AN: So this chapter is, in a sense, a filler. It answers a few questions regarding some of Clarke's injuries, and it introduces us to the detective leading her case. It may potentially be triggering, although I don't go into much detail, so please do keep that in mind. It took me a really long time to write this chapter (as I'm sure some of you are aware) because it was both heavy and just, in general, difficult to write.

Again, don't be prepared for anything too heartfelt or emotional here. It's largely a slight window into what happened to Clarke, and then a short bit where we see the trio interacting once again.

She felt uneasy before she even opened her eyes —like her body, without even seeing him, knew that she was being watched. She wanted to believe that this physical discomfort had just been the psychological remnants of a nightmare she couldn't remember, but as she began to wake up, her mind knew that something was wrong. However, nothing could have prepared her for the sight of his silhouette, looming above her bed.

She opened her eyes slowly, with confusion and unease, and was almost instantly paralyzed with fear. A dark, masked figure was standing at the end of her bed, towering over her. The only details she could clearly make out behind his ski mask were the whites of his eyes, angry and wild. She screamed, her body reacting more quickly than her mind could even process her surroundings. She jumped out of the bed, began to reach for the small lamp on the nightstand to her right, but he was too quick, already prepared for her reaction. He lunged at her, grabbing her wrists and throwing her back down onto the bed, letting the lamp fall to the ground with a crash.

"Did you get a good look at his face?" The female detective across from her questioned.

The woman's tone was gentle, but authoritative. She cared, but she was also a professional and clearly took these things seriously. The facts mattered, they were important. Objectivity was the name of the game, and Clarke could sense that while the woman was kind, she wouldn't be tiptoeing around the details of the attack.

Clarke shook her head and sighed. She felt dull. Numb, even. Her chest was tight, her fear and anxiety physically present, but there was some sort of disconnect, like she couldn't actually feel whatever emotions she should have been feeling. She recounted the previous night with a blank expression and a hollow voice, feeling nothing.

The detectives voice cut through the silence.

"Nothing?"

Clarke shrugged, making cold eye contact with the detective.

"He was wearing a mask," she answered lowly, her voice almost apathetic. "And it was dark."

"And you're sure you didn't get a good look at his eyes?" Detective Diyoza asked, her tone holding the quality of a parent questioning a preschooler. "Or even just his skin color?"

Clarke shut her eyes quickly, the anxiety in her eyes spiking suddenly. She didn't want to think about his eyes. She didn't want to see them again. But they were right there in her mind, angry and dark, full of hatred and lust and this cold, sickening amusement. Yes. She got a good look at his eyes. She didn't think she'd ever be able to pull that image out of her mind.

"Brown eyes," Clarke answered sharply, opening her eyes and regaining her composure as best as she could. "He was white."

"That's good," Diyoza nodded, writing something down quickly in her file.

Clarke scoffed to herself, biting her lip. She understood what the detective had meant, but the implication that anything was "good" just felt laughable. Nothing was good.

"Now, what happened next?"

She landed hard and screamed once more, immediately scrambling to the other side of the bed in an attempt to separate herself from the intruder as much as possible. She cried out for help, panic seizing her body and mind. Her fight or flight response urged her to flee, but the situation would demand that she fight, as he was much larger and faster than she was in this moment. She jumped off of the bed once more. By the time her feet hit the ground, he'd already rounded the corner of the bed. He moved toward her and she swung, her fist colliding hard with his jaw. He stumbled backwards, momentarily stunned, and she tried to rush past him. Just as she thought she could reach the door, he grabbed her arm and yanked hard. He threw her toward the bed and the momentum caused her to fall backwards, her shoulder and back colliding with the sharp corner of the nightstand. She let out another scream, the pain flaring up immediately.

As she tried to stand, he took his time walking toward her, the fire in his eyes even more furious than it had been before. She froze for a moment, her terror seizing her.

"Please," she begged, her voice trembling. "Please don't hurt me. Take whatever you want, I don't care. Just don't-"

"Shut up," he snarled, pure rage emanating from his voice.

"What do you want-"

"I said shut the fuck up!" He screamed, sending a furious kick into Clarke's side.

