It was life doing that typical 180 degree turn into the pits again that had Olivia pinned underneath some sadistic, cannibalistic creep, bleeding from her gut, and once again considering the real possibility of being a victim of sexual assault, a rape victim, facing certain death.

Death she could handle, because her job required a certain amount of grace under pressure, being a cop—a female cop, no less—guaranteed at least a small amount of danger. This she expected. However, most people rarely experienced life-changing moments that involved severe emotional trauma or possible sexual violation; by now, sadly, she was an old pro.

The man poised over her, Brad Ulrich, wasn't even the archetypal, evil looking predator that people usually expected when imagining a cruel, man-eating killer, which was probably why he'd been able to remain under the radar for so long. He was a good-looking kid with choirboy looks, patchy stubble on his youthful jaw, wide green eyes, even a nice demeanor. The sweet, saccharine smile had now curved his lips upward into something that was cunning yet vacant of emotion. The long, bony fingers of his left hand had a surprising amount of strength in them and had her wrists locked in a solid grasp, while the other yielded a four-inch black Smith and Wesson hunting knife. She could feel the cold, smooth steel slide over her even through the cotton shirt she was wearing.

Olivia heard faint gasps a few feet away, where her partner lay dying, bleeding profusely from two stab wounds to the back. Ulrich had caught them off guard by creating a textbook diversion tactic with the noisy toss of a brick into a nearby spider-webbed window. This had led them into the moth eaten place, on guard, but unassuming as they went the wrong direction. He'd made sure to produce the right kind of clamor in the dark space and then go silent to confuse them—crept up behind Elliot, delivered two quick, devastating blows with the hunting blade, and moved instantly toward her to do the same. He'd taken advantage of her shock and disbelief and jabbed the blood-covered knife into her lower abdomen, grabbing control easily. Too easily. They should have been more cautious, more prepared. They were seasoned veterans, so really, none of it should have happened period. The only excuse that she could fabricate in a drifting mind is that they had been so enraptured by their own personal demons, they'd basically given him the perfect opportunity to strike.

She remembered the gush of crimson liquid seeping from the fabric of his light dress shirt, and she recalled feeling alarmed at the volume that poured from the wounds—she'd only been given a brief moment to see him attempt to remove the safety of his Glock so that he could retaliate, but he hardly managed to stagger a few steps before his knees buckled. He'd tumbled face-first into the cold cement floor of the abandoned warehouse they'd been staking out for the last three hours. His gun had skittered to the right and away from view.

She was brought back to the present when she heard a small, stifled pop as the man yanked apart the front of her pants, and she had a sudden strange moment where the world became bright, her mind clear. Everything seemed too real. Sensations overwhelming.

It was happening. She was lying on the ground, bleeding from a stab wound; Elliot was slipping away very rapidly from the shock of his back injury, and their suspect was tearing off her clothes to use her body for his twisted sexual appetite. It was real. It was really happening. To them.

But it couldn't be real! her mind screamed as she stared in fascinated horror at the soft dip of the kid's neck and clavicle, as she contemplated the very fabric of what made him human, his flesh and blood, knowing that he had a mother somewhere, possibly a spouse, a lover, someone who cared about him. She then let her eyes drift to his face, the cruel, detached grin—like he was conducting a school science experiment. She was the animal waiting for dissection, and he was the demented, over-eager future sociopath pinning her to his tray. She realized with dissociated interest that she was simply a specimen to him. A thing. Not an actual person who felt pain or emotion.

She felt a moment of terror fill her when she realized that she was becoming weak. The fear shot through her like a lightning bolt, and she knew that this was her body's natural response to the spike in anxiety. Adrenaline began coursing through her, despite the shock that was settling over her senses.

She was losing blood. Fast.

But she contemplated what would happen if she gave into the growing weakness and could not overpower the sick freak, or if back up didn't miraculously materialize—he would have his way with her, slice her up like he'd done to the Quinn family and Kayla Sanders, drink her blood, wash his hands and face, and disappear into the night. Just like he had done to the others. God only knew if law enforcement would find him after that. He'd probably be in Canada by the time they realized they had two dead detectives in an abandoned warehouse in the middle of urban nowhere. How many other countless victims would he murder and cannibalize if she could not stop him?

