acknowledging it.

The conversation developed its own rhythm.

Theory.

Counterpoint.

Evidence.

Argument.

Observation.

Again.

And underneath all of it sat the secret.

Bullseye.

Every time she said the name he felt it.

Every time she asked a question he had to carefully decide how much truth to give her.

Enough to help.

Not enough to expose himself.

The balance was exhausting.

"He's organized," Dex said.

Sam nodded.

"Obviously."

"No."

He pointed toward a photograph.

"Organized isn't the right word."

She looked at him.

Waiting.

Dex studied the image.

His own work staring back at him.

Then said quietly:

"Intentional."

Sam wrote that down.

Intentional.

The sight made something strange stir in his chest.

Pride.

Not because of the murders.

Not that.

Because she was listening.

Because she respected his opinion.

Because she valued what he saw.

It shouldn't have mattered.

But it did.

A lot.

Later Ethan's name came up.

Only casually.

"That's basically what Ethan said."

The jealousy arrived instantly.

Irrational.

Sharp.

Dex kept his face neutral.

"Who's Ethan?"

Sam looked up.

Pretending he hadn't been inside the man's house just a few days earlier, he wanted to see how she would describe him.

"My partner."

Partner.

The word landed badly.

Dex hated how quickly his mind reacted.

Partner.

The ex boyfriend.

The one constantly around her.

The one helping her.

The one she'd spent every day with while Dex spent every day watching from afar.

"Oh."

Brilliant response.

Again.

Sam smirked slightly.

"You're really good at conversation." she said sarcastically.

The conversation continued.

Hours passing.

The clock pushing later and later.

At some point Sam leaned back heavily in her chair and rubbed her eyes.

The exhaustion finally showing.

Dex watched quietly.

The dark circles.

The tension.

The way her shoulders sagged.

Bullseye had done that.

He had done that.

The guilt never really left.

It just sat there quietly between heartbeats.

Eventually Sam checked her phone.

And immediately groaned.

"What wrong?"

She turned the screen toward him.

12:47 PM. Almost 1 AM.

Dex blinked.

Neither of them had noticed the time.

For some reason disappointment settled immediately in his chest.

She was leaving.

Of course she was leaving.

What did he expect?

She had a life.

A job.

A case.

A partner.

Ethan.

The name irritated him again.

-

Sam stood slowly.

Gathering papers.

Reality returning.

"Thank you."

Dex looked up.

"For what?"

"The help."

A small pause.

Then:

"And for not telling me I'm crazy."

"Never."

She smiled slightly.

"Took four days for somebody to say that."

The smile lingered for a second.

Then faded.

Something more thoughtful replacing it.

She studied him.

Long enough that Dex became uncomfortable.

"What?"

Sam shook her head.

"Nothing."

"Sam."

Another pause.

Then she shrugged.

"You're just..."

Dex waited.

She seemed oddly unsure suddenly.

Which was new.

"You're not what people say."

His chest tightened.

"What do they say?"

"That you're a little strange."

Fair.

"But honestly?"

Her eyes met his.

"I think you're just different. And from what I've experienced so far in life, people that are a bit different are the best kind of people."

For a moment neither moved.

The apartment suddenly felt quiet again.

The kind of quiet that made everything else feel louder.

Her heartbeat.

His heartbeat.

The distance between them.

The things neither of them were saying.

She sees me.

Then Sam smiled.

Small.

Tired.

Real.

And stepped toward the door.

"I'll see you around, Poindexter."

Dex followed her to the hallway.

Still awkward.

Still unsure.

Still wanting to say something.

Anything.

"Need me to walk you home?"

Sam smiled.

"Such a gentleman Agent. I'll be alright on my own thank you."

The door opened.

Sam stepped through.

Then paused.

Looking back over one shoulder.

"Try answering your phone sometime."

And just like that she was gone.

The hallway swallowed her footsteps.

The elevator doors closed.

Silence returned.

Dex stood there for several seconds staring at the empty space she'd left behind.

Then slowly shut the door.

His apartment immediately felt colder.

And somewhere beneath the relief of her leaving—

because being near her was dangerous—

sat a far more painful truth.

He already wanted her to come back.

-

Chapter 17

I came up w this in a dream 😭

He wasn't supposed to notice her.

He definitely wasn't supposed to watch her.

And he was never, ever supposed to care this much.

Eight months of quiet observation.

Eight months of routines, patterns, and things he never meant to memorize.

Then the job changes everything.

A hotel. A target.

And suddenly, she's not a distant presence anymore-she's real.

Standing in the same room. Speaking his name.

@ nightdrafts

go subscribe loves!!

18+

dark, obsessive devotion/unhealthy obsession, slow burn, sexual tension, morally gray romance, hurt-comfort, stalker fantasy, secret identities, lowkey dom female oc, submissive dex, privacy violation, emotional dependency, action violence (mentions of blood), smut-gentle sex, masturbation, teasing, oral (f receives), arousal towards violence - some still upcoming, mentions of suicide (only in specific chapters which will have warnings before), psychological trauma/ptsd, guilt, original female character // lmk if I forgot anything !!

