Trigger Warning: This is a rough chapter. It depicts sexual assault. It was difficult for me to write, so it will be difficult for you to read. Please take care when reading, or skip it if you need to.

Author's Note: Thank you so much for your feedback and reviews—I truly appreciate each one! I just want to clarify for readers who might be detail-oriented like me: this story is, at its core, about Liv and Elliot. It's not focused on police work, forensics, or criminals. As a result, you may notice continuity errors or inconsistencies in what might traditionally be considered the main plot (the case itself). For me, however, the real plot lies in the emotional journey between Elliot and Olivia.

February 8th
Evening

The bedroom was cold. Each one of Olivia's shallow breaths was visible in the dim light. The single window, cracked in one corner and covered with a threadbare curtain, let in the faintest glow of moonlight, enough to illuminate the dismal space. The wallpaper, once floral, was now faded and peeling in long strips, revealing discoloured plaster beneath. A rusted radiator sat silent against the far wall, clearly long abandoned in its purpose. The air was heavy with dust.

The bed she was handcuffed to was little more than a rusty iron frame, the mattress sagging in the middle and stained with God knows what. The cuffs bit into her wrist as she shifted, the metal icy and unforgiving. Every movement sent a twinge of pain through her smashed ankle, swollen and throbbing. At least he'd removed the duct tape, she thought. She tried not to think about the likely reason: that no one would be able to hear her anyway.

Her mind betrayed her, dragging her back to the last time she'd been held like this. William Lewis's voice, smooth and menacing, whispered through her thoughts. The sensation of his grip, the sound of his mocking laugh, the terror of knowing his power—it all surged back with brutal clarity. She shook her head, desperate to banish the memories, but the echoes clung stubbornly.

From downstairs, Victor's pacing was erratic, punctuated by sudden crashes and guttural howls of rage that made her flinch each time. She couldn't make out his words—if he was even speaking in full sentences—but the raw anger in his voice was unmistakable. The randomness of it was almost more terrifying than if it had been directed at her. She didn't know what had set him off or how long it would take for his fury to turn toward her.

Her pulse raced as she strained to listen, her mind jumping to the inevitable moment when she would hear his heavy footsteps on the stairs. She imagined him bursting into the room, his eyes blazing with whatever madness consumed him, and she clenched her jaw, willing herself not to cry. If he saw her fear, it would only feed his need for control, she knew.

She glanced at the window, briefly entertaining the impossible thought of escape. Even if she could free herself from the bed, the broken ankle and the sheer drop to the frozen ground below made it unthinkable. Her best hope was that her squad would find her in time.

She forced herself to focus on them. On Elliot. He'd know something was wrong. He'd know what to do. She clung to that thought like a lifeline, but it didn't stop her hands from trembling as she heard another crash below, followed by a long, eerie silence that stretched, heavy and unnatural, wrapping around Olivia like a tightening coil. Her pulse hammered in her ears as she strained to listen, her breath catching with every faint creak of the floorboards. For a fleeting moment, she hoped that Victor might have stormed off into the night, consumed by whatever rage had gripped him.

But then she heard it.

A slow, deliberate step on the stairs. The wooden boards groaned under his weight, each sound sharp and distinct in the oppressive quiet. Olivia's body tensed, her fingers gripping the icy iron frame of the bed as if she could brace herself for whatever was coming.

Another step. Then another.

Victor wasn't in a hurry, and that terrified her more than if he'd been storming up in a rage. The deliberate pace felt like a countdown, each footfall pulling her closer to whatever twisted purpose he had in mind. The fact he hadn't raped her yet felt hopeful, like maybe that wasn't actually the endgame at all. But if not that, then what?

When he reached the landing, she could hear his breathing—deep and uneven, as though he were trying to steady himself. The faint creak of the floorboards marked his approach, and then the door swung open with a shuddering groan.

He stood silhouetted in the doorway, his lanky frame casting a shadow that stretched across the room. The dim moonlight caught the glint of something metallic in his hand—a crowbar, its surface scratched and dull. Victor's eyes, ice-blue and unnervingly steady, locked onto hers.

"You've been quiet," he said, his voice low and raspy, almost conversational, but the undercurrent of menace was unmistakable. "That's good. I like quiet."

Olivia didn't respond. She couldn't trust her voice not to betray the fear coursing through her. She focused instead on keeping her expression neutral, even as her heart felt like it might pound its way out of her chest.

Victor stepped closer, the crowbar dragging lightly against the floor as he moved.

"I bet they're looking for you," he continued, his tone mocking now. "But they won't find you. Not in time. You know that, right?"

Olivia forced herself to meet his gaze. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of looking away, even though every instinct screamed at her to.

Victor smirked, his expression a grotesque mix of satisfaction and contempt. "You're thinking about them right now, aren't you? All those people who think they're heroes. Who think they can save the day. But they can't save you."

He leaned down, close enough that she could smell the stale sweat clinging to him. "And you know why? Because they don't deserve to. They're just like you—pretending to care, pretending to be better than everyone else. But it's all a lie."

The crowbar tapped against the bed frame, a jarring metallic clang that made Olivia flinch despite herself. Victor's predatory smile widened at her reaction.

Olivia forced herself to take a slow breath, her mind racing as she fought to stay calm. Every word, every gesture of his, was fuel for her squad. They would come for her. She just had to survive long enough for them to get here.

Then, like a switch had been flipped, Victor lost it. "SAY SOMETHING!" he screamed, froth flying from his enraged lips.

–Lewis's face inches from hers in the courtroom, his voice seething and spit frothing at the corners of his mouth as he hurled his accusations–

Olivia felt herself slipping into dissociation, her mind yanking her back to the past. She clenched her eyes shut, struggling to anchor herself in the present, but it only further enraged her captor, who mistook her flashback for defiance. He gripped her chin with one hand. The crowbar clattered to the floor as he slapped her across the face with his other hand.

