Warnings and such: Pretty much the same as the previous two chapters with more implied sexual violence, although Olivia is obviously losing it a little more after all this time and Lewis is being Lewis, and you know which part we are nearing here. I should add that I have been lucky enough to never have been through a brutal kidnapping myself, so I (luckily) have no idea if I am doing the subject matter justice. I hope you can forgive me for anything that feels off.

She has lost track of time. She had sworn to herself that she wouldn't, but at some point, the hours blend together, the days and nights become an endless haze of pain, drugs, sleep (?), more pain, being trapped and driven around endlessly. When she wakes up to the sound of his voice in the dark in an unfamiliar environment, all she has left is sheer panic. Thoughts of strategy and attempts to understand Lewis, to unpuzzle him as if this would help her save herself, have fled at last. The best she can do is to play dead so he doesn't invent some new game to torture her, doesn't do a pit stop, doesn't ever stop driving, doesn't make up fresh humiliations to trade for water. There is nothing left he can get out of her, except for one thing. And once he is done with that, she will be discarded like a doll that bores him, and she knows what will happen then. She has seen the pictures. She used to believe this would give her control, an advantage in handling this situation, but now the images just terrorise her in their inevitability. The best she can do now is to stay alive from one moment to the next, long enough for someone to find her. They must be looking for her by now, surely. People can't just disappear off the face of the earth without anyone caring. Of course they can. That's what makes you the perfect victim. No one will miss you. But no, she can't think like that, she can't give up.

She tries to think of reasons to stay alive, of why she shouldn't force the end to come sooner. What is this string that tethers her to this earth? Life? It's sacred or something. Come on, sweetheart. You don't believe that. She used to care about her job, her passion. And look where that got you. She knows she used to care. Olivia used to care. Olivia used to like coffee and summer and red wine and walking through exhibitions, but all that feels unreal now. Who was that woman? Didn't she know better? Fuck, it sounds like a eulogy. She used to like lying in bed with Brian on a Sunday morning and getting into arguments over sports games. But none of the above sound like particularly good reasons for living, the kind that make people go "oh no, you can't die, you have [a kid, a significant other, a mission]". Or for not existing in a place of no feelings, which sounds like a relief right now. If she died, her squad would miss her for sure, and presumably Brian, and maybe even Elliot –she feels a second of insane satisfaction at that idea- they might feel guilty, but they would get over it. They don't depend on her. Life would go on. She tries to picture their faces. Isn't that what you're supposed to do? But she can't, because that is too much as if they are watching her, and she can't bear that thought.

But she has to live, because otherwise, Lewis wins and her mom was right. And they can't win.

"Well, that was tragic. Another life lost on your watch, not that we're counting, Detective. He was so young, too, downright adorable. Did you honestly think he'd be the one to save the day? Are you actually that stupid? I thought I'd taught you better. No one is coming to save you. You can't even save yourself. By the time I'm done with you, you'll be begging me for death. Because it would be much easier, wouldn't it, if I put that gun to your head and pulled the trigger? Sorry, honey, that's not gonna happen just yet. Oh, so you're not gonna talk to me now when I finally let you? The silent treatment, is that the best you got? Like that's some big loss to me? Like I'm interested in your mind? Don't worry, I have ways to make you talk, to make you scream. You'll talk, and you'll beg me to hand you your gun back so you can do the honours yourself."

"N- never."

"What's that?"

"Never! I want to live."

"God, that's why I love you. Seriously. So much spirit, even now."

"Let me live with the memory of-"

"Shut up! You don't dictate the terms!"

Okay. If this has to happen, then okay. She can still taste her metal in her mouth; she can still feel his hands on her, "helping", probing, invading. She can still smell him in her clothes, even underneath the cigarette smoke, blood and other fluids. If this means she can survive, then okay. Let it come. Let it be over with already. If she gets out of this alive, she will do better. She will be better. She will change everything. She will live. That is all that matters. That is all that matters. That is all that matters. This is only her body. It's a physical response, nothing else. It doesn't mean consent. It doesn't diminish her value. It doesn't say anything about her. There is no shame in it. It is just one more act of violence, and really, if it's between this and the blowtorch, then… It is violence. It has nothing to do with sex. She has said these words a million times, and now she is willing herself to believe them. And if anyone finds out that this happened…but they won't. Not unless she dies. She can't die.

"This'll hurt a little. Just be grateful I'm saving the blowtorch for later; that would really suck. If you try anything, it'll hurt a lot more. Relax…relax…you're so tense…I'd say think of something else, like try to imagine it's your boyfriend's dick or something, but I guess you wouldn't know who to picture-"

"Shut…the fuck up…ah! Aah!"

"You stupid bitch, you never learn, do you? Say you're sorry. Say it!"

"I'm…m…sorry…"

"There's a good girl. Now, I promised I'd take care of you, too. You know you want it. I can feel it."

She goes away again as best as she can. Or she wants to, but if she goes to a specific place, that place will forever be associated with this. So the places linger like fleeting images at the back of her mind and not one actually sticks as Lewis always gets through to them, permeating her refuge with his voice, his touch, the blinding pain that would make her vomit if she had anything to vomit. She doesn't want to lose these places, these people just yet, but they are slipping from her grasp, tumbling through space like scraps of paper that are scattered and carried away by the wind. Nowhere stays safe, not teasing Nick over his newfound green tea preference in the squad room, not the salt in Brian's kisses as they got out of the water, not the drink she had with Elliot that winter night when he promised he'd be there for her and then he wasn't. He wasn't, and now they'll never make it right, and she isn't supposed to care but all she wants is for him to walk through that door right now. And Lewis knows, and she hates him for being right. He has seen that this is all anything will ever amount to: A lifetime of failures, ended like this. She will never make up with Elliot. Her last conversation with Brian was a dumb fight. She will never get the endless time they were supposed to have. This is it. This is all there is.

"You wanna know why I haven't killed you yet?"

"No."

"Because you can only die once."

The thing she sees in the mirror is scarred and broken, barely recognisable as herself. She is some wild, trapped animal fit for slaughter. "One move, lights out." This isn't her. Olivia wouldn't do that. But she is no longer Olivia. She doesn't know who she is, what she is. She examines the cut on her forehead and she can feel the trembling setting in, starting with her hands, although the pain barely registers right now. Neither does the fact of her survival. She needs medical attention. She should call for back-up. Olivia would call for back-up. Elliot would kill Lewis. Nick would…who knows what the hell Nick would do. She has no other half here. She has only herself and the knowledge that Lewis needs to suffer and that she may not have much time, with the two witnesses she just sent away. She can picture the suffering, visualise the torture because thanks to him, she knows what burns and cuts look like first hand. It would be quicker than what he did to her. But she can't do that. No, he needs to die; this needs to end here. This man has seven lives; he gets off every time. She has to end it. Only she can do it. She has to eradicate his existence. He doesn't deserve to live. She has to pull that trigger now. Do it now. Become a murderer now. Shoot a handcuffed man in cold blood. It's not in cold blood if he'd kill you otherwise. Your life is over, anyway. She has to hold that gun steady to his head. She can't miss. Only then will she be free. It's only one movement.