-

Chapter 15 - Patterns

The first day wasn't bad.

The second day was frustrating.

By the fourth, Samantha Hadley was beginning to hate the sound of her own office phone.

It rang three times before ten in the morning.

Every call was someone wanting answers she didn't have.

The mayor's office.

State officials.

Task force coordinators.

Internal supervisors.

Everyone wanted Bullseye.

Nobody cared how impossible he seemed to be.

They wanted results.

Now.

Sam hung up the latest call and rubbed both hands across her face.

Her desk looked worse every day.

Photographs.

Maps.

Timelines.

Surveillance stills.

Crime scene reports.

Victim histories.

Everything connected by colored tabs and sticky notes that no longer made sense.

Across from her Ethan sat with his feet on the edge of another chair, reading through witness statements.

"You're staring at the same photo again."

Sam didn't look up.

"I'm thinking."

"You've been thinking at it for twenty minutes."

"I'll let you know when I need commentary."

"Good. I was running out."

Normally she might've smirked.

Today she didn't.

The photo stayed pinned beneath her hand.

Bullseye.

Blurry.

Distant.

Infuriating.

A ghost.

Four days.

Four days of sixteen-hour shifts.

Four days of interviews.

Four days of evidence.

And somehow she felt further away than when she'd started.

Nothing connected.

No fingerprints.

No DNA.

No known associates.

No digital footprint.

Nothing.

Every crime scene looked different.

Different neighborhoods.

Different targets.

Different methods.

The only constant was perfection.

And perfection wasn't evidence.

It was a headache.

"Sam."

She looked up.

Ethan was watching her now.

"You should go home."

"No."

"You slept here yesterday."

"I went home."

"For three hours."

She didn't argue.

Because he was right.

The couch in the conference room still had the imprint of her body from the night before.

Ethan sighed.

"You're going to burn yourself out."

"I'm fine."

"You're not."

That earned a glare.

Ethan lifted both hands.

"See? That's exactly the reaction of someone who's fine."

She looked back at the case file.

"You know," Ethan continued, "for someone who claims to hate partners, you've become remarkably comfortable ignoring me."

"Practice."

"That's rude."

"Good."

He laughed.

She didn't.

The laugh faded quickly.

Even Ethan could tell the mood wasn't there anymore.

Bullseye had become the center of everything.

Every morning started with him.

Every night ended with him.

Every conversation eventually circled back to him.

And every day she failed to get closer.

The third day brought the meeting.

The one she'd been dreading.

A conference room.

Too many suits.

Too many important people.

Nobody smiling.

The assistant director didn't even sit down before speaking.

"Where are we?"

Not hello.

Not good morning.

Just:

Where are we?

Sam hated those meetings.

Because she knew the answer.

Nowhere.

"We're still working several leads."

The director looked unimpressed.

"Any viable suspects?"

"No."

"Known affiliations?"

"No."

"Identity?"

"No."

The silence afterward felt brutal.

One of the state officials leaned back in his chair.

"Then what exactly do we have?"

Sam clenched her jaw.

"We have a pattern."

"Patterns don't stop killers."

The comment landed harder than intended.

Or maybe exactly as intended.

The room stayed quiet.

Nobody came to her defense.

Not even Ethan.

Because technically they weren't wrong.

Bullseye remained active.

People remained dead.

And she remained empty-handed.

By the time the meeting ended, she felt like she'd been skinned alive.

Nadeem found her standing near the elevators afterward.

"You okay?"

"No."

"Good."

She blinked.

"What?"

"If you said yes I'd know you were lying."

That finally earned the smallest smile.

Nadeem leaned against the wall beside her.

"They're putting pressure on everyone."

"It doesn't feel like everyone."

"It is."

"Doesn't feel like it."

He looked at her for a moment.

Her expression hardened immediately.

Nadeem sighed.

There it was.

The real problem.

Not Bullseye.

Not the task force.

Her.

"You got shot, Sam."

"And?"

"And you still came back after a week."

"I should've seen the shooter."

"No."

"I should've."

"No."

She looked away.

Because arguing would've required believing him.

And she didn't.

The banquet replayed in her head every night.

The rifle.

The shot.

The blood.

The panic.

The feeling of being completely helpless.

Then Dex.

Covered in blood on that terrace.

Looking horrified.

Looking angry.

Looking—

She stopped the thought there.

Because that part never made sense.

Why had he looked so devastated?

Why had he asked if she was alive?

Why had he disappeared afterward?

Nothing about Agent Benjamin Poindexter made sense anymore.

Day four arrived with rain.

The city looked gray through the office windows.

Everyone looked exhausted.

Even Ethan.

Though he hid it better.

Sam sat alone in the conference room reviewing old files.

Not Bullseye files.

