Olivia [Ch 2] | Boundaries

"No" is a full sentence.

Content Warning: This story contains fictional depictions of violence, implied suicide, and morally complex vigilante actions. It includes psychological profiling, manipulation, and emotionally detached narration that may be unsettling for some readers.

All characters, events, and scenarios are entirely fictional. Any resemblance to real individuals, living or dead, is purely coincidental. This is a work of dark fiction intended for mature audiences and does not condone or encourage real-world violence.

What We Learned In Chapter One

Olivia is a brilliant, emotionally detached woman with antisocial personality disorder.

After years of studying human behavior like a second language, Olivia has trained herself in cognitive empathy. She doesn’t feel what others feel—but she understands it. And she uses that understanding to eliminate dangerous men.

If you haven’t already read chapter 1, you can do that by clicking the link below.

Olivia [Ch. 1]

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Boundaries

Now is usually when people start asking questions. You’re surprisingly quiet. Don’t get me wrong—that isn’t a complaint. I prefer quiet. Quiet is where people reveal themselves without meaning to. But it does make me wonder what you’re waiting for…

Right. Where was I? Ah. Introductions.

My name is Olivia. If you hadn’t already guessed. I’m twenty-one. I’m a freelance researcher for authors—the invisible one behind the scenes who answers the questions they’re too embarrassed to Google:

How long a body takes to decompose in freshwater.
How much insulin it takes to trigger hypoglycemic shock.
How to bypass a hotel room lock without leaving tool marks.
Which ligatures leave the least bruising on skin.
What emotional tone patterns trigger the highest engagement on missing persons posts.
How to disable a home security system using only public utility data.
How to make a death look like an accident—

That sort of thing.

It’s a good fit. I deliver clean data, stay out of the spotlight—it’s hard to be an author and a serial killer, you understand—and I get to spend most of my waking hours neck-deep in facts. Histories. Patterns. All the beautiful, statistical truths.

My days are typically structured. Predictable. Well—they were. Until Ben.

This is not a love story. Let’s just be clear about that from the start. I don’t do romance. Not because I’m incapable of romance—which is different than feeling love—but because men are, on the whole, vile. And the rest of the ‘fish in the sea’ don’t need another fishy with a personality disorder swimming around the dating pool. It’s practical.

Ben just… did not fit cleanly into any of my systems. He was unexpected. We’ll get to that part later.

Survival Tip #2: Pay Attention to How He Handles the Word ‘No.’

It doesn’t matter what you said no to. A drink. A joke. A delay. Watch what happens next. If he can’t accept no as an answer—walk away. This is one of the best litmus tests that I can offer.

Men in power, particularly, like to disguise pressure as politeness. They reframe your resistance as miscommunication—just a misunderstanding he can “clear up.”

Let’s take Mason for example.

Mason McCowan, 40.

Local youth pastor. First earned a spot in my files when he began dating an eighteen-year-old girl who had been in his youth group.

Suspicious.

Grooming behavior often hides behind sanctioned intimacy—church roles, mentorship, “family friend” status. When the girl left town, he started seeing another—also eighteen.

He was always careful.
Just legal.
Never provably wrong.

Men like Mason don’t need to violate the law. They violate boundaries. Slowly. Systematically. And they always, always explain it away as misunderstanding.

Mason cycled. Each girl exactly eighteen—that the police were aware of. Each one found through his youth ministry or “church mentorship.” The pattern was consistent. Timed. Contained just enough to avoid suspicion. Which told me two things: he knew what he was doing, and he wasn’t planning to stop any time soon—or at all.

No online following, no private servers or radical forums—however, he was untouchable. No paper trail. No charges. Not even a formal complaint. His reputation: “gentle,” “patient,” “a god send.”

He’d performed benevolence so well the system had pre-cleared him. He could confess mid-sermon and still get a casserole dropped off the next day.

All of these women—victims, lets be clear—were young. Dependent. Former mentees. Girls who’d known him since they were children and still called him “Pastor M” even after they’d started sleeping with him. Girls with part-time jobs and no car insurance and curfews.

Easy to isolate. Easier to blame.

In contrast, Mason was doing very well. White. Male. Christian. Well-liked by the sheriff. Didn’t own a gun—none on record, at least. He never said the wrong thing. Never touched too soon. Always left enough plausible deniability to make the girl question whether anything happened at all.

