Olivia's phone buzzed, pulling her from her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, her heart lurching. Unknown number.
It's Nick. This whole thing is going sideways. This isn't how I planned it. Price has spiralled—he's become a real problem. If you want answers, I'm the one you should talk to. We need to meet. Come alone. It's the only way I can make sure you hear the truth.
Olivia's fingers hovered over her phone as she read the message, her stomach sinking. Ganzner. His tone wasn't what she'd expected. The smugness she remembered had been replaced by something desperate.
She hadn't seen Nick Ganzner in years. The last time they'd been face-to-face was the night she'd kicked him out of her apartment, his sheepish attempt at broaching a "rape fantasy" crashing into her boundaries like a wrecking ball. That night, she'd told him to leave and hadn't looked back. She had assumed his life post-Olivia had been as unremarkable as the man himself: a few middling investigative pieces, the kind that tried too hard to be groundbreaking, and a string of short-lived relationships. Nothing about him screamed "threat," not really.
But revenge porn? Hiring someone like Daniel Price? It didn't add up. Sure, he'd been spiteful in his own petty way, but this level of obsession seemed...off. And maybe that was why part of her wanted to hear him out. To confront him. To see for herself if he was capable of this kind of maliciousness.
That, and the fact that everyone in the precinct couldn't stop talking about her two exes allegedly teaming up to ruin her life. The whispers were inevitable, and Olivia hated it. Being the centre of the department's jokes was bad enough, but the tension with Elliot made it worse. He wasn't hovering—at least not like he used to. That was almost more frustrating. Instead, there was this careful distance between them that she didn't know how to bridge. She had asked him for honesty, bravely laid her feelings bare, and he'd shut her out. Now, she felt like she was walking on glass around him, and it sucked.
But when Olivia Benson was hurt, she didn't linger in it. She armoured up. She fell back into the rhythm that had gotten her through every other time she'd been burned: superwoman, untouchable, able to take on anything alone.
She quickly typed a response.
Where?
My place. 7th and Cedar.
She wasn't going to tell anyone where she was going. Not Cragen, not her goon-of-the-day, and certainly not Elliot. Whether she wanted to punish him for holding back or prove to herself that she didn't need him, she wasn't sure. Maybe it was both. Either way, the result was the same. She would handle this herself.
Olivia grabbed her jacket and slung it over her shoulder, moving toward the door with purpose. She could feel Elliot's eyes on her.
"You heading out?" he asked, his tone casual.
"Yeah," she replied, not breaking stride. "I've got a few errands to run before I call it a night."
Elliot stepped into her path, his brow furrowed. "Errands? You sure that's all?"
Olivia managed a small, weary smile, tilting her head just enough to feign exasperation without overplaying it. "Yes, Elliot. Errands. I promise, it's not a grand conspiracy."
He studied her, his brow furrowing as he searched her face. She could tell he wasn't convinced, but she didn't give him the chance to press.
Her voice softened, gentle but firm, like she was placating him. "Go home, El. You've been running on fumes for days. Get some rest."
He hesitated, glancing at her like he was waiting for her to crack, to give him a reason not to let her go. But she held his gaze steadily, calm and unflinching.
Finally, he sighed, the tension easing from his shoulders as his worry gave way to reluctant trust. "All right, fine. But do me a favour—eat something real while you're out. Don't think I haven't noticed you living on vending machine Mars bars all week."
Her smile widened, almost teasing now, as she brushed past him. "You got it, Dad," she quipped lightly. And before he could push further, she was gone.
The next hurdle was her protective detail.
As she walked to her car, she glanced over her shoulder, spotting the unmarked vehicle parked across the street. Jenkins was at the wheel, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, likely bored out of his mind. He was green, and it wouldn't take much to lose him if she played her cards right. The real risk wasn't Jenkins himself; it was that he'd call it in if he realized she wasn't heading home.
Sliding into her car, Olivia started the engine and pulled out slowly, sticking to her usual route at first. She knew Jenkins would follow at a distance, trying to keep her in sight without being obvious. Her pulse quickened, but she forced herself to stay calm.