Personnel files.

Case histories.

Investigation records.

She wasn't entirely sure why she'd opened them.

Maybe desperation.

Maybe instinct.

Maybe because every conventional approach had failed.

The folder in front of her belonged to Dex.

Suspended Agent Benjamin Poindexter.

She flipped through another report.

Then another.

Then stopped.

Something clicked.

Not evidence.

Not proof.

Just a feeling.

Dex approached investigations differently.

She'd noticed it during the hotel breach.

The few conversations they'd had.

The way he observed things.

The way he noticed details other people skipped.

Most agents built theories, like herself and Ethan.

Dex built patterns.

Small details.

Tiny observations.

Human behavior.

Movement.

Angles.

Timing.

He thought sideways.

And Bullseye felt sideways.

Her eyes drifted down another report.

A commendation.

Exceptional situational awareness.

Pattern recognition.

Behavioral prediction.

She read it twice.

Then three times.

A memory surfaced.

Dex pointing something out during the hotel investigation.

The detail about the shooters wanting control even she had missed.

Because he looked differently.

The realization settled slowly.

Then all at once.

She couldn’t. That’s crazy, he’s suspended.

She must have made a face.

Across the room Ethan looked up.

"What?"

Sam stared at the file.

Thinking.

Thinking harder.

Then stood.

Ethan frowned.

"What are you thinking?"

She grabbed her coat.

"Nadeem around?"

"Probably."

"Good."

"Sam?”

She was already moving.

"Where are you going?"

This time she did smile.

Small.

Certain.

"For the first time all week.."

She picked up Dex's personnel file.

"I think I have an idea."

—

Night had already fallen when she reached his apartment.

The hallway felt strangely quiet.

Old building.

Dim lighting.

The kind of place she'd expect him to live.

For several seconds she just stood there.

Looking at the door.

Second guessing herself.

Because maybe this was stupid.

Maybe he wouldn't answer.

Maybe he didn't want to see her.

The memory of the banquet hallway still stung.

Just stop following me around.

The words hadn't gotten softer with time.

Still.

She'd come this far.

And her job was on the line.

Sam raised her hand.

Knocked.

Nothing.

A few more seconds passed.

Then movement.

Footsteps.

The lock turned.

The door opened.

Dex stood there.

And for a moment neither of them spoke.

He looked tired.

More tired than she'd ever seen him.

But surprised too.

Like she'd become the last person he expected to see.

"Sam?"

She held up the Bullseye case file.

Looked directly at him.

And said:

"I think you're the only person who can help me find him."

-

Chapter 16

18+ dark, obsessive devotion/unhealthy obsession, slow burn, sexual tension, morally gray romance, hurt-comfort, stalker fantasy, secret identities, lowkey dom female oc, submissive dex, privacy violation, emotional dependency, action violence (mentions of blood), smut-gentle sex, masturbation, teasing, oral (f receives), arousal towards violence - some still upcoming, mentions of suicide (only in specific chapters which will have warnings before), psychological trauma/ptsd, guilt, original female character // lmk if I forgot anything !!

-

Chapter 14 - Old Photographs

The alley smelled like rain, garbage, and blood.

Three things New York never seemed to run out of.

Yellow crime scene tape stretched between brick walls while uniformed officers moved in and out of the narrow space carrying evidence bags and cameras.

The bodies were already gone.

Only the aftermath remained.

Dark stains on concrete.

Impact marks.

Fragments of shattered bone mixed with brick dust where something had struck hard enough to crack masonry.

Sam crouched near one of the markers, careful of her healing shoulder.

The wound still ached when she moved wrong.

The scene bothered her.

The whole thing bothered her.

Bullseye bothered her.

Across the alley Ethan stood speaking with one of the detectives, sleeves rolled to his forearms, coffee in one hand.

He looked completely at home.

Which annoyed her.

Not because he'd done anything wrong.

Just because he somehow always looked comfortable everywhere.

Crime scenes.

Courtrooms.

Funerals.

The man could probably look relaxed during an active hostage negotiation.

"You seeing what I'm seeing?"

Ethan stepped beside her.

Sam glanced up.

"No."

"You didn't even ask what I was seeing."

"Fair."

He nodded toward the wall.

"The impacts."

Several small objects had embedded themselves deep into brick.

Too deep.

One looked like a coin.

Another a bolt.

A third appeared to be part of a broken padlock.

Weapons that weren't weapons.

Not normally.

Ethan folded his arms.

"Guy's a freak."

"Helpful analysis."

"I'm serious."

He gestured toward the wall.

"Look at the force behind those impacts."

Sam remained silent.

Because he wasn't wrong.

The scene looked surgical.

Calculated.

Almost impossible.

Not a single wasted movement.

Not a single missed throw.

Bullseye hadn't simply won the fight.

He'd controlled it.

Random violence made sense.

People snapped.

People got angry.

This?

This felt deliberate.

Like someone solving a math problem.