Olivia fought the growing feebleness and struggled to free her arms from his left hand. They were clammy with sweat and enabled her to slither from his bone-crushing grip. She swung quickly with as much force as she could rally, aiming for his left cheek. He laughed, easily dodging her strike, then brought his knife back toward her body, the smile swooping into a vicious scowl. Olivia caught the blade before it plunged into the heaving expanse of her chest.

Suddenly she was fighting a new battle—forcing the weapon away with the exposed skin of her palms. She squirmed ferociously and ignored the slick feeling of blood trickling down her forearms as her hands split on contact with the sharp end of the blade.

"Yeah, oh yeah, I love a good fight!" he said in a seductive voice as he pushed his lower body into hers. "Show me how mad you are, honey!"

"I'll kill you, Ulrich!" she spat, barbs of pain erupting from her palms as she pushed with all her might.

He shoved back with more malice, giggling girlishly. "I think you should be more concerned with yourself, sweetie, 'cause when you stop fighting me, it'll be quick. Don't get me wrong, I love a challenge. But you're only drawing it out." He sank down closer to her so he could whisper in her face and she moved away in disgust. "I always get what I want. I'm gonna have my way with you, your partner, and I'm gonna make it last, you understand? You'll always be a part of me. You'll always be inside of me."

Olivia's body was thrumming with pain at that point, and her heart was beating so frantically that her pulse began pounding in her ears, drowning her senses in the thunderous sound. The ferocity of her efforts was waning—she was not strong enough to withstand the blood loss, damage to her internal organs, the shock, and her body was succumbing on its own despite her fervor.

"No," she growled from clenched teeth, arms trembling violently. "I won't let you!" Darkness began seeping into the corners of her vision and the intense zeal to fight back and live turned to blind panic. She couldn't keep the frightened whimper from surfacing, and tears slipped from the corners of her eyes uncontrollably.

It can't end this way.

It was at this moment that the familiar report of gunfire filled the air of the cement room. As quickly as the attack came, the pressure eased from her wrists just as quickly and the man bonelessly slumped on top of her, spilling his last breath and warm brain matter into the crook of her neck. She turned her face again and noticed that Elliot had been able to find his gun from wherever it had fallen, and had aimed at Ulrich's head. He was alarmingly pale, no color in his lips or face, but he wore a look of satisfaction. And just like that, his eyes rolled back, his hands dropped with a loud clamoring when his service pistol hit the ground, and his cheek landed with it.

Gone.

A loud bang erupted shortly afterward when the door to the room was thrust into the wall and the shouts and footsteps mingled together into a combined garble of noise. Olivia was shuddering painfully, unable to control the trembling. The iron smell of the blood and tissue caused her stomach to churn, and right when she felt as though she would vomit, Brad Ulrich was shoved off her by a well-aimed shoe.

A face swam in front of her, which resembled John Munch—face gray and slack with shock. "Olivia," he muttered, instantly yanking off his coat to press it into the wound in her side. "Olivia? Stay with me," he said, and turned away to place a frantic radio call for the nearest available EMS. "Central, 10-13! I repeat, 10-13 at this location! We need a bus forthwith, you hear me?"

Olivia looked to Elliot again and noticed Cragen and Fin had emerged and were kneeling before his sprawled body. They removed the weapon from his limp fingers and quickly pushed fabric into his wounds to suppress the bleeding. She watched their movements, worry sparking inside of her despite her rapidly declining condition. She was beginning to feel the heavy pull of overwhelming exhaustion. "El—"

Munch touched her cheek, rubbing his thumb over it soothingly. "Liv, don't worry. Paramedics are on the way. They'll take care of him, I promise. We're not going to lose you, all right?" He moved out of sight, but kept talking to her. "You have got to stay awake, you got me? Don't even close your eyes."

She nodded, but the darkness from before returned with more force, and her body seemed to relax into the cold ground, sink into the strange comfort and accept it. The cement floor suddenly felt good. The pain began to dissipate. She knew she had to fight it, knew that this was bad, but she could no longer concentrate on why this was so.

Her eyes slid closed as all the sights and sounds of the world drifted away.