She cried out once more, from both fear and pain. He reached down and grabbed her by her hair, then yanked her toward him so that she was standing. She tried to hit him again, to push him away, but he was too strong. He shoved her against the wall, grabbed her throat with one hand, and reached into his pocket with the other. She reached up, ready to grab his face —she'd try to gouge his eyes out if she had to. But when she felt something cold and sharp against her throat, she stopped.

"Don't even try," he hissed, pressing the blade hard enough that it could just barely break skin.

Clarke squeezed her eyes shut, her whole body filled with fear. She was beginning to believe that there was no escaping this, that he would do whatever he wanted to do with her and that she wouldn't be able to stop it.

"You're gonna do what I say, you hear me?"

She nodded, opening her eyes. This couldn't happen. It couldn't happen. She couldn't let it happen.

"Get on the bed."

He let go of her throat and took a step backwards, glaring at her, expecting her to do what he'd asked. But now, with the blade no longer held to her throat, she was willing to risk it. She was willing to risk it if it meant that there was some slim chance she could get away. She sent a swift kick to his groin and he doubled over, letting out a pained groan.

She wasted no time. She darted out of the room and got halfway down the hallway, convinced that she could do this, convinced that she could get away.

She wasn't prepared for him to tackle her, though.

He charged at her full speed. She fell face-first, whacking her head off of the hardwood floor. She was disoriented for a moment, her vision blurred and fading. For a few seconds she was seeing stars, the impact of the hit almost enough to knock her out. Her daze lasted only a few seconds, but it was enough time for him to regain the upper hand. When she could finally see again, could finally remember where she was and what was happening, he was straddling her in the hallway, practically sitting on top of her back. She tried to turn onto her side, to roll out from under him, but he had her pinned. He was too heavy. She screamed for help once more, but she was growing hopeless.

"No one's gonna hear you crying, Clarke," he growled, grabbing her hair and lifting her head up. "Your neighbor's left town this morning. Now stand the fuck up, and do what I say, or I'll kill you right here."

He placed the blade against her throat once more and she felt a deep sense of defeat set in her bones. He pressed the knife harder against her throat, enough that it stung. She clenched her jaw and held back a sob. He shifted his weight off of her and started to stand, and Clarke had no other option than to do the same. His threat to kill her was real, and she knew it.

"He knew that your neighbors weren't around?" Diyoza asked, frowning.

Clarke shrugged uncomfortably, not sure why the question was really that relevant.

"I guess," she responded blankly.

Diyoza nodded, furrowing her brow with thought. She wrote something else down, and Clarke had a feeling the question would pop up again later on. She wasn't sure why the detective seemed so interested in that detail, but clearly it mattered enough to be written down.

He pushed her, causing her to fall backwards onto the bed. She scrambled backwards, shaking with fear. He just chuckled to himself. Her eyes darted down to the knife in his hand, then back up at him as he stepped closer. He started to climb onto the bed, his eyes growing more wild.

She was ready to kick him when he pressed the knife against her chest, and the fear got the best of her. The tip of the blade rested just under her neck, cold and sharp and terrifying. She wanted to scream. She wanted to fight him off.

But she couldn't. She was frozen.

With his free hand, he grabbed her throat tightly, leaning his weight into it. It was a tactic to keep her pinned, and it was a warning - a warning that, if he wanted to, he could kill her. He pushed down harder, and for a moment, all she could think about was the feeling of his gloves pressing against the skin of her neck. His hands were weapons of their own, and Clarke knew that physically, she was at a complete disadvantage. He didn't need a knife to kill her. He could do it right now if he wanted to, and she had a gut feeling that if she were to fight him off much longer, he would want to.

"What kind of gloves was he wearing?" Diyoza asked, tilting her head slightly.

Clarke gave her a puzzled look, confused as to why this even mattered. Weren't there more important things to focus on? Why in the world did it matter what type of gloves he'd been wearing?

"Latex, I think?" Clarke responded, her confusion evident. "Why?"

"It could help with the investigation," Diyoza answered calmly with a nod, jotting down Clarke's response. "Sometimes perpetrators will dispose of their gloves or their clothes in nearby dumpsters thinking no one will find them. You wouldn't believe how much DNA evidence you could find on the inside of latex gloves. Fingerprints, blood, even the occasional hair sample."

Clarke nodded with a frown. They probably wouldn't find much DNA evidence in her apartment. He'd been careful. He'd been prepared. Ski mask, gloves, long sleeves. He must have known what he was doing.