-

High above them, hidden on a nearby rooftop, Dex watched her.

The sight settled something inside him.

Not completely.

But enough.

She was here.

Standing inside his crime scene.

Looking at his work.

Studying it.

Thinking about it.

A strange warmth settled in his chest.

Pride.

Not normal pride.

Not healthy pride.

But pride all the same.

She was looking at something he created.

Trying to understand him without realizing it.

Dex adjusted slightly against the rooftop ledge.

Watching her move.

Watching the way she tilted her head while examining evidence.

Watching the slight stiffness still lingering in her injured shoulder.

The sight of that shoulder brought anger back immediately.

The scar beneath her clothes existed because he hadn't been fast enough.

Because someone wanted her dead.

Someone still wanted her dead.

His jaw tightened.

Then Ethan stepped closer.

Close enough that Dex immediately noticed.

Who is this new partner of hers?

The man leaned beside her.

Talking.

Comfortable.

Familiar.

Dex didn't like it.

Not even a little.

He didn't know why.

Actually that was a lie.

He knew exactly why.

Because Ethan looked like someone who belonged beside her.

And Dex didn't.

-

Back in the alley Ethan continued.

"I still think this guy eventually screws up."

Sam glanced toward him.

"What guy?"

"Bullseye."

"You've been talking about him for three hours."

"Occupational hazard."

Ethan took another sip of coffee.

"Nobody's perfect."

Sam looked back toward the evidence.

"I don't know."

That answer surprised even her.

Ethan raised an eyebrow.

"You think he's perfect?"

"No."

She paused.

"Just disciplined."

"Same thing."

"No."

Sam shook her head.

"Discipline takes work."

Something about those words stuck with Dex.

Because she understood.

More than anyone else ever had.

The scene continued another hour.

Photos.

Measurements.

Witness canvassing.

Reports.

Then finally everyone started leaving.

Dex watched from above as Sam and Ethan headed toward the parking garage together.

And for the first time seeing Ethan—

Dex made a decision.

He wanted to know who he was.

—

The drive across Manhattan felt endless.

Dex followed several vehicles behind.

Never too close.

Never obvious.

Ethan drove.

Sam sat in the passenger seat.

Talking occasionally.

Nothing intimate.

Nothing romantic.

Yet every time she laughed at something he said, Dex's grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel.

It wasn't rational.

He knew that.

But jealousy rarely was.

The feeling surprised him.

Because he'd never been jealous before.

Not really.

Most of his life people barely registered.

But Ethan did.

Ethan mattered.

And Dex hated that.

The car eventually stopped outside Sam's brownstone.

Dex parked half a block away.

Watching.

Waiting.

Sam climbed out first.

Said something through the open window.

Ethan answered.

Both smiled.

Then she disappeared inside.

Safe.

Home.

Dex exhaled slowly.

Good.

That was all he cared about.

Except it wasn't.

Because Ethan was pulling away now.

And Dex found himself following.

—

Ethan lived in Brooklyn.

Nice neighborhood.

A brownstone nearly twice the size of Sam's.

Clean sidewalks.

Expensive cars.

Old money.

He watched from across the street as Ethan parked and headed inside.

Lights came on upstairs.

Then downstairs.

Movement through windows.

A normal evening.

Dex almost left.

Then Ethan suddenly came back out.

Fast.

Annoyed.

Clearly on the phone.

He unlocked the car again and drove away.

Dex waited thirty seconds.

Then crossed the street.

The lock took less than ten.

The house alarm took another twenty.

-

Inside smelled like expensive cologne and old books.

Dex shut the door quietly behind him and started looking.

At first everything matched what he expected.

Photos.

Awards.

Certificates.

Military service plaques.

Pictures from Boston.

Pictures from conferences.

Pictures with politicians.

Judges.

Investigators.

The life of a successful federal investigator.

Nothing surprising.

Nothing useful.

Then he found the photo album.

Old.

Stored in a cabinet.

Not displayed.

Which made it interesting.

Dex sat at the dining room table.

Opening it carefully.

The first pages showed college.

Friends.

Travel.

Family.

Then—

Sam.

His entire body froze.

There she was.

Six years younger.

Standing beside Ethan on a waterfront somewhere.

Laughing.

Her hand in his.

Another picture.

A Christmas party.

Another.

A beach.

Another.

The date written beneath it.

Six years ago.

Six years.

They'd been together before.

Actually together.

Not coworkers.

Not partners.

Together.

Something ugly twisted inside Dex's chest.

He turned another page.

And another.

Every picture felt worse.

Because Ethan looked happy.

And Sam looked happy too.

Not the guarded version she showed most people.

Open.

Comfortable.

The sight made him irrationally angry.

He shut the album.

The sound echoed through the room.

For several seconds he simply sat there.

Staring.

Breathing.

Trying to push the feeling down.

Wanting Ethan gone.

The thought appeared so naturally it startled him.

Not dead.

