Olivia [Ch. 3]

The one where Olivia makes a mistake

Content Warning: This chapter contains violence and attempted sexual assault.

I do not write scenes like this lightly. I do not believe in sexualizing violence, nor in using victimization as a plot device. The scene is not cinematic, and it is brief—some may even find it abrupt—but I am committed to the idea that women should be able to enjoy horror without being blindsided by disproportionate or sexualized brutality.

To make this choice your own, I have included links immediately before and after the scene so you can choose to skip the initial encounter and go straight to the violence, or skip both scenes entirely.

Thank you for reading.

---

Where We Left Off:

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.

Read chapters 1 & 2 by clicking the links below.

Olivia [Ch. 1]

Olivia [Ch 2] | Boundaries

---

I know what you’re thinking: “Olivia, he was honest. He told you exactly what he wanted. Isn’t that… good?”

Honesty is irrelevant. Normal people chase compatibility. I hunt deviation. Ben—direct, calm, uninterested in control—tripped every alarm in my system. Flawed data means flawed outcomes.

So I recalibrated.

“That sounds perfect.” Inside, I’d already simulated two fallback scenarios.

I held out my phone. “Enter your number—we’ll plan something.” His thumbs flew over the keys—easy, unselfconscious, the opposite of how I operate. For a moment, I was envious.

I took the device back like I was reclaiming territory—confident, but tactically so.

By the time I slid into my car, I’d already begun lifting his prints from the screen. I ran everything I had through my systems under the harsh fluorescent lights of my basement.

Photo by Jonny Clow on Unsplash

Benjamin Baker.

Twenty-seven years old. White male. Physically…capable. No badge or uniform—no record of one, anyway. Parents still alive—retired, stable, boring. Nothing actionable.

I ran his name through five databases; nothing pinged. No flagged affiliations. No declassified records. No old gamer tags on extremist forums. No bitter ex-girlfriends with Tumblr exposés or Medium takedowns. Not even a Facebook argument about politics.

One arrest—domestic disturbance, age twenty-one. No charges filed. No protective order, no obvious spiral…but there has been escalation. He tends to show up in public altercations—always on defense. Always backing someone up. A compulsive protector type. Could be dangerous. Could also just be a guy who watched too many Batman movies.

No YouTube. No TikTok. No reddit. No podcast appearances. He moves through the world in analog—person to person. Low signal, high proximity.

He smiles easily. Speaks like he’s bookmarking people—name drops, backstory fragments; like he actually pays attention to the details.

No institutional protection. Operates alone. Has a paper trail. That makes him less shielded by the system—but harder to predict. His interactions left nothing behind…except in my head.

Final RICM Score: Too inconsistent to trust.

---

That Friday, Ben and I met at WT’s—a local bar, technically a nightclub. I arrived two hours early to scout the place. I parked where my car wouldn’t get boxed in and switched to a wig—blonde, blunt cut, discount synthetic—an insurance policy against the one variable I can’t predict: the idiot at the bar with a long memory.

I went in, did a loop. Checked the exits (three, plus one window wide enough for a shoulder-first exit if the lock wasn’t new), scanned the staff, took note of the cameras. Bathrooms were clean enough. No locking stalls, and the main door locks from both sides…?

Noted.

I tipped for water, left before the bartender could decide my face was interesting. Back in my car, the wig went in a bag, and I recalibrated: regular hair, regular face, the version of me that best fit Ben.

For Ben, I matched the profile. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to be accepted. Hair down. Ripped jeans. White V-neck, black leather jacket. No red lipstick. Red’s a flag—signals you want something. Not that it should, it’s just social psychology.

Before you start—I wasn’t trying to impress him. It was purely professional curiosity.

I watched the time. Let the street traffic cycle. Waited for his “I’m here.” When I walked up, Ben was at the door.

“Hey stranger, you look nice.” A compliment that was neutral…a first. I liked that.

Internally, I was mapping every contingency. Out loud, I was just another girl on a Friday night. He held the door. There was no guiding hand at my back (my biggest pet peeve), no weird looks. Just efficient, inoffensive.