Men like Mason, their special genre of victimization is pressure.

The thing about groomers, when they go unnoticed or ignored—they get comfortable. Complacent. They think they have it down to a science. They always think that they’re in control.

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He needed to think he was in control from start to finish, so I added a friend of his with a burner account—Mia, 18, still living with her parents—on Facebook. Enough for my profile to come up in his feed without sending him a request directly.

It took 7 hours for him to send me a message. I ignored it. 13 minutes later, he sent the friend request, which I accepted immediately.

We exchanged 5 messages before he told me I was “mature for my age”—double gag— and 9 messages before he offered to cook me dinner at his place.

He even offered to pick me up.

I would say I was shocked, but I wasn’t. Men rarely receive the “stranger danger” talk. The number of men who perceive women as a threat—in any capacity other than qualifications—is statistically offensive.

Photo by Samuel Angor on Unsplash

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Mason lived in a split-level ranch house, about twenty minutes outside of town. No neighbors within earshot. No security system. No second exit from the kitchen. Ideal. I arrived on foot, three minutes early. The walk was intentional. Creates the illusion of vulnerability.

Prevents a literal GPS trail from his house to mine.

He greeted me in a fitted button-up and jeans. He held the door too long, looking me over with a practiced smile—equal parts performative warmth and silent appraisal. He didn’t touch me. He wouldn’t—not yet.

“Glad you came,” he said. “You’re even prettier than your profile.”

Blush is easy to fake. You just need a rush of blood to the cheeks. A good pinch—masked as brushing your hair out of your face—can do wonders.

“Oh, thanks.” I mumbled.

His smile tilted to a grin at the briefest flash of feigned overwhelm. Predictable. He gestured for me to come in—a mistake, obviously.

The kitchen was clean. Countertop wine rack. A pair of steaks thawing on the cutting board. I complimented the space. He offered me a drink. I said ‘no, thank you.’

He poured me one anyway—Cabernet. Said it would be rude to deny the host.

That’s all I needed.

I moved behind him quietly. He didn’t hear me—he was humming. Something worship-adjacent. When he turned, I drove the kitchen knife just beneath his sternum and up into the heart. No sound. Just a gasp, like he’d stepped into cold water. Then confusion.

He collapsed. Twitching. Reaching. I watched him try to speak. I waited until the light left his eyes. Then I cleaned the handle, wiped the floor. Let the steak bleed on the counter and dropped the kitchen knife into a garbage bin 3 miles away.

He would be found by one of the deacons. Maybe a neighbor with a conscience. It wouldn’t matter. Not to me, anyway. Mason was so good at covering his own tracks that he covered mine, too.

So, repeat after me: “No” is a full sentence.

Abusers will treat it like an invitation to debate. If he needs an explanation to respect your boundary, he doesn’t respect it. He tolerates it. For now.

Photo by Hassan Rafhaan on Unsplash

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As I was saying—Ben. It was a Tuesday when we met. 8:53 p.m. The coffee shop was nearly empty, just two other patrons and a barista. Lo-fi jazz played low, the kind of soft electronic mix that sounds like water under fluorescent light. Perfect conditions. Low sensory friction. A perfect pocket of stillness tucked neatly into a shitty brick building downtown.

I was halfway through compiling a comparative breakdown of Victorian-era arsenic delivery methods. It wasn’t exactly thrilling work, but there’s comfort in that kind of specificity.

The door opened, and the soft chime of the entry bell pierced through the ambient hush just enough to make the air shift. I didn’t look up right away. I registered the presence—masculine, based on gait, weight distribution, breathing rate. No cologne. Clean shoes. Probably military or ex-law enforcement, based on the rhythm of his step.

I waited for another beat before glancing toward the counter. He was… not unattractive. Medium build, maybe five-nine. Brown hair with a sharp fade—painfully precise. His shoulders weren’t tense, but his eyes were moving–checking the corners. Reflective surfaces. The exits. He gave the dark spaces more attention than the lit ones, like someone who knows better. Not nervous. Just trained.

For a split second—.62 of 1, if you’re curious—I wondered what it would be like to be looked at that way. The way he looked into the dark, not away from it. Like he wanted to understand it.