Not yet.

Just gone.

Out of her life.

Out of New York.

Out of the investigation.

Gone.

Dex stood.

Needing something else.

Something useful.

Eventually he found Ethan's office.

The room looked normal until he noticed a file sitting partially hidden beneath a stack of papers.

Different from the others.

No department markings.

No official case numbers.

Private.

Dex opened it.

Inside were photographs.

Notes.

Travel records.

Financial information..

The names meant nothing to him.

Several locations were circled.

Meetings.

Dates.

People.

Too organized.

Too personal.

Not Bullseye related.

Not officially.

Why would Ethan have this?

Dex flipped another page.

Then another.

The feeling grew stronger.

Not evidence.

Not proof.

Just instinct.

Something wasn't right.

A noise interrupted him.

Headlights.

Outside.

Dex froze.

The front door opened seconds later.

Ethan had come back.

"Damn it."

His voice echoed through the entryway.

"Forgot the file."

Footsteps.

Coming closer.

Dex moved instantly.

Slipping into darkness just as Ethan entered the office.

The investigator crossed directly toward the desk picking up the exact folder Dex had been reading.

For a second Ethan paused.

Looking around.

Something felt off.

Dex could see it.

The slight narrowing of his eyes.

The instinct.

Good investigator.

Not good enough.

A thought crossed Dex's mind then.

He could make Ethan gone right now if he wanted, in fact, it would be quite easy.

He shook the thought away.

Not yet.

After another moment Ethan shrugged.

Grabbed the folder.

And left.

The front door closed again.

Silence returned.

Dex remained motionless for several seconds.

Thinking.

The photos.

The file.

The dates.

The way Ethan kept that folder separate from everything else.

Something was there.

Something important.

And if it threatened Sam in any way, he had to know.

-

Eventually Dex slipped back out into the night.

The city stretched around him.

Cold.

Dark.

Alive.

And for the first time in a while Dex wasn't thinking about the Bullseye case.

He wasn't thinking about Fisk.

Or the messages.

Or even himself.

He was thinking about Ethan.

Because something told him the man wasn't here solely to hunt Bullseye.

And Dex intended to find out exactly why.

-

Chapter 15

18+ dark, obsessive devotion/unhealthy obsession, slow burn, sexual tension, morally gray romance, hurt-comfort, stalker fantasy, secret identities, lowkey dom female oc, submissive dex, privacy violation, emotional dependency, action violence (mentions of blood), smut-gentle sex, masturbation, teasing, oral (f receives), arousal towards violence - some still upcoming, mentions of suicide (only in specific chapters which will have warnings before), psychological trauma/ptsd, guilt, original female character // lmk if I forgot anything !!

-

Chapter 13 - The First Thing He Asked

The city started whispering about Bullseye before anyone officially named him.

First it was blurry phone footage online.

A dark figure moving across Hell’s Kitchen.

Bodies dropping before people even understood what happened.

Perfect throws.

Perfect aim.

Then came the headlines.

VIGILANTE MASSACRE ON BROOKLYN DOCS

EIGHT DEAD

Some people called him a psycho.

Others called him a hero.

The news stations eventually landed somewhere in the middle.

Dangerous.

Efficient.

Bullseye.

Dex watched the broadcasts each night alone in his apartment while cleaning blood from beneath his fingernails.

The name settled into him easier than it should have.

Bullseye.

Over the next week the attacks continued.

Smaller this time.

More targeted.

Drug runners.

Violent gang members.

Dex still didn’t realize the pattern.

Each mission arrived anonymously.

An address.

A shipment.

A warning.

He didn't care who they were coming from, because every single time he put the suit on, the noise in his head disappeared.

The throwing became easier too.

More instinctive.

It felt different inside the suit.

Looser.

Crueler.

Confident in ways Dex never allowed himself to be.

And afterward—

always afterward—

he found himself back outside her apartment.

Like muscle memory.

Like instinct.

Like the suit gave him permission to see her again. But only see.

The abandoned brownstone across from hers became familiar again.

Cold floors.

Dust.

Dark windows.

He watched her move through her apartment at night with the same quiet obsession as before, except now something underneath it had changed.

Before, he watched because he wanted closeness, wanted comfort.

Now he watched because he needed proof she was alive.

Safe.

Still there.

Someone still tried to have her killed.

Sometimes she looked tired.

Sometimes angry.

Sometimes she stood in her kitchen holding a coffee mug staring blankly into nothing while the late-night news talked about Bullseye in the background.

Once, she turned the television off the second his name came up.

That hurt more than it should have.

Although he didn't blame her.

Other nights he followed her through the city.

Watching her leave’ physical therapy appointments for the gunshot wound.

Watching men look at her too long on subway platforms and feeling immediate violent thoughts bloom in his head.

Bullseye wanted to break their hands.

Dex forced himself not to.

Barely.

And through all of it—

she never once saw him. Just like it used to be.