"I don't like talking to people who aren't listening," he rumbled.

"I'm…I'm listening," Olivia said, swallowing hard, her voice steady despite the tears that prickled in the corners of her eyes.

Victor paused as though taken aback. His head tilted, studying her like she was a puzzle he hadn't quite figured out yet. She wondered, briefly, if she might be getting through to him.

"You don't seem scared enough," he said finally. "That's a problem for me."

Her fingers gripped the bed frame, the cold metal biting into her palms.

"You've made your point," she said, keeping her tone calm. "But this isn't going to end the way you think it will. They'll find me."

Victor barked out a laugh, harsh and humourless. "Do you think I'm stupid? I've been watching. I know how this works. Cops like you always think you're invincible."

"I don't think that," Olivia said quickly, her voice softening. "I know I'm not. But I also know my squad. They're better than you think."

Victor's face twisted, his expression flickering between anger and something more vulnerable, almost wounded. He shook his head and paced to the window, looking out into the dark expanse of the property. "People like you," he muttered, almost to himself. "Always so sure you're better than the rest of us. Always judging."

"I'm not judging you," Olivia said carefully. "I just want to understand."

He turned back to her, his eyes narrowing. "Understand? There's nothing to understand. You're just like the others. Pretending to care, pretending to listen, and then turning your back the moment things get MESSY." He punctuated that last word with a vicious punch to the wall beside her head. Olivia didn't flinch, though every nerve in her body screamed at her to recoil.

"If that's what you believe," she said evenly, "then why are you talking to me now?"

Victor's lips parted as if he might answer. Then his expression hardened again. He began pacing slowly beside the bed for several minutes.

Olivia exhaled shakily. He's unraveling, she thought. How can I use this to my advantage?

He turned suddenly, as if he'd decided something in his mind. Leaning forward, he stroked the side of her face almost tenderly before gripping her blouse in his fist and yanking hard. Every button popped as her shirt opened, exposing her breasts which lolled out from behind her broken bra.

No no no no no no no no no

Panic surged through Olivia, and she struggled violently, twisting away from him and kicking with her uninjured leg. Victor stepped back, as if to appreciate her defiance, and let out a laugh. His eyes took in the scars, raised and white, that still dotted her breasts and abdomen.

"Someone's been here before," he whispered reverently.

–Do you want me to cut your clothes off, or burn them off?-

Olivia's mind plunged into darkness as the flashback seized her, the present moment slipping away like a fading memory. The pounding of her heart grew louder, drowning out the sounds of the present, until all she could hear was the twisted hiss of Lewis's voice—until the present moment crashed back in, and she gasped for air, disoriented, the pain of the present mingling with the ghosts of the past.

Suddenly Victor was hovering over her, fondling her breasts first with his hands and then with his mouth. He sucked roughly, pulling at her nipples with his teeth as she sobbed in horror and humiliation.

"Please, please don't!" she begged between sobs.

She had no way of knowing that her plea was exactly what he craved—the sound of her desperation, the evidence of her submission. It wasn't a sign of weakness to him; it was a triumph. The more she begged, the more it fed his twisted sense of control, emboldening him with each broken word that left her mouth. His confidence grew, like a predator sensing victory as the prey weakened.

He fumbled with the button on her pants, and Olivia redoubled her desperate efforts to break free, twisting and kicking with every ounce of strength she had left. But weakened by hunger, dehydration, and the pain from her injury, she was no match for him. He overpowered her easily, pulling her pants down over her hips. Desperate to avoid the thing she feared most, Olivia fumbled to cross her legs but Victor sat atop her knees, his eyes roaming her body, lingering on her scars, savouring his prize. He put one hand on her bruised chest to keep her subdued. With deliberate slowness, he slid his other hand into the waistband of her underwear, pulling them down to mid-thigh.

With no recourse, Olivia began to scream. "HELP! HEEEELLLLLP!"

Victor laughed, leaping off her with a gymnast's agility to grab his crowbar, which he then placed across her neck.

"No one can hear you out here," he said, his tone cold. "But screaming just gets annoying. It's unnecessary."

He unzipped his pants with one hand and yanked her underwear the rest of the way down with the other, settling onto the bed between her knees and shoving them apart with his own. He touched her intimately and then suddenly and violently inserted three meaty fingers. Olivia groaned weakly, hot tears streaming down her face, trickling into her ears.

Victor raped her then. His low, guttural grunts and the bedframe hitting the wall with each painful thrust were the only sounds in the room. Olivia was wracked with silent sobs as, after what seemed like an eternity, he spent himself inside her. But as he lifted the crowbar from across her throat and she took a deep, shuddering breath, she knew from the look in his eyes that he wasn't finished. She closed her eyes. She braced herself.

Searing pain ripped through her, sharp and unrelenting, as though her body itself was being split apart. Olivia's scream erupted from deep within, raw and primal, filling the space with a sound that was both a plea for mercy and a manifestation of her anguish.

When he was finally finished, the bloodied crowbar clattering to the floor, he pulled her underwear back up and closed the broken halves of her shirt with an unsettling gentleness.

Olivia, left alone, lay still for a long, long time, blood seeping slowly into the crotch of her underwear and trickling down along her inner thigh. Her mind was numb, disconnected, as though she had been hollowed out. Every part of her that had once felt strong, every piece of herself she had once known, seemed to be slipping away. She had been reduced to something less—less than the officer, less than the woman she used to be. The thought settled in her chest, heavy and unrelenting. She knew, with a cold certainty, that no matter what happened next, she would never be the same again. Something had been taken from her, something irreplaceable, and she couldn't see how she could ever get it back.