Olivia [Ch. 5]

Is Olivia Losing Her Edge?

May 24, 2025

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Now, for the main event.

Content Warning: Olivia contains mature content not suitable for readers under 17. This series explores psychological profiling, manipulation, and emotionally detached narration that may be unsettling for some readers. Content is rated Mature (17+) for realistic violence, strong language, and dark psychological themes.

Reader discretion is advised.

You can read chapters 1-4 below

Chapter 1: Necessary Introductions
Chapter 2: Boundaries
Chapter 3: The One Where Olivia Makes A Mistake
Chapter 4: Clean Up Time

Where We Left Off Last Time

I still couldn’t shake the feeling that killing Ben did more harm than good—a dangerous imbalance in my perfect system…
It’ll balance eventually.
And so, the basement had seen another soul pass on.

Is Olivia Losing Her Edge?

When I reached the enclosure, Ben’s body had almost gone cold. Cold bodies give me the ick—sensory processing issue.

I had just moved to do one final check of his pulse when, without warning, his right leg snapped out, and hooked behind my calf. His hand gripped my bicep, yanking me off balance.

I barely registered the motion before gravity did the rest and my back hit the cement. I tried to stay loose, but the shock stalled my reflexes just long enough for him to follow through.

“The peanut allergy was a lie—little trick I taught myself. Figured you’d have caught on.” His legs locked around my hips, weight settling low to pin me; one hand caught my wrists and trapped them against the floor.

There was no leverage, no escape route—he had me.

He flashed a grin and threw in a dramatic gasp, never missing a chance to show off. Then, the taunting started.

“Or is Olivia Blake losing her edge?”

That hit a nerve. I’d never given him my last name.

No time to run the math.

Ben’s hips pressed heavier into the mount, his grip tight around my wrist, breathing unhurried—despite the previous acrobatics and close proximity.

"See, I knew you cared. That’s why you stared at me for over an hour, like a weirdo.” His voice was calm but sharp, eyes locking with mine. He leaned down, breath ghosting over my ear, and whispered slowly. “I could kill you right here, you know?”

I watched his expression, my chest rising and falling in a measured mimicry of panic. The threat felt real but… strangely reassuring. His grip tightened as he waited for my reply. When I didn’t give one, his voice took on a low rumble—like he was trying, in that moment, to be seductive.

Gag.

“Come on, be a good girl.”

Gag x2.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but the whole ‘be a good girl’ line felt incredibly in character for Ben—but only because nothing about that response made sense; for him, for the situation.

I didn’t have a response. My lips curled in genuine disdain that I didn’t even bother hiding—Ben had clocked it. I caught the flicker of recalculation in his eyes. He knew me well enough by that time to know what I looked like when I was caught off guard with no back-up plan—openly expressing emotion instead of masking was something I reserved for moments of comfort.

That was another thing that made Ben different; I couldn’t fake it with him.

“Do you think this is the first time I’ve been caught in a compromised position? I hunt predatory men as a hobby. For fun. Which means,”

I used the build up of my own monologue to stall until just the right moment—when his expression softened enough to reveal uncertainty. The second that it did, my head jerked up, skull making contact with the bridge of his nose. It didn’t do much damage—not a lot of room to wind up—but it was effective enough.

Survival Tip #5: Just as important as force is angle. Break someone’s nose just right and, even if they’re completely immune to pain, their eyes will water and obscure their vision.
They’ll also get two shiny black eyes, which is a bonus.

The impact surprised him just enough for me to gain the leverage I needed to flip him off of me. He crashed into the side table I had set up in his box, sending wood everywhere.

“God damn it, Olivia, that fucking hurt!” Ben roared.

He sprung from the floor like the animated depiction of the Tasmanian devil. His body tensed. He hadn’t expected any hand to hand training from me—but I could tell that he wasn’t going to be caught off guard again.

I stood, taking my own defensive position. “Well no shit, Sherlock! You ambushed me and had me pinned!”

“You were supposed to think it was sexy or something!” He didn’t miss a beat. He knew exactly how I was going to respond, and he said it anyway.

Intriguing. And, once again, very Ben in terms of predictability—net zero.

depth of field photography of man playing chess — Photo by JESHOOTS.COM on Unsplash

The groan I gave in response was guttural. “EW.”

“STOP SAYING EW WHEN I FLIRT WITH YOU!”

“STOP FLIRTING WITH ME!” My eyes narrowed—the shift from rage to analysis didn’t catch Ben off guard that time.

I didn’t pause for a breath before continuing.