-

One week later Sam was right back into work

The federal building felt strangely normal considering someone had nearly died at a government banquet seven days earlier.

Phones ringing.

Agents moving between desks.

Coffee brewing somewhere nearby.

Sam stepped off the elevator adjusting the strap of her bag carefully against her healing shoulder.

The bullet wound still hurt.

Not unbearably.

Just enough to remind her every time she moved wrong.

A few agents greeted her immediately as she crossed the bullpen.

“Hadley. Back from the dead.”

“Barely.”

“You look better.”

“That’s generous.”

Small conversations.

Normal conversations.

Which honestly felt nice after a week trapped in hospitals and recovery apartments while news stations replayed footage from the banquet every six hours.

Someone had cleaned her desk while she was gone.

That surprised her.

Probably Nadeem.

The thought was confirmed a few seconds later when he appeared carrying two folders and an expression that already looked apologetic.

Never a good sign.

“Welcome back,” he said.

“You look nervous.”

“I am nervous.”

Sam dropped her bag beside her desk.

“What happened?”

Nadeem handed her one of the folders.

“Governor’s office officially reassigned you this morning.”

Sam glanced down at the file.

BULLSEYE TASK FORCE.

Her eyes lifted back toward him immediately.

“They’re putting me on the Bullseye case?”

Nadeem nodded once.

“You up for it?” Nadeem asked carefully.

Sam exhaled slowly.

“No.”

Then shrugged lightly.

“But I’d rather work it myself than watch someone else screw it up.”

“That’s the spirit.”

“There’s more bad news, isn’t there?”

Nadeem grimaced.

“You know me too well.”

Sam narrowed her eyes immediately.

“What?”

“The state assigned you a partner.”

“Oh come on.”

“I know.”

“You know I hate partners.”

Nadeem rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

“He’s technically a consultant.”

“Even worse.”

“He’s good.”

“I don’t care.”

“You might when you see who it is.”

Before she could respond, movement near the bullpen entrance caught her attention.

A man stepped through the office doors carrying a leather messenger bag over one shoulder.

Dark coat.

Neatly rolled sleeves.

Calm posture.

Familiar.

Sam blinked once.

Then sighed through her nose.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Nadeem immediately lifted both hands defensively.

“I had absolutely nothing to do with this.”

Ethan Chase looked up at almost the exact same moment.

Recognition crossed his face immediately.

Not dramatic.

Not emotional.

Just surprised.

“Well,” he said evenly while approaching, “that explains why nobody warned me this assignment would be hostile.”

Sam folded her arms carefully.

“Boston run out of criminals?”

“Apparently New York wanted better customer service.”

Still the same dry humor.

Still annoyingly composed.

Six years had changed him a little though.

Sharper around the edges maybe.

More polished.

Back 6 years ago when Sam was just starting out in the bureau her and Ethan had met working a case together. That led to late night hookups and eventually a pretty steady relationship for the next year.

Until he left her for a job in Boston.

Ethan had always been great at investigations. But he was a pretty shitty boyfriend.

Late nights without saying where he was, completely out of touch with the world due to his wealthy upbringing, slick, cocky, confident. And never noticed the details that mattered.

The relationship ending was for the best, and if she could be honest, after a few weeks of drowning herself in reality tv and various desserts, Sam hadn’t paid any mind to him since.

“You look alive,” Ethan added.

“High praise.”

“I heard the shoulder was bad.”

“I heard the weather sucks in Boston.”

A small smile tugged briefly at the corner of his mouth. 

“The state brought me in because I worked two interstate vigilante investigations in Jersey last year,” he explained calmly. “Apparently that qualifies me to chase psychotic men in costumes now.”

“Comforting.”

Nadeem handed Ethan the second folder.

“Bullseye’s escalated three times this week. The mayor’s office wants results fast.”

Sam flipped through the file as they spoke.

Crime scene photos.

News clippings.

Surveillance stills.

One blurry image showed Bullseye turning slightly toward a rooftop camera before disappearing out of frame.

Even blurred, something about him felt unsettling.

Controlled.

Intentional.

Not chaotic like normal vigilantes.

Every movement looked precise.

Ethan leaned slightly beside her studying the image too.

“He’s trained,” he said quietly.

“How trained?”

“Military, federal, private contractor… something disciplined.”

Sam’s eyes stayed on the grainy photo.

Bullseye looked almost relaxed standing there.

Like he wanted to be seen.

-

After briefing Sam and her new problematic partner, Nadeem headed back towards his office.

Sam hesitated, then followed him out quickly.

"Hey Nadeem wait up."

“What's up?”

“Have you talked to Dex?” Sam asked quietly, as if she didn't want anyone in the office to know she cared.

Something in Nadeem’s expression changed slightly.

Sam crossed her arms loosely. “What?”

Nadeem leaned back with a sigh.

“No one’s seen him since the suspension.”

Her stomach tightened before she could stop it.

“What do you mean no one’s seen him?”