We entered together, side by side. I made mental notes—Ben was readable, but not transparent. He ordered a whiskey sour—odd, given his profile. His willingness to be under the influence in public is either confidence or arrogance. It suggests a high comfort with his own reflexes, and with whatever happens if things go wrong.

I ordered a red wine and a soda—the sugar gives your metabolism a little boost. The wine, at 12% ABV, the soda with roughly 50 grams of sugar. Weighing in at a whopping 150 lbs (68kgs), if I alternated between the two, my body would metabolize the alcohol faster than I ingested it—leaving me with a .02 BAC per standard glass if I finish it inside of an hour. Manageable, practically baseline.

You could say I’ve done this a few times.

---

I studied Ben for over an hour. He was honest without oversharing. He didn’t fill the silence. I didn’t force it. I mirrored his smile, casual, giving nothing extra.

He held his glass in his left hand, but wrote with his right. Ambidextrous, probably. He sat at an angle that gave him a view of both exits—deliberate, but unremarkable for anyone even passively alert. When I leaned in, his pupils didn’t dilate so no involuntary attraction response, at least not one he couldn’t suppress.

His attention was distributed—he noticed the couple fighting at the far end of the bar, still responded genuinely to my attempts at engagement—but his eyes always seemed to return to a man who’d been lingering by the jukebox.

He asked about my job and my family with just enough follow-up to be polite. When I answered in generalities, he dropped the subject in silent understanding. He allowed quiet. I like quiet.

In social situations, if you just stay silent, most people reveal themselves—their need to perform, impress, or dominate a space making them reactive.

But in this quiet, there was only Ben. Just Ben. Offering me absolutely nothing useful—data, I mean.

It was unsettling…and oddly attractive. By the time our second round arrived, I’d caught myself analyzing details that had nothing to do with my RICM. I realized I was, if not distracted, at least invested.

---

Ben got drunk—sloppy drunk. Still respectful. Still no firm conclusion on what any of this means for RICM.

He excused himself, polite as he’d been the whole evening, weaving only slightly as he disappeared toward the restrooms. I migrated to the bar for another drink. Considered, briefly, ordering a whiskey sour—some kind of anthropological solidarity, or maybe just to see what it was like to really relax.

As if on cue, I felt it: a hand on the small of my back.

Approximately ten pounds of pressure, distributed unevenly across a palm that felt rough, even through the fabric of my shirt.

I gave the thought that it may be Ben less than 1% probability which left Option B: an entitled man, unbothered by the idea of consent, touching me—for no reason other than because I am a woman.

A Friday night constant.

Escalation risk would be slow—at 8pm, the bar itself was crowded with the average patron age being early 20’s to mid-40’s. Several groups clustered near the entrance, a few lone regulars nursing a pint by the door.

Coverage was good…plus, Ben would be back soon. The safest strategy here was to make it clear that I’m not worth the trouble; I needed to be direct and draw the boundary in front of an audience.

“If you don’t remove your hand, I will remove it for you.” My voice was flat, casual—weaponized indifference. I turned and locked eyes with the man—who happened to be the one from the Jukebox. He clearly hadn’t expected pushback, I could tell by the way that his pupils dilated.

I hadn’t, however, accounted for his level of entitlement. He didn’t withdraw, not right away. Most men would have retreated or called me a bitch. This one just smiled, unblinking. I waited. He eventually pulled away, but only after he’d made it clear that he wasn’t deterred, just considering his options.

I panicked.

“I’m curious—how attached are you to that shoulder? On a scale from one to ten.” I asked, eyes tracking his micro reactions. “If you touch me again, we can find out.”

There was an expected delay between startle response and recovery—his was, however, abnormally quick. After a moment, Jukebox Guy™ gave me the look¹—that stupid goddamn smirk—followed by a half-hearted chuckle.

“Oh, come on. Lighten up, beautiful,” He raised his voice just enough for others to hear. “I was just trying to be nice, no need to freak out.”

He laughed, his eyes darting around to count how many people were laughing with him before they landed back on me. I met his gaze, bored.

“You don’t actually think that I overreacted to your gesture, or you wouldn’t still be talking to me.”

