Dexter Morgan: The serial killer who made us applaud crime.

There is something disturbingly fascinating about Dexter Morgan. Yes, he is a serial killer. Yes, he has a troubling fondness for knives and plastic wrap. But, against all moral logic, we end up rooting for him. Because Dexter is not just a series about a psychopath with forensic skills; it is a brilliant experiment in making an audience support someone who, in any other story, would be the monster to defeat.

But let’s take it one step at a time just as our dear Dexter would.

From the very first episode, this man openly confesses his nature: he doesn’t feel real emotions, he doesn’t connect with people, and he lives by a code instilled in him by his adoptive father, Harry, one that feels like a sinister version of "with great power comes great responsibility." In other words, if you're going to kill, at least do it with a purpose. The "Harry Code" teaches him that his bloodlust can be channeled into something “useful”: eliminating criminals who have escaped justice. Which sounds almost heroic until you see him smile with that glint in his eye while sharpening his knives.

And here lies Dexter’s first masterstroke: his charisma. Despite being a methodical predator, Michael C. Hall plays him with such precision that you can’t help but feel sympathy for him. His voice-over narration, his sarcastic remarks about human stupidity, his awkward attempts to fit into a society he doesn’t understand all of it makes him strangely endearing. He is not just any killer; he is a man who fakes emotions he doesn’t have, who studies others to mimic what is “normal” while his Dark Passenger (that murderous impulse that consumes him) pushes him in the opposite direction.

His modus operandi is so meticulous that it would make any obsessive-compulsive person proud. Before he kills, he studies his victims, analyzes them, and ensures they truly deserve it (because, apparently, even psychopaths have principles). Then, he captures them, ties them to a plastic-covered table, presents them with evidence of their crimes (like a teacher giving a final lesson), and… well, the rest is history.

But Dexter is not just knives and garbage bags floating in the ocean. He is also a brother, a friend, a boyfriend… and that’s where the real irony lies. His relationship with Debra, his sister, is one of the most genuine things he has. Even though he doesn’t feel like she does, there is something about Deb that connects him to humanity though she never suspects it (until she does… and, well, chaos ensues). His job at the Miami police department, surrounded by detectives who couldn’t catch a cold without help, adds a delicious layer of tension: he is the perfect killer, hiding in plain sight.

What’s fascinating about Dexter is that, even though we know he is rotten inside, he still seems more morally sound than most of the villains he faces. He makes us question how different he really is from a justice system that sometimes fails more than it succeeds. His story is a macabre dance between the need to kill and the desire to fit in, and that duality makes him an irresistible character.

In the end, Dexter forces us to ask uncomfortable questions: how bad is he really if he only kills those who “deserve it”? What does it say about us that we cheer him on with every black bag he tosses into the water? There may not be a Harry Code in our lives, but after watching Dexter, we know we’ll never look at a kitchen knife the same way again.