She was petrified. If she'd wanted to move a muscle, she wouldn't be able to. Utter hopelessness was beginning to sink in, and she was beginning to realize that if she wanted to survive this -if she wanted to keep her life- then she'd have to give up.

In a sudden and swift movement, he cut the t-shirt from the collar to the hem, leaving her stomach and chest almost completely bare. The thin veil of privacy was quickly eliminated, though, as he did the same to her bra.

She just stared up at the ceiling, tears filling her eyes as she clenched her jaw shut. Everything in her wanted to believe that this wasn't real, but it was. And she knew that it was.

He grabbed her wrists in one hand, held them up above her head, and her heart sunk as she felt something sharp tighten around them. The only thing she could focus on now was the sound of her own heartbeat, pounding in her ears.

She was completely and utterly helpless.

"He used zip-ties?"

Clarke just nodded, her face turned to the table but her gaze unfocused. The anxiety was beginning to resurface, but she was determined to push it down. She couldn't feel those emotions right now. She couldn't face them. She just wanted to push it all away, to forget that this story she was telling the detective had actually happened. To her.

Diyoza jotted something down, and Clarke continued, her voice cold as she attempted to suppress the anxiety welling up in her chest.

"Please," Clarke begged as his hands found her hips. "Please, don't-"

"I don't want you to talk," he breathed, his mouth just inches from her face.

She shut her eyes tight, clenched her jaw shut. This couldn't be happening. It couldn't be happening. Not to her, not in her own apartment. This couldn't be real.

He pressed his body against hers. One of his hands found her chest. He moved his mouth even closer, just above her neck. She could feel his breath against her skin, hot, sticky, and repulsive. She turned her head to the side, praying that this could end.

"You have no idea how long I've been waiting for this," he whispered.

His mouth found her neck and she couldn't help but let out a whimper of fear. The hand that still rested at her hips found the waistband of her sweatpants. It only took a second or two for him to push them down to her knees. She squeezed her legs tightly together, hardly an ounce of fight left. She tried to kick her legs, but it was impossible with the weight of his body on her.

"Stop," she tried, her voice weak.

He just shushed her, barely even seeming to notice her struggle. She tried to turn her body, to somehow push him off of her, but it was useless. She started to bring her hands down in an attempt to hit him, but he grabbed her zip-tied wrists and held them above her head once again.

"Let's see," he muttered, sitting up slightly as he continued to hold her wrists down.

He glanced around the room for a moment, searching for something, and then grinned beneath his mask. He leaned toward the nightstand, yanked at something. Clarke turned her head, confused and alarmed. A second later, he lifted her cellphone, which had been plugged in next to the bed. After giving her a small smirk, he tossed the phone across the room, then pulled the charger out of its socket.

"This'll do."

He wrapped the wire around the zip-ties a few times, then tied it tightly to a post on the headboard. In a panic, Clarke attempted to pull her arms forward once again, but it was futile. The cord was too strong and tied too tightly. She couldn't pull away.

"Perfect," he breathed, proudly watching as she finally gave up.

Both of his hands found her throat. She tried to turn her head away from him, tears falling down her face. He grabbed her face and turned it back toward him, staring down at her with dark, lustful eyes.

"You might be my favorite one yet, Clarke," he snickered.

"Did he say anything else to you?"

Diyoza's eyes were sharp, searching.

Clarke had been staring off into space as she'd been speaking, her mind lost. She felt like she was right back on that bed. As she gave her statement, she felt just as helpless as she'd felt that night. Just as lost. Just as empty.

She shrugged.

"I don't know."

"You don't know?" Diyoza questioned.

Clarke's frustration was beginning to get the best of her. She shook her head and leaned back into her chair, crossing her arms.

"I checked out," she admitted, looking off the side defensively. "I don't remember."

"What do you mean you 'don't remember?'" Diyoza pried, curiosity and something akin to judgement in her tone. "Did you pass out? Did he drug you?"

Clarke let out a sharp, irritated sigh. Deep down, she knew that the detective had her best interest at heart, but she wasn't in the mood to justify how she'd responded mentally during the attack.

"No. I just, I don't know. It was too much. I don't remember."

