February 9th
4:42pm

The light was fading fast as dusk crept into the February woods. A faint snow began to fall, soft flakes drifting through the air and settling over the barren landscape. Elliot trudged forward, the crunch of boots on frozen ground filling the silence. Hours of searching had frayed his nerves to a razor's edge.

Each false lead—the broken branch that went nowhere, the boot print that turned out to be old—gnawed at him. His throat was raw from calling Olivia's name, his chest tight with fear that he'd find her too late. Or not at all.

A sudden voice pierced the quiet. "Over here!"

The call came from one of the backup officers who'd joined the search. The man's voice wavered, nervous, almost unsure. Elliot froze for a moment, then broke into a sprint, his heart hammering. The young officer was standing stock-still, looking pale as Elliot approached. He glanced nervously at Elliot, clearly apprehensive about how he might react.

"She's—uh—she's here," the officer stammered, pointing a shaking hand.

Elliot followed the direction, and his stomach dropped. There she was. Olivia. Liv. My Liv.

She was slumped against a tree, handcuffed to the trunk. Snow dusted her dark hair and pale face, her head tilted limply to one side. Her blouse was torn, hanging open to reveal bruises blooming on her skin. Her pants were shredded and blood stained the ground beneath her. She wasn't moving.

"Liv!" Elliot's voice cracked as he ran to her side. He dropped to his knees in the snow, his hands trembling as he reached out to touch her face. Her skin was ice-cold.

"SOMEONE GET A BUS!" he roared, his voice carrying through the woods.

He barely registered the shuffle of others closing in, their boots crunching on the frozen ground as they stopped a few paces back, unsure if they should intervene. All eyes were on him, but Elliot was oblivious to their presence. His entire world had narrowed to Olivia.

Her lips were a faint blue, her skin ashen and cold to the touch. Her body hung limply, as if it had already surrendered to the unrelenting cold. Each shallow, uneven breath was a struggle, barely perceptible, and Elliot found himself unconsciously holding his own breath, willing hers to continue.

His eyes drifted downward, taking in the blood staining the snow beneath her and the torn, tattered state of her clothing. It was unmistakable, the evidence of what Larson had done to her, and the realization hit him like a physical blow. His chest constricted, his heart pounding furiously against his ribs as a wave of helpless rage and overwhelming grief surged through him.

Elliot swallowed hard, his throat tight and dry. He couldn't let himself break, not now. "Liv," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Hold on. I've got you." But even as he said it, the sheer fragility of her condition made him feel powerless, a sensation he hadn't known in years and prayed he'd never feel again.

"Cutters! We need bolt cutters!"

One of the backup officers scrambled to retrieve the tool, and Elliot's fingers brushed over Olivia's cheek, careful, reverent. "Liv, come on. Stay with me."

The cutters arrived, and the officer worked quickly to cut the cuffs. As the metal clattered to the ground, Olivia slumped forward, her weight collapsing into Elliot's arms. She whimpered softly, a faint sound that sent a sharp pang through his chest.

"It's okay, Liv. I've got you," Elliot murmured, his voice thick. He shrugged off his coat, wrapping it around her trembling frame. The fabric swallowed her, offering both warmth and modesty. He cradled her close, shielding her from the falling snow as he fought back tears.

"Let's move!" Cragen's voice rang out behind him, directing the others to clear the area and secure the scene.

But Elliot barely heard him. All he could see, all he could focus on, was Olivia.

Everything hurt.

Pain radiated through Olivia's body, sharp and relentless, but there was something worse—a bone-deep cold that seemed to seep into her very soul. She floated in and out of consciousness, her mind too foggy to latch onto anything solid.

And then, hands.

She felt them on her—large, firm hands gripping her sides, lifting her from the icy ground. The sensation pierced through her groggy haze, and panic surged like a bolt of electricity through her battered body. Pain. That's all hands brought now. Pain and humiliation, searing and unrelenting.

Her breath hitched as the primal fear overtook her, and her muscles tensed in protest—a weak, instinctive reaction that only deepened her sense of helplessness. She wanted to cry out, to push away, to claw herself free, but her body refused to respond. The effort felt monumental, her limbs leaden and uncooperative, her voice silenced by exhaustion and cold.

Terror bloomed beneath her fractured consciousness, each touch sparking fresh memories of torment. A sob built in her chest but failed to escape, and her heart thundered as her mind screamed the plea her lips couldn't form: Leave me alone. Don't touch me. Don't hurt me.

But the hands remained steady, unyielding, their grip neither cruel nor careless. That difference registered faintly, flickering in her fogged mind like a dim light in a vast darkness, but the panic remained all-consuming. All she could do was endure.

Elliot felt it the moment her body tensed beneath his hands, a subtle but unmistakable recoil that sent a fresh wave of anguish crashing through him. Her reaction was immediate and primal, her fragile frame stiffening in a futile attempt to protect itself. He froze for a second, his breath catching in his throat.

She didn't recognize him.

The realization hit like a physical blow. She didn't know it was him holding her, trying to save her. To her, he was just another threat, another set of hands ready to inflict pain. The thought made his stomach churn and his chest tighten painfully.

"Liv," he murmured softly, his voice breaking under the weight of his emotions. He kept his tone low and soothing, willing her to hear the familiarity in it, to know that she was safe now. "It's me. It's Elliot. You're safe."

But there was no sign she understood. Her breathing remained shallow and rapid, her body trembling like a wounded animal bracing for the worst. Her tension wasn't just physical—it radiated from her, an overwhelming aura of fear and despair that shattered him.

He glanced down, his eyes tracing her pale, tear-streaked face, the bruises, the cuts, the blood staining her clothes. The sight was almost too much to bear. He wanted to gather her up, shield her from everything, but all he could do was hold her steady, careful not to jostle her injuries further.

"Liv, it's okay," he whispered again, his throat tightening around the words. "I've got you. I'm not going to let anything else happen to you."

But even as he spoke, his own certainty wavered. How could he promise her safety when he hadn't been able to protect her before? The shame was suffocating, the guilt a relentless weight. He had failed her, and now she couldn't even see him as an ally. She was locked in her terror, and all he could do was hope that, in time, she'd remember who he was—that he was someone she could trust.

The voice came next. Low, rough, but familiar. Elliot.

Even in her semi-conscious state, she knew it was him. Not Victor. Elliot. The hands that had brought her pain melted into ones that offered safety. She felt the weight of his coat draped around her, the steady warmth of his chest as he held her close.

Her lips moved, but no sound came. She didn't need words, though. She was safe now. Safe in his arms. And though she could barely process what was happening, a single tear slipped down her cheek, not from pain, but from a fragile, flickering sense of relief.