Disgusting. Obviously.

Anyway, all of that just confirmed my hypothesis; some sort of security background. He ordered a black coffee. Two sugars. I rolled my eyes because of course he did. Then he thanked the barista–I watched his eyes move to their name tag. Specifically to the pronouns printed beneath.

And he didn’t flinch. Not a twitch, didn’t make it a grand gesture. His expression didn’t change at all when they registered. He tipped 35% on his coffee.

Black coffee with two sugars, and he tipped over a dollar.

He sat near the window—line of sight but not line of influence. Enough distance to disengage if needed, close enough to monitor entry points.

There are patterns to this kind of thing. Most women know how these encounters usually go. If a man’s interested, it shows.

Sometimes it’s immediate—he strikes up a conversation too fast, too loud. Sometimes it’s more cautious: he sits just close enough to overhear, pretending to be lost in his phone while waiting for a cue. And sometimes—rarely—he creates distance. Lets silence do the talking. Waits.

Ben was waiting—or so I thought.

He watched nothing and everything. Calm, unbothered, coffee cooling in his hand. It was too deliberate to be passive. He wasn’t disinterested. He was just…existing—but doing it well.

He didn’t fit neatly into any of my familiar typologies. There was confidence, yes, but not the fragile kind that masks volatility. His movements were restrained. His gaze was measured. He didn’t appear to be looking for control, and he wasn’t performing. Not for me. Not for anyone. Statistically, I was actually safer initiating contact with him than leaving without acknowledgment.

He exhibited caution, awareness, and a commanding presence—manifested through a stable center of gravity, vigilant eyes scanning exits, and a physique suggesting capability.

Men are peculiar, yet their behaviors often follow predictable patterns:

The presence of a male companion can significantly reduce the likelihood of a woman being targeted by other men. This phenomenon underpins common defensive behaviors—claiming to have a boyfriend or wearing a wedding ring—to deter unwanted advances. The mere suggestion of male affiliation acts as a deterrent.

However, this dynamic is double-edged. Approximately 76% of female homicide victims are killed by someone they know, often an intimate partner or family member—so, while male presence can deter external threats, it simultaneously increases the risk of internal ones.

Some men also perceive existing relationships as challenges—a mindset where conquest is fetishized, and resistance only fuels pursuit.

Given Ben’s demeanor, engaging with him posed a lower statistical risk than avoiding him. This realization was irksome. He defied classification. His behavior didn’t align with established patterns, rendering my usual predictive metrics ineffective. I wasn’t bothered by the fact that he seemed like a genuinely good guy—I was bothered that my math kept failing me.

And I had done the math.

If he was interested, he wouldn’t approach. I gave it less than a five percent chance. Which, by itself, wouldn’t have meant anything—except that every other signal contradicted the odds. He didn’t behave like a man who needed an invitation. But he also didn’t behave like one who was uninterested.

If I made the first move, I couldn’t model the outcome. The pattern was broken. The algorithm, unusable. He hadn’t skewed the data—he’d deleted the axis. I didn’t even have a projection for his RICM. And that presented a complication.

If the data doesn’t support the hypothesis, you don’t ignore it. You revise the hypothesis and retest—

—so I slid my laptop back into my bag and headed for the door—stopping just before, right past his table. I turned over my shoulder—studies indicate that the left side of the face is generally perceived as more aesthetically pleasing, likely due to its greater emotional expressiveness controlled by the brain’s right hemisphere.

“Hey, uh, I know this is totally random,” I said, raising my voice an octave and a half, adding a touch of hesitation to signal nerves—this would give the best outcome. He behaved like a man who liked control, but not taking control by force—he’d much prefer that it be given. “I was wondering if you’d like to grab drinks or something sometime.”

I chose drinks deliberately. Alcohol consumption in social settings can lower inhibitions and foster openness, facilitating more candid conversations. I just wanted to know more about him.

He looked up at me slowly, his expression unreadable at first. “Drinks sound good,” he said. Then, after a pause, “I’m not really looking to date or anything. I’d be down to go out, see if we click as friends—but just to be super up front, I have no intention of ever taking that further.”

He said it so plainly. Especially for something that shattered every calculation I’d run in the past half hour.

…what the fuck.

That was when I realized that Ben needed to be studied.

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