“I mean literally no one. He turned in his badge, signed the paperwork, disappeared.” Nadeem rubbed at his forehead. “Calls go straight to voicemail. Apartment’s empty half the time.”

Sam looked away briefly.

A week.

An entire week.

And he never came to see her.

Not at the hospital.

Not once.

Something bitter twisted under her ribs at that realization.

Which was stupid.

Because after the banquet hallway, after the things he said to her, she shouldn’t have cared anymore.

But she did.

That was the problem.

Nadeem studied her for a second before speaking again.

“You okay?”

“Fine.”

It came too quickly.

Too automatic.

Nadeem didn’t buy it.

Neither did she.

Sam exhaled quietly and looked back toward the bullpen windows.

Rain tapped softly against the glass outside.

“Did he at least ask if I was alive?” she asked finally.

Nadeem paused.

Then nodded once.

“First thing out of his mouth.”

That hurt worse somehow.

Because it meant he cared.

Enough to ask.

Just apparently not enough to stay.

Sam swallowed hard and straightened slightly.

“Right,” she said quietly.

Nadeem watched her carefully. “Sam—”

“I’m good.”

Another lie.

This one softer.

She pushed herself away from the doorway before he could respond.

Back toward the bullpen.

Back toward the Bullseye case files waiting on her desk.

Back toward work.

But the thought followed her anyway.

No one’s seen him since the suspension.

And for reasons she couldn’t fully explain yet—

that scared her more than she wanted it to.

-

Chapter 14

The silver fox hair ugh 😩 not while I’m ovulating plz

~

First look at Wilson Bethel’s new bullseye suit for Daredevil Born Again season 3 !!

18+

dark, obsessive devotion/unhealthy obsession, slow burn, sexual tension, morally gray romance, hurt-comfort, stalker fantasy, secret identities, lowkey dom female oc, submissive dex, privacy violation, emotional dependency, action violence (mentions of blood), smut-gentle sex, masturbation, teasing, oral (f receives), arousal towards violence - some still upcoming, mentions of suicide (only in specific chapters which will have warnings before), psychological trauma/ptsd, guilt, original female character // lmk if I forgot anything !!

// TW QUICK MENTION OF SUICIDE ATTEMPT //

-

Chapter 12 - Bullseye

(short chapter srry)

The remaining men scattered across the loading dock searching desperately through shadows for an attacker they couldn’t find.

Above them, Dex stood perfectly still on the warehouse catwalk.

Watching.

One of the traffickers opened fire wildly toward the upper catwalks.

Bullets tore sparks from rusted metal beams nowhere near him.

Too slow.

Too sloppy.

Dex tilted his head slightly while watching them scramble beneath him like animals.

Then moved.

Fast.

Silent.

A second metal bolt appeared between his fingers.

Throw.

The projectile split through darkness and buried itself deep into another man’s throat.

Hands clawing desperately at his neck before he collapsed against the truck bumper bleeding out onto concrete.

“UP THERE!”

Too late.

Dex had already disappeared back into shadows.

The men spread out now.

More cautious.

One moved toward the truck holding the prisoners.

Dex tracked all of them instinctively.

Heart steady.

Breathing calm.

His mind had never felt this clear before.

No spiraling thoughts.

No shame.

No chaos clawing through his skull.

Just movement.

Precision.

Purpose.

One of the traffickers yanked a terrified woman from the truck violently by her zip-ties and dragged her in front of him.

“HOLD YOUR FIRE!”

The woman cried out in panic.

Human shield.

Smart.

Dex stared at the angle for half a second.

Wind direction.

Head tilt.

Distance.

Then he reached beside him and picked up a loose shard of broken glass.

The throw curved downward impossibly fast.

The shard sliced directly through the gunman’s hand.

His fingers spasmed open instantly.

The pistol clattered away.

Dex moved down from the catwalk now to ground level with them.

One of the traffickers barely turned before Dex slammed an elbow directly into his throat.

Crunch.

The man folded immediately gasping.

Dex grabbed the dropped handgun from his wrist holster—

The pistol spun end over end across the dock and smashed directly into another attacker’s temple hard enough to cave bone inward.

The body dropped beside the water.

Everything felt easy.

That terrified him slightly.

Because he should not have been this good at hurting people.

But the fear only lasted half a second before another man charged him with a knife.

Dex caught the wrist.

Twisted.

Bone snapped.

Then drove the knife upward beneath the man’s jaw in one clean motion.

Dex breathed harder now.

Not from exhaustion.

Adrenaline.

The suit clung tightly against his body beneath the dock lights while chaos unfolded around him.

The remaining men finally realized this wasn’t a normal attack.

This wasn’t law enforcement.

This wasn’t random.

Someone was hunting them tonight.

And he was enjoying himself.

“RUN!”

One of them actually tried.

Dex almost laughed.

The fleeing man made it maybe twenty feet before a wrench flew from darkness and shattered the back of his knee sideways.