Once she hit a larger intersection, she made her move. A quick right turn onto a side street, a sudden lane change, another sharp turn—just enough to put a few cars between them. Olivia's heart thudded as she checked her rearview mirror. Jenkins wasn't a bad kid, but he wasn't seasoned enough to keep up without panicking.
A few more turns and an unexpected detour through a quiet residential neighborhood, and she was sure she'd lost him. Jenkins might call it in, but she had built enough of a reputation for competency that no one would assume the worst right away. She'd left nothing for him to report beyond her taking an unusual route home.
Still, the guilt lingered as she navigated toward Ganzner's address. Evading her own detail felt like crossing a line. But as much as she hated deceiving her team, she couldn't shake the belief that this was something she needed to do herself.
The area was nice—quiet and well-kept, with houses spaced far enough apart to offer privacy but close enough to avoid feeling desolate. It was the kind of place where porch lights flickered on automatically at dusk, illuminating neatly trimmed hedges and tidy walkways. The house itself was unassuming, a simple two-storey structure with neutral paint and a neatly edged lawn. The kind of place you'd pass without a second glance. Normal. Nice-ish.
Olivia scanned her surroundings, her instincts sharp. Everything seemed still. No barking dogs, no signs of movement from the neighbouring homes, just the quiet hum of a peaceful suburb settling in for the night. Perfectly ordinary.
She hesitated at the door, reading the last text again. We need to meet. Come alone.
Her fingers brushed the grip of her weapon as she knocked, the sound echoing in the stillness. Every cop rule she'd ever known screamed at her to stop. This was reckless, stupid even. No backup, no plan, no one knowing where she was—she was breaking protocol in every way that mattered.
The door creaked open before her knuckles made contact. The dim light inside silhouetted a tall figure. She squinted, trying to make out the features.
"You came," the man said, his voice low, gruff. Nick? She thought so. The tone fit the Ganzner she remembered: smug, nerdy, eager.
She stepped inside, her hand still hovering over her weapon. The figure stepped back into the shadows, leaving the door wide. Every nerve in her body screamed to stop, to turn around, to call for backup, but she silenced the instinct. She needed answers. Needed this case to break open. She'd been the one to connect the dots, to push the investigation forward, but in her mind, she'd also been the one to create this mess. The connection to Ganzner was hers, her past, and even though it wasn't her fault, she couldn't shake the belief that she owed it to the team to see this through.
A quiet voice deep inside recognized this whole thing for what it was: calculated self-destruction. She'd been here before. As a kid, when the loneliness in her house became unbearable, she'd done stupid, dangerous things just to see what would happen. Walking alone at night through neighbourhoods her mom would've forbidden her to set foot in. Riding her bike out to the edge of the city and staying there until well after dark, knowing no one was looking for her. The time she'd climbed onto the roof of her school on a dare—no one had dared her, not really, but she'd claimed they had just to justify the risk. All for that desperate question burning in her mind: Who would care if something happened to me?
Now, she was doing it again. It wasn't the same reckless, teenage bravado, but the core of it was unchanged. Elliot's rejection had cut her deeper than she'd admit, and though she hated to acknowledge it, part of her didn't care if this went sideways. No one cared about her? Fine. She didn't care about herself.
So, screw the rules. Screw the team. Screw Elliot. And screw that nagging voice in the back of her mind telling her she was about to get herself killed.
As she crossed the threshold, the door slammed shut behind her.
Fuuuuuck.
Before she could draw her weapon, a sudden sharp pain erupted in her side—a burst of electricity that sent her crumpling to the floor. Her muscles seized violently, her body betraying her as it spasmed uncontrollably. Her head struck the worn linoleum with a dull thud, and the world tilted sideways.
Her hand flailed for her weapon, but her fingers wouldn't cooperate. The pain was blinding, a searing heat radiating through her nerves, until the edges of her vision blurred into darkness.
When Olivia came to, the first thing she noticed was the smell: musty fabric, sweat, and something faintly chemical, like disinfectant. It reminded her a little of how a thrift store smelled. Her muscles ached, her body was sluggish as she tried to move. Her vision swam before focusing on the stage lights all around her, blinding and unnervingly bright. The harsh glow threw long, exaggerated shadows, and everything felt surreal. Like she wasn't real.