Two weeks earlier

Elliot was supposed to be typing out his DD5s to finish his official reports of one of five active abuse cases on his desk, but he was distracted by the entrance of his partner as she trudged into the open squad room, forgoing the trip to the locker room and immediately shrugging off her wool jacket with a roll of her eyes. She stopped at her chair, sighing as she dropped her handbag onto the floor and flung her jacket over the back of her seat, then met his curious gaze across their adjoined desks.

"Bad news, I take it," he mumbled from his reclined position, then moved his crisscrossed feet from the untouched stacks of manila folders and leaned his elbows against the small table.

Olivia sat untidily, draping her hands over the armrests of her chair. "Acquittal."

What once would be an explosive bout of anger at the injustice of a clearly guilty perp sliding through the conveniently placed cracks of the justice system, remained as a grimly-accepting sigh. "What happened?"

"Defense ripped him apart. Langen grilled him like a pit bull, destroying any credibility in front of the jury even though the judge struck his comments from record. You know how that goes, once it's said it can't be unsaid. But supposedly there wasn't enough solid evidence to convict."

"That's such crap. How long did the jury take to deliberate?"

"Less than thirty minutes." Olivia slid her chair closer to her side of the desk, a mirthless smile raising her lips.

Elliot made a grumbling noise in the back of his throat, and then palmed his forehead. "Six months of investigation down the drain in five minutes. Nice."

She stared at the ceiling, feeling the same measure of irritation and defeat. "The evidence was circumstantial, El. It was never concrete. And eyewitness testimony can easily be overturned when enough doubt is raised, you know that."

"Daniels is gonna walk because our only credible witness made the mistake of seeing him at night. Just watch, Liv. In a week, we'll have a new case on our desk with the same MO, except this time the woman he rapes will be dead."

Olivia shook her head, and then pushed the anger from her thoughts. They had to take the losses with the wins. This was something every city employee had to stomach with a gloomy acceptance. Not one person on their crew would be able to operate on the job if they got caught up in the injustices of the way the law worked. It was necessary to remove herself emotionally from her cases in order to function the rest of the day—otherwise she would go insane with rage. She used to hold onto it all, bring cases home, let the victims and perps live in her mind well after she'd punched the clock, but she'd been working in the unit long enough to adjust. The first few years were the hardest, with some of the longest nights of disturbed sleep filled with fear, wrath, and sadness. It got easier over time.

"I'll give Erica a call later to see how she's doing," she said quietly, training her eyes to her computer and compelling herself to concentrate on something else. Elliot took the cue and diligently returned to the forms in front of him until the door to the room was thumped open and Fin's stocky form strolled in with haste. This always meant something significant had taken place—both detectives hoped for something good.

"What's up?" Elliot asked as Fin and Munch stopped at their desks a few feet away.

Fin answered as he pulled on his coat and yanked a dark beanie over his head. "We got a pretty nasty one over in the Tribeca area. We're gonna need all the help we can get, so you and Liv should come along. CSU and the ME are on their way already."

Olivia groaned. She'd only had minutes before needing to get up once again.

It never ended.

Elliot had been cooped up for a few hours, so he was eager to join the two other men, donning his suit jacket. "Pretty nasty, huh? You mean worse than we deal with already?"

Munch shrugged his thin shoulders. "9-1-1 operator took a call from a man about an hour ago, saying it looks like someone painted his girlfriend's apartment in her blood. Responding officers said it's gruesome, and that there's evidence of sexual penetration before and after her death, so that's why they called us."

Olivia sidled up behind Elliot, raising her dramatic eyebrows. "A real Romeo."

"It gets worse," Munch responded gravely.

She followed the group out of the room, shaking her head. "There's more? What now?"

Fin pressed his lips together, almost appearing to be sick. "She was pregnant."

Olivia immediately glanced at Elliot after hearing of the victim's condition, and she noticed the tendons in his jaw jumped as he clenched his teeth together. When cases involved children, even in utero, he had a tendency to let his emotions cloud better judgment. She could feel her intuition foist its way into her senses—this case would be emotionally trying, and like previous investigations involving children or mothers, he would respond with flailing, barely controlled emotions.

His head turned, and he met her gaze as if he'd read her mind and discerned her unease. "I'll be fine."

She almost chuckled at his retort, and thought it was endlessly amusing that they could read each other so well, but it was something to be expected after over a decade of partnership. "Cragen know where we're going?"

Fin answered. "He's waiting for us by now. Let's go."