"So, you don't remember if he said anything? Nothing at all that might make it easier for us to figure out who he is, or why he was targeting you?" Diyoza asked, raising an eyebrow.

Clarke finally snapped. She shot the detective a furious glare, clenching her fists in an attempt to keep herself from slamming her palms onto the table.

"For fuck's sake, I don't know, okay? I was too busy panicking and trying not to get killed, so I couldn't exactly focus my attention on whatever shit he was saying when he was fuck-"

She paused, shut her eyes, sucked in a deep breath.

"When he was raping me," she corrected herself quietly.

Diyoza let out a soft exhale, then sat back in her own chair. She stared Clarke down for a moment, as if studying her. Clarke held eye-contact now, clenching her jaw and fighting the tears that wanted to form in her eyes. She'd already been bullied and mocked by the police when she'd tried to report her attacker for stalking her. She wasn't about to let another cop walk all over her. Not now.

"Forgive me for not making a mental note of every fucking thing he said to me," Clarke spoke coldly, staring at Diyoza. "I was a little preoccupied with staying alive, and honestly, I didn't want to hear anything he had to say."

Diyoza sighed once more and looked at Clarke with something akin to sympathy, which only made Clarke's skin crawl even more. She didn't like that look. She want the pity. She didn't want to detective to feel sorry for her, or to placate her, or to offer her resources. She wanted the detective to get out there and do her job, to catch him.

"Clarke, I get the feeling you think I'm the bad guy here," Diyoza offered gently. "And you know what? I don't blame you. If I were in your position and someone started questioning me like this, asking about every little detail, I'd be pissed too. But what you have to understand is that I'm here to help you. I want to help you."

Clarke just continued to stare at the detective, but her glare softened slightly.

"The reason I'm asking all these questions, and sometimes asking twice?" Diyoza continued. "It's because I want to nail this guy. I want to hunt him down, cuff his ass, and throw him in a jail cell for the rest of his life. But I can't do any of that without figuring out who he is, and the only way I'm going to be able to do that as quickly as possible is if I make sure you're not leaving out any information. Sometimes the most important information is the stuff you don't think is important, the little details that might be able to give us an idea of just what type of guy he is."

Clarke sighed, shutting her eyes for a moment. She took a breath and leaned back in her chair, then nodded slowly.

"So are you sure you don't remember anything?"

"I don't know," Clarke quietly admitted with a shrug. "I just... It's all kind of blurry right now."

Diyoza frowned slightly, but nodded with understanding.

"Alright," she assured Clarke. "Well, if that changes at any point, all you have to do is let me know. Sometimes these things take some time. It's a process."

Clarke swallowed hard and clenched her jaw, wrapping her arms more tightly around herself. The anxiety really was beginning to spike, and she was exhausted. She hadn't even gotten to the worst part of her statement, and she knew that things would probably only get worse from here.

"Are you okay to keep going?" Diyoza asked. "Or do you need to take a break? It's alright if-"

Clarke shook her head.

"No. I just want to get this over with."

Clarke wasn't sure how her tired, shaking legs had managed to carry her back to Octavia's car. She'd reached a state beyond exhaustion, a state beyond fatigue. If she'd been tired after the hospital visit, then she was running on fumes by now. She felt like the life had been drained out of her, like she only had an ounce of energy left in her to perform even the most basic functions. The fact that her skin was crawling and her anxiety was coursing through her nerves didn't help.

If she were to look back at the statement she'd given the detective, at all of the paper work she'd had to write and fill out and sign, at all of the questions she'd had to answer, she wouldn't be able to recount a single coherent sequence of words or events. On one hand, it felt like it had lasted forever, but on the other hand, it felt like it hadn't even happened. It felt like it hadn't even been a real experience, like Clarke hadn't actually been there. Sure, she could remember it. But the memory of what had ended just minutes ago felt fake, it felt detached, as if she'd watched it through a screen or read it in a book rather than actually having been there.

"Here, I can get the door," Raven offered quickly.

The brunette, who had clearly noticed Clarke's weariness, pulled the passenger's door open. Clarke wordlessly slipped into the seat, grimacing slightly as she sat down. Her body wasn't just tired, it was sore.