The scream echoed across the dock.

Dex walked toward him slowly now.

Measured.

Controlled.

The man dragged himself backward desperately across wet concrete.

“Please—”

Dex grabbed the gun near his side.

Then crouched slightly.

“I swear I didn’t touch anybody—”

Dex smiled faintly beneath the mask.

“Beg.”

The man froze.

“What?”

“I said beg.”

The trafficker’s eyes widened.

Humiliation hit him almost as hard as the fear did.

Dex stayed perfectly still waiting.

“Please don’t kill me,” he choked out. “Please, I have kids, I have a family, I’ll disappear, I swear to God—”

Dex just watched him.

Something warm twisted low in his stomach hearing it.

The absolute control of it.

Look at him.

Crying on his knees.

Terrified.

Weak.

Dex leaned slightly closer.

“Not good enough.”

Pop.

Quick.

Precise.

A single bullet into the beggar’s head.

It was over.

Bodies everywhere.

Blood across concrete.

The prisoners huddled together near the truck shaking violently while Dex cut through the remaining zip-ties with one of the dead men’s knives.

Nobody thanked him.

Nobody even spoke.

They looked terrified of him too.

Good.

Maybe they should be.

One of the women finally whispered, “Who are you?”

Dex froze slightly.

The answer should have been simple.

Agent Poindexter.

FBI.

Instead his eyes lowered briefly toward the vigilante suit covering his body.

Who was he?

The thought settled quietly into place.

Not forced.

Not questioned.

Like it had always existed waiting underneath him.

Time to leave.

—

The city looked different afterward.

Sharper.

Alive.

Every sound felt heightened while Dex moved silently across rooftops above Hell’s Kitchen with blood still drying against his gloves.

His body buzzed violently beneath the suit.

Not panic.

Not fear.

Something dangerously close to arousal.

Just hours ago he sat in his apartment with a gun under his chin.

Now his pulse thundered with something almost euphoric.

Purpose.

Real purpose.

Not paperwork.

Not pretending to fit inside systems full of people who already looked at him like something broken.

This—

this felt honest.

By the time he reached his apartment building again, it was already pushing 4am.

Dex entered through the back stairwell still wearing the suit beneath his coat.

His destroyed apartment waited exactly as he left it.

Broken glass.

Overturned furniture.

Blood on the floor from his split knuckles.

The gun still laying where he dropped it.

Dex shut the apartment door quietly behind him and stood there breathing in the silence.

Then slowly—

he laughed.

Soft at first.

Disbelieving.

Because he realized something terrifying.

He felt good.

Not okay.

Not healed.

But alive in a way he hadn’t felt before.

His body still hummed with leftover adrenaline from the dock.

The memory replayed sharply through his mind:

Perfect throws.

Bones breaking beneath precise force.

The absolute control of it all.

And underneath every violent second sat one unbearable truth—

he had enjoyed it.

Dex moved into his bedroom and caught himself in a mirror.

Only his eyes visible through the mask,

Bright.

Predatory almost.

The suit around him giving him the feeling of power.

But not just power, he was aroused.

Aroused by the violence and control.

Aroused by the way his eyes looked so alive through the mask.

He looked down to see the bulge in his pants. This was new.

Not like it had never happened, but it was a rare thing for him.

Was he turned on from killing?

It didn't matter, he couldn't help himself, he wanted it too bad.

Dex sat on the edge of his bed, still staring at himself in the mirror, slowly reaching his hand into his pants over the bulge.

The way the suit looked on him turned him on even more, the blood on it still wet.

His had moved over his dick with quick movements, up and down sending heat through his body.

Then he remembered Sam, the way she moved under the blankets that night. Slow gentle movements.

Dex slowed his hand, still focused on himself in the mirror, the way his arms jerked inside the suit as he rubbed himself.

Slow movements. He thought of Sam. How with this suit he could protect her. How no one could touch her now.

His head rolled back slightly, but he kept eye contact with himself all the same. Letting out small wines.

He never let himself do this, never let himself feel pleasure.

This side of Dex was nothing he had ever felt before, and he was enjoying it.

His dick swelled softly in his pants, close to bursting.

The blood on his suit, the way is shined in the dim light, the ballroom light on her face,

His hands still moving slowly over and over, back and forth.

her hands grabbing his collar, her hand on his shoulder during the dance,

Dex was breathing heavy, the pleasure was too much, making it hard to keep his eye contact in the mirror. Heat seeping all through his body, small whimpers from his lips though the mask escaped into the room.

the way her expressions changed when she was close.

Dex let out a large breath, spilling into his hand.

He had finished to her, to blood and to violence.

His entire body loosened as he laid his back on the bed.

Sam.

She was still in the hospital, still hurt. And he was here, touching himself to the thought of her, to violence, like some kind of animal.

He had to stop it. He had to keep her safe.

He had to see her again.

-

Chapter 13

// hints my bullseye obsession