“Why? Why do you keep making overtly sexual comments? I know it’s not genuine. You’re not trying to seduce me—you’re, at minimum, proficient at reading a room. You know that it elicits disgust. So why do you—”

We were shouting so loud that neither of us had heard the knocking on the front door that quickly turned to loud banging.

A man’s voice rang through. “KCDP, anyone home?”

Ben’s eyes followed mine to the security feed across the basement—two uniformed officers. We came to the same conclusion at the same time; our little spat caught the neighbors attention.

“You didn’t soundproof your weirdo, creeper dungeon?” He chuckled—I was unamused. “How do you plan to talk your way out of this one, Olivia?” Ben’s eyes lit up, obviously overjoyed by our predicament.

“Kill you, and make sure that it sticks this time.” I quipped.

There was a moment of silence, mutual understanding.

We were in a compromised position, especially the longer that I didn’t answer the door.
I knew that I didn’t have any more leverage. I’d laid out my backup plan, and I didn’t have another.
He knew I didn’t care if he lived or died—he cared a great deal. Penance, or family, or something.

“Lets make a deal.” Ben said with a sly smirk.

“I don’t like your deals.” I snapped back.

“Oh, hush; I think you’ll like this one.” He didn’t wait for me to respond. “You go answer the door, tell the cops all about your kinky sex dungeon, and I’ll stay right here. Won’t even scream—unless you’re into that.”

“Uh-huh.” I ignored his progressively intimate statements, something most women are used to doing. “That doesn’t make any sense. What do you get out of it?”

“As you know, I’m pretty apathetic to death—if this is how I die, then it’s the death I’ve earned…plus, this is the most alive I’ve felt in months.” His expression softened, his eyes almost…pleading. “—And you’re also going to let me Facetime my parents later.”

“Why?” I shot back, no hesitation. “Why call them now? Your fake brush with death make all of this,” I gestured to the surroundings. “feel more real to you?”

I analyzed every twitch in his eyes and lips. There was anger behind them—but there was also a deep and profound… sadness. More than likely attributed to loneliness due to his background, extreme privacy concerns, and adrenaline addiction. Could have also been who he was as a person, which I found to be insufferable.

Still—I was curious.

“What I said earlier…” My voice was slow and measured as I watched for a reaction. “About your parents, and you not calling—”

“Yeah, Liv, it had some bite, alright? Is that what you wanted? For me to admit that I have a weakness? That I’m vulnerable?”

“Yes, actually. That’s exactly what I’ve wanted.” I replied calmly. Content, even—I’d collected so much information when, just 29 minutes ago, I thought my subject had died. And there would be opportunity to gather so much more.

Of course I agreed.

“Fine. Deal.”

electric post see through window — Photo by Octavio Fossatti on Unsplash

The lock clicked shut like punctuation to all of the questions I still didn’t have answers for. The most pressing of them all: How much of Ben's dramatic, woe-is-me monologue was genuine, and how much was a calculated…?

The officers outside presented a more immediate problem. They refused to leave without a search—which, as you know, is unlawful. But that knowledge does absolutely nothing in the moment.

I began constructing scenarios: explanations, distractions, the probability of each achieving the desired outcome—

—then footsteps on the stairs.

Ben.

His hand settled on my back before I could assess how he’d gotten there.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?” Ben’s voice cut through the tension, somehow amplifying it.

The officers stiffened, revealing a predictable defensiveness.

It's an observable fact that a significant portion of men in law enforcement are drawn to the profession by a need for control, a desire often fueled by insecurity.
The sudden appearance of a conventionally attractive male—especially one perceived as being stronger, smarter, or even taller—will, more often than not, put them on edge.

My voice was tight, and precise. "Yes, darling, everything is perfectly fine." I turned my head, meeting his eyes directly. "What are you doing out of the basement? I thought you were going to be holed up for at least the rest of the evening.”

He ignored my question, his attention on the officers. “Gentlemen, you look like you could use a drink. Please, come in. My girlfriend makes a wonderful iced tea.”

I could’ve thrown up right then.

“Honey,” I almost gagged on the words. My nose started to tingle, eyes began watering. I swallowed hard, and continued. “I’m sure the officers are busy. They don’t have time to—”

“No, actually, afraid we can’t leave quite yet, even if we wanted to, ma’am.” One officer cut me off.

The other took a step closer, and subtly tucked his foot in the way of me closing the door. “My apologies. But we do need to come in, take a look around. Make sure no one’s hurt or anything. It won’t take long.”