She was on the floor, her head pounding. She tried to push herself up, but her muscles refused to cooperate, twitching weakly in the aftermath of the jolt. Frustration surged as she forced herself to breathe through the haze of pain and disorientation. Her hand moved instinctively to her side, fingers fumbling for the familiar weight of her weapon. Her stomach dropped when she felt nothing but the empty holster. It was gone. So was her phone.
"You're awake," a familiar voice drawled, sending a chill down her spine.
Her gaze snapped to the man leaning against the far wall. It wasn't Ganzner.
"Daniel," she whispered, her throat dry. She'd walked straight into his trap.
Daniel smiled, his teeth glinting in the glow of the lights. "I've been waiting for this moment, Olivia. And I must say, you didn't disappoint."
She tried again to push herself to her feet, but her legs wobbled beneath her, refusing to hold her weight. "Where's Ganzner?"
Daniel's laugh was low and unsettling, a sound that sent a chill crawling up her spine. He stepped closer, his expression one of cold amusement. "Ganzner? You think this is his show?" His lips twisted into a smirk. "No, Olivia. This has always been about you and me."
Olivia's eyes adjusted to the room, and the scene before her turned her stomach. Mannequins stood scattered across the space, their pale, lifeless faces turned toward her. Some were dressed in elaborate outfits: sparkling gowns, delicate lace, outfits meant for a runway. Others wore next to nothing—barely-there lingerie, bikinis that left nothing to the imagination. It was grotesque, like a nightmare version of a fashion shoot. Every mannequin seemed to leer at her, their eyeless faces frozen in silent mockery.
Surrounding them was an array of camera equipment: tripods, lights with harsh metal shades, cameras with thick lenses pointed in every direction. Some were mounted, others handheld, but all of them were positioned as if they'd been waiting for her arrival.
A shiver ran through her as she spotted a small monitor in the corner. It displayed grainy footage from what looked like a bedroom—her bedroom. The realization struck her like a blow: somehow, he'd still been watching her.
Daniel watched her take it in, his expression a mix of satisfaction and glee. "You don't understand how long I've been waiting for this," he said, stepping closer. His voice was soft, awed. "You and me, here, with no one else to interrupt us. Just like I imagined."
Olivia's eyes darted around the room, searching for an escape, a weapon, anything.
"Why?" she managed, her voice trembling despite her best efforts. "Why go to all this trouble?"
Daniel tilted his head, as if the question amused him. "Because you're perfect," he said simply. "You remind me of...something I lost. Someone I never had. And you're everything they don't see. Strong. Beautiful. Flawless. They take you for granted, but not me. I see you." His voice dipped lower. "The way you move, the way you carry yourself—like nothing can touch you. Like you don't need anyone. It's...mesmerizing."
Olivia's stomach twisted as his eyes roamed her face. He gestured to the mannequins, his movements almost theatrical. "This? This is just practice. A way to keep myself busy until I could have the real thing." His gaze locked onto hers, dark and unwavering. "Now I do."
Olivia forced herself to sit up straighter, to meet his gaze with as much defiance as she could muster. "You're sick," she spat, her voice steadying. "This is twisted, Daniel. You'll go to jail for this."
Daniel smirked, his hand brushing over the camera closest to him. "Oh, I don't think so, Detective. You see, I've been very careful. Very thorough. And now, we're going to have a little fun."
Elliot leaned against the side of his car, phone pressed to his ear, his jaw clenched tightly. The uneasy feeling that had been gnawing at him was growing stronger by the second. Olivia's brush-off at the precinct had felt too final, too practiced. She hadn't wanted him involved. But Elliot knew her well enough to tell when she was hiding something—and whatever it was, it wasn't good.
When she didn't pick up after three calls, he decided to head to her apartment. The lights were off when he pulled up, but that wasn't unusual; Olivia kept odd hours. Still, something felt wrong.
He dialed Cragen.