The two other women climbed in shortly afterwards. Raven reclaimed her usual spot in the back center seat, and Octavia took the wheel. They were all quiet, not just because no one knew what to say, but because they were all tired. None of them had bothered to check the time, but it had to have been at least ten o'clock now, maybe closer to eleven. Not only were they tired, but they were hungry as well. None of them had really had anything to eat since they'd left the apartment. Octavia and Raven had grabbed a few snacks from the vending machines at both the hospital and the police station, but that had been about it.

"Hey, uh, are you guys hungry?" Raven asked, breaking the silence after a minute or two of driving.

She knew that Clarke hadn't had anything to eat in at least twenty-four hours. As much as she didn't want to pressure the blonde into anything, she couldn't push aside her concern. Clarke already had a concussion. She didn't need to pass out or fall ill from starvation or dehydration too.

"I could eat," Octavia scoffed lightly, her stomach growling in response.

Silence. Raven looked nervously at Clarke.

"Clarke?" Raven asked hesitantly, knowing that the blonde would probably turn down the offer.

Instead, Clarke just nodded weakly, her eyes shut.

"Sure," the blonde mumbled. "I don't think I'll be able to eat much though."

Octavia wasted no time. Within a few minutes, they'd managed to swing by a drive-thru and pick up some greasy fast food just before the restaurant's closing time. Raven quickly devoured two cheeseburgers while Octavia was taking her time with a large order of fries and a chicken sandwich. Clarke's choice, a small box of chicken tenders, was much less filling. The brunettes were both relieved to see that Clarke had managed to eat anything though, even if it was only a few bites.

Clarke had been starving all day, but she'd had no appetite at all. The detective had even offered to have an officer bring some food in for her, but Clarke hadn't had the stomach for it. Now, though, with the heaviest part of the day over and done with, Clarke was willing to give in to the hunger. She was nauseated, both by her pain and by everything that had happened within the past twenty-four hours, but she was also lighteheaded and somewhat bothered by a headache that had been growing in severity throughout the day. She knew, logically, that she needed to get some food into her system. She just didn't want to eat anything.

It didn't take long for her stomach to turn. She'd managed to eat two of the tenders before the nausea started to return. She just didn't have the appetite for anything at all. Her exhaustion had allowed to her stop thinking, temporarily, about the attack. But that had lasted only minutes. The darkness of the car, lit only by dim, orange streetlights every few seconds, reminded her too much of it all. The darkness was too unsettling. Hopefully the few bites of what she'd eaten would be enough, because she knew that if she were to eat any more, she wouldn't be able to keep the food down.

"Here," she offered abruptly, holding the box toward Raven. "I'm done."

"Oh, are you sure?" Raven questioned.

The engineer's voice was concerned, but there was a hint of excitement there too. Clarke just nodded, and she quickly accepted the gift. Raven wolfed the rest of the tenders down, eager to fill her empty stomach. Deep down, she'd wanted to encourage Clarke to finish them off, but she knew that it wouldn't be fair to do so. Clarke deserved to be in control of something right now.

The rest of the car ride was spent in silence. Octavia took the longer, but much more peaceful, route home. While it would have been faster and easier to drive straight through the city, it also likely would have been a much more stressful experience for Clarke. They would have had to pass through busy streets bound to harbor honking cars, past bustling nightclubs and one or two rowdy college campuses where groups of drunk students would wind up yelling obscenities at passing cars. Clarke, who was nearly asleep in the passenger's seat, didn't need to deal with that right now. Driving through the quieter neighborhoods, a labyrinth of one-way streets, dead-ends, and detours, might have been a longer process, but it was also the ideal option.

Clarke didn't say anything, but she knew what Octavia was doing. And she was grateful. She didn't expect that she'd be able to fall asleep in the car, and honestly she wasn't sure that she'd want to do so, but she at least wanted to be able to close her eyes for a while. The low hum of the car's engine was almost hypnotic. Octavia's car drove smoothly enough that even the handful of potholes and bumps in the road weren't too jarring. The windows were open slightly, and the breeze almost felt relaxing, offering the slightest sort of comfort. For the briefest moment of time that elapsed between each passing car, it almost felt like they weren't even in a city anymore. Almost like the world around her could disappear, in a sense. Even if it was temporary.

She didn't know what she felt.