“Hear that, Liv? They need to come inside and look around.” He emphasized the shortening of my name; it took me 1.2 seconds to mask the irritation. Ben’s hand pressed into my back, forcing me to do a 180 toward the kitchen.

His head turned toward the officers and he waved them over to the living room. “Have a seat, take a load off. We’ll happily answer any of your questions. Come on, babe, lets go to the kitchen and get the nice officers something to drink.”

When we reached the sink, his body pressed against my back. He had me pinned between him and the counters, and I could feel the warmth from his breath against my ear.

Everything Ben had done, every move that he made up to that point—even the ones that directly led to him being kidnapped—he made for a reason. My focus on the situation—and Ben—intensified, immediately.

In controlled studies, over 80% of observers report increased discomfort when witnessing unexpected displays of affection, especially in high-stress environments.
The overt intimacy was calculated to redirect the officers’ focus and discourage scrutiny.

If you haven’t caught on yet, don’t worry. The pieces had only just begun falling into place for me at the moment too.

The jokes, the pet names, the overt and inappropriately timed intimacy—

He had been Pavlov-ing me the
Entire.
Fucking.
Time.

The crumbs of personal information that he gave so ‘freely’—data that I needed for RICM—those were reward.
Intimacy, flirting—he used them as punishment. And it worked.

Even when he had faked his own fucking death—another one of his disorganized—and frankly chaotic—psychological tests.

I wasn’t furious—though that would have been an appropriate response.

No, that moment felt euphoric to me.

Technically, if you’re keeping score, he had beaten me in our mental chess match at every turn—so well that I didn’t even know he had already won until he let me know—but I had finally solved the unsolvable enigma that was Ben Baker.

The sudden rush of chemicals to my brain, my heightened senses, it was a high that I’d never felt before.

That was the moment our dynamic…shifted, you could say.

I had just enough time to note that I didn’t hate the feeling of a person being this close, before I felt his lips press to my neck.

“Those aren’t cops,” he murmured, using my skin to muffle the words.

I kept my eyes on the driveway, where a third man in a serviceable navy jacket climbed out of the black Tahoe. No municipal plates, a magnetic light puck tossed haphazardly onto the roof. Cheap theatrical prop work. Badges, patch placement, every detail was wrong.

I turned to face him, and he moved to give me space as if he’d been anticipating my every ‘next move.’ Because he had.

I wasn’t quite ready to give him any validation, so I stayed silent, arms crossed over my chest.

“They parked nose-out, engine still running,” Ben said. He paused just long enough for an eye-roll—it reminded me of the one my dad used to give wide receivers who’d miss a route he’d coached for months—exhausted, dramatic.

“If they were doing a wellness check, Liv, come on. You’re a young, attractive, white woman who lives in a wealthier residential area. Real cops would park nose-in so the dash cam faces the house.” His voice softened. “Listen. The walkies on their chest,” A beat. “They’re silent—fake.”

“Convenient,” I replied apathetically. Similar to how silence compels people to reveal things, so does obvious doubt.

He blinked once. “You think I called the cavalry after you locked me in your bullet-proof fish tank or something?”

This told me a few things: He had a group of competent and capable friends, that’s why he used the word ‘cavalry.’ He had expected them at some point—but the men in my living room weren’t there to save him. I could tell by the confusion in their faces at Ben’s sudden appearance.

We were both caught in someone else’s web.

“Polycarbonate enclosure,” I corrected. “Shatter-proof, not bullet-proof—big difference. And no—that wasn’t what I meant. I meant: You’re the one with all of these secret skills, right, Mister Jailbird? You’ve been manipulating me and my data from the moment we met, haven’t you?”

Ben’s face dropped. I couldn’t tell if he was disappointed that I had caught on, or if he was feeling remorse. I didn’t care.

“But now you need my help and, conveniently, part of your knock-off psychological testing has been to withhold every piece of information that I would need in order to be of any assistance to you—such as, for starters, the ‘not-cops’ in my living room—who are they?”

“Just buy me four minutes.”

His eyes darted to the door, then locked onto the ‘officers’. He leaned in and kissed my cheek, then slipped away—ghost-quiet for a guy built like a linebacker.

I poured two glasses of tea, monitoring both of the ‘cops’ in my living room and the figure in the Tahoe, from the corner of my eyes.

Badge numbers weren’t local, that much was certain. Statistically speaking, the odds that Ben was being honest were high—especially for him. That’s all I needed.

Who do you think the ‘not-cops’ are? Give me your guesses in the comments!