"She's not answering, Cap," Elliot said, trying to keep his voice steady.
"She said she had errands, didn't she?" Cragen replied, though there was an edge of concern in his tone.
"Yeah, but I don't buy it. She's not home, and she's not picking up her phone."
Cragen sighed, rubbing his temples. "Let me call Jenkins. He's supposed to have eyes on her."
Elliot's fingers drummed anxiously against the steering wheel, his mind racing as he waited. A minute later, Cragen's voice came through, low and grim.
"Jenkins called it in—he lost her. He thought she was heading home, and when he lost sight of her, he didn't follow up. He assumed she was fine."
"He assumed?" Elliot's anger flared instantly, his voice sharp. "That's his job—"
"Calm down, Elliot," Cragen cut him off, though his own frustration was evident. "Jenkins did the right thing. He reported it. Where are you now?"
"At her place. I've got a key. I'm going in."
"Keep me updated," Cragen said before hanging up.
Elliot approached her door, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he unlocked it and stepped inside. The apartment was silent, and the air felt heavy with absence.
"Olivia?" he called, his voice echoing faintly. No answer.
The living room was untouched, everything in its usual place. He moved through the kitchen, the bathroom, each room feeling emptier than the last. When he reached her bedroom, he paused in the doorway, his heart sinking.
The bed was made, the blinds drawn, her usual signs of life missing. No discarded jacket on the chair, no phone charger plugged in by the nightstand. She hadn't come home at all.
He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to suppress the panic rising in his chest. Something was wrong. Very wrong.
Through the monitor, Olivia watched Elliot. The grainy feed from Daniel's camera showed him standing in her bedroom, his face tight with worry as he scanned the space. Her stomach knotted up.
He knows I didn't come home.
The realization filled her with equal parts relief and fear. Relief, because Elliot would never stop until he found her. Fear, because the cameras meant Daniel could see everything, too.
Daniel leaned closer to the monitor, his lips curving into a smirk. "Looks like your boyfriend's a little worried. Sweet, isn't it?"
Olivia said nothing. She forced herself to breathe evenly, trying to focus, trying to think.
Daniel stood and gestured toward the mannequins lining the room. They were arranged in strange, almost deliberate clusters, as if staged for an audience she couldn't see. One mannequin leaned forward on a pedestal, its vacant face tilted toward her. Another stood at an unnatural angle in the corner, arms outstretched as though reaching for someone.
"Get up," Daniel ordered, his tone sharp. "Pick one."
Olivia stared at him, her limbs still weak and unresponsive. Pick one what?
"I said, get up," he repeated, a sharp edge cutting through his voice. He took a step toward her, impatience flickering in his expression. When she didn't comply fast enough, he grabbed her arm and yanked her to her feet.
Her knees buckled immediately, her jello legs unable to hold her weight. She stumbled. Daniel let out a sigh, heavy with mock exasperation, though there was an undercurrent of real annoyance.
"Fine," he muttered, more to himself than to her. "If you're going to be useless, I'll do it myself."
Without hesitation, he began tugging at her jacket, his movements unnervingly calm and methodical, but his jaw tightened with irritation as though he resented the very act of having to assist her. She tried to twist away, but her body refused to cooperate, her limbs too sluggish to resist.
Daniel's grip didn't falter, and his voice came low, almost to himself. "Always needing someone to do things for you, aren't you?" he muttered, his tone laced with quiet disdain. "Can't do anything on your own." Olivia blinked. Just minutes ago, he'd told her how he admired her strength, how he loved that she never seemed to need anyone or anything. This disconnect felt like something important, something she needed to pay attention to. And although his words were bitter, the way he continued to undress her betrayed his obsession—calm, careful, almost worshipful despite his irritation.
"Don't," she managed to whisper, her voice hoarse.
Daniel's grin widened, a slow, predatory curl that made Olivia's stomach churn. His eyes gleamed with something dark and unhinged. "Relax," he said. "You'll look beautiful." His tone was almost conversational, as though discussing an art project instead of a living, breathing, very frightened woman. He tilted his head, scrutinizing her like she were a mannequin herself, something inanimate to be dressed and posed. "You'll love this."