She'd run out of the capacity for any engulfing emotions. She didn't feel like she was suffocating in pain or in sorrow because, physically and mentally, she'd reached her limit. It was like her mind had turned something off, like her brain had decided that she didn't have the capacity to deal with much more tonight.

But it wasn't like she wasn't feeling.

No, the anxiety was still there. It was sitting in her gut and in her chest. Every breath that she took felt too shallow, like something was missing. It was like there was a hole in her lungs, one so small that it couldn't be seen with bare eyes. But it was there. Her lungs were an inflatable pool float that had just barely been punctured. Every breath she took worked -the floatation device could survive on the surface of the water by itself. But something was wrong. The float would never be able to inflate fully. It would never be able to reach maximum capacity, and it would never be able to support the weight of someone on top of it, because there was a hole. There was a hole, and no matter how many times the float could be blown up and no matter how well it could float temporarily on the surface of the water, air would inevitably continue to leak out. And if someone were to trust the seemingly-sturdy float with their life, it wouldn't support them. They would drown. Clarke could breathe. She could suck in and expel enough air to survive. But no matter how deep a breath took or how hard she tried hold her breath in, it didn't feel full. It didn't feel like her lungs were expanding fully. It didn't feel like enough.

Her whole body ached. Even ignoring the cuts, scrapes, bruises, and fractures, she was in so much pain. Her legs were sore, which she initially couldn't even understand. She hadn't actually been on her feet for too much of the day. It took her a moment to realize that her legs weren't sore from today, but from the previous night. They were sore from how furiously she'd run from her apartment to Raven's, from how long she'd run in the middle of the night. Her shoulders were stiff, muscles tightened. She couldn't relax them even if she were to try. Her neck, too, was tense. Even turning her head felt like a bit of a task. Maybe it was because of how tightly her jaw had been shut throughout the day, or maybe it was solely due to the number of hits she'd endured the previous night, but just opening her mouth to speak hurt.

Then there were the cuts, scrapes, bruises, and fractures. The feeling of the sleeve of her sweatshirt against her wrist was irritating. The feeling of the collar of the sweatshirt against her neck was uncomfortable and irritating. The feeling of the carseat against her bruised shoulder blade was sharp and irritating. It was all irritating. Her right wrist was throbbing in its cast. She could practically feel her black eye darkening. There was a constant pain in her side, never ceasing and only growing more and more intense. She was in so much pain, it was draining.

It was hard to focus on anything other than the pain. Maybe that was why she couldn't really feel anything. Maybe that was way her sorrow felt dull. Maybe that was why her fear was manifesting as anxiety rather than terror. Maybe that was why her nausea, although apparent, wasn't enough to make her spit up the few bites of chicken she'd managed to swallow. Maybe the pain was drowning everything else out.

As awful as the pain was, though, she preferred it over the only other option. She didn't want to feel. She didn't want to really think about what had happened to her, about the reality of it all. She didn't want it to feel real. She didn't want it to feel like something she'd actually experienced, because all of that was just too much.

It was just too much.

AN: Well, hopefully that chapter serves some meaning here. Again, it was tough to write. I'm not always a huge fan of filler chapters (although I do use them often), but I felt like it'd be inappropriate not to incorporate at least some of her interaction with the police, and I didn't want to give a straight up flashback of the attack because that would be a tough read for many of us I'm sure. Diyoza won't be a huge character in this story, but she is important. I'll be honest, it's been a hot minute since I've watched the past few seasons of the show, so I can't guarantee how in-character she'll be, but at the very least she's a familiar face who, despite her tough exterior, is on Clarke's side in the end.

Soon you'll be seeing some of our other favorites. Bellamy, Lincoln, Anya, and of course, Lexa.

Please bare with me when it comes to the infrequent updates. It's wild to think that I first started writing this fic 4 years ago (although the proper, revised version was only first posted a year ago). Time flies, I guess. It feels like it was barely a year ago when I first started this little personal project, and I really do appreciate the feedback you all have offered with each update. I can't guarantee that the next chapter will be up terribly soon, but I've already started writing it and, ideally, it'll be up in a week... ideally. I won't make any promises.

Thank you again for all of your support, and I hope that this chapter didn't leave you disappointed or with a heavy heart. Clarke's in a very, very dark tunnel right now, but she'll find her way out of it eventually, and her future will be filled with so much love and happiness.