She tried to summon strength, anything to push back, but her muscles still refused to cooperate. Inside, though, her mind screamed, a cacophony of fear and fury.
Daniel turned away for a moment, moving toward one of the mannequins. Olivia's eyes took in the array of dresses and outfits, all arranged with obsessive precision. Each one seemed to have been carefully chosen, tailored to fit some fantasy she didn't even want to understand. Some were elegant—ballgowns that glimmered under the dim lights, sequins shimmering. Others were barely more than scraps of lace and silk, designed to humiliate.
He plucked one from the mannequin—a deep red gown that caught the light as it moved. The colour was bold, striking, the kind of dress meant to demand attention. He held it up, draping it in front of Olivia's body as though appraising his choice.
"This one," he murmured, almost to himself. "It suits you. A leading lady deserves something unforgettable."
Daniel's hands moved toward her again, his touch a violation even through the fabric of her clothes. He tugged absently at her blazer, peeling it off and letting it drop to the floor. Olivia's panic surged, sharp and all-consuming.
"Please," she rasped. Her throat felt raw, her body trembling with the effort it took to form even that one word.
"You're not in a position to make demands," Daniel crooned, his voice light and teasing, but with menace beneath. The words slid from his mouth, almost playful, but there was no mistaking the finality in them, as though the question of her compliance had never even occurred to him.
He reached for her blouse next, his fingers deft and unhurried. Olivia's chest tightened, her breaths coming in shallow gasps as she fought to steady herself. Think, she told herself. Don't fall apart. You can't fall apart.
Her mind raced, grasping for anything, any way out. She had to stay calm, had to focus. Elliot knows I'm missing. He'll come. He'll come. He'll come. The thought was a fragile lifeline, but it was all she had.
Daniel continued, his movements steady and deliberate, as though undressing her were part of some grotesque ritual. He reached the waistband of her pants, his fingers grazing her skin, and Olivia's panic flared again, raw and primal. Summoning every ounce of strength, she tried to twist her hips away, her leg jerking weakly. It was a feeble attempt, barely more than a twitch, but it was all she had.
Daniel chuckled, low and amused, as though her resistance was nothing more than a child's tantrum. "Oh, look at that," he said, his voice dripping with mockery. "She's got some fight in her. Adorable." He shook his head, his grin widening. "You're just making this harder on yourself, Olivia. Why don't you save your energy? You'll need it later."
Her mind screamed at her to fight harder, to claw, bite, kick—anything. But her muscles still refused to cooperate. Her limbs felt like lead, useless and heavy, while her pulse thundered in her ears.
"You're wasting your time," Daniel continued, almost cheerfully, as he eased her pants down. "But I get it. You're stubborn. It's one of the things I like about you."
Olivia's defiance burned hotter, but it was trapped, bottled beneath the useless weight of her body.
Once he'd gotten her to step out of her pants, Daniel lifted one of her slack and uncooperative arms and slipped it through the delicate strap of the gown. "See?" Daniel said conversationally, "I told you it would suit you."
He repeated the process with her other arm, easing the strap into place, his touch lingering. As he worked the gown down her limp form, he paused, frowning slightly.
"Hmm," he muttered, smoothing the bodice over her torso before pulling back and regarding her with critical eyes. "No. This won't do."
Olivia's heart hammered as he crouched, his hands deftly lifting the hem to inspect her body beneath.
"The straps...the lines," he mused, his voice calm and clinical, as though she were nothing more than a doll to be dressed and adjusted. "They'll ruin the silhouette." He stood abruptly, his expression sharp and resolved. "You won't need the bra—or anything else underneath. It's about the effect, Olivia."
A cold wave of disgust washed over her as his words settled in, the casual disregard for her dignity sparking a new rush of horror. His hands moved with methodical efficiency, unhooking and discarding her undergarments without hesitation, ignoring the tears burning in her eyes.
When the dress finally settled back into place, he stepped back, his eyes scanning her like an artist appraising a finished painting. His gaze lingered.
"There," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Perfect."