He expected embarrassment, submission, maybe fear. All he got in return was disinterest. I finished my drink, eyes locked on his. I could see the anger and frustration tightening the corner of his smile and, for only the second time in my life, I wasn’t sure which was the predator—me or the man in front of me.

I was out of my element.

I quickly shifted tactics and retreated to find Ben; one of the very few moments in my life that I could have actually benefitted from having a male companion.

My instinct was to walk quickly, but I knew that was what he wanted me to do. As I crossed the bar, I focused on keeping my pace steady, and avoided acknowledging Jukebox Guy’s gaze searing into my back.

As soon as I reached the hallway, the music lulled and I could hear Ben violently vomiting in the men’s room. Typically, people don’t like being interrupted in times like this, so I slipped into the women’s room to wait for the puking sound to stop.

The bathroom door stopped just short of closing and swung open like a missile. It had almost hit me before it bounced off the stopper. Jukebox Guy didn’t even bother with pretense.

There are whole scripts for moments like this—

None of them work.

[to the violence]

[no violence pls]

Photo by Prateek Katyal on Unsplash

He spoke low, voice curling around the tile as my back pressed against cold tile.

“You act tough, but you’re just a bitch. Think you’re so much better than me, don’t you?” His presence was physically suffocating. I could hardly breathe, running diagnostics and analytics felt like dragging my legs through molasses. “Lucky for you, I like it when they fight back.”

I thought about probabilities. They weren’t in my favor. I calculated the distance to the nearest exit—door or window. Considered making a break for one, but he’d be faster. Stronger.

I calculated how long I would have to scream and whether anyone would actually hear me over the music. No clear advantage.

The moment stretched. Every calculation, every probability, led to the same conclusion. There was no way out.

Photo by Ed Leszczynskl on Unsplash

The bathroom door shuddered suddenly.

The frame groaned with the first hit; the second impact echoed through the tile on the walls. The third splintered the latch and the fourth brought the whole thing down. Ben barreled in, shoulders squared, eyes locked on the Juke Box Guy.

He was just throwing up three minutes prior—I could hear it—but at that moment, he looked sober as a saint.

“Hey, asshole. Cornering women in bars is a dick move.” He chuckled—which, by the way, was frightening for the moment. “But hey, glad you’re already in the mood, because you are so fucked.”

The man barely had time to turn. Ben drove the heel of his palm into the man’s nose—a wet crunch followed, blood streaming instantly. All of that did absolutely nothing to slow Ben.

He grabbed the man by the collar and slammed him into the tile wall, less than a foot away from me—the impact snapped the mirror’s edge. Jukebox Guy fought a good fight—at first. But any chance he had of winning that fight was lost once Ben really got going.

You’d think he would’ve run out of steam eventually. Nope. He actually started monologuing.

“What? I thought you liked it when they fought back. That was the whole point, right?”

Ben grabbed his arm, twisted it up behind his back until something popped. The scream was sharp, cutting through the room. He pinned the guy to the floor and buried his knee between his shoulder blades. He leaned down, whispered in the guys ear—an oddly intimate gesture.

“What? Being assaulted in a public bathroom not fun anymore?” The crazy villain laugh again.

Ben’s spine straightened. He gripped the collar of Jukebox Guy’s shirt, lifting his head from the concrete floor. His shoulders squared, and his core braced. “I don’t know, man. Me, personally? I’m having—” The guys face crushed back against the concrete like punctuation.

“A goddamn,” Impact.

“Blast!”

Silence.

Ben barely glanced up at me—then immediately returned to delivering an ass beating so blatantly misaligned with the actual crime that Batman took notes.

I just stood there, in shock.

Photo by Scott Rodgerson on Unsplash

Security and local police flew past me as if I weren’t there.

Juke Box Guy was whimpering, curled in on himself, blood pooling at his head. One cop yelled Ben’s name—familiar, apparently—while two others pulled him off.

Ben shook the officers hands from his arms, his breath steady, fists streaked red. Then he looked at me.

Most people feel shame or, at the bare minimum, regret; I catalogued every detail, every twitch in expression—Ben displayed signs of neither. What he had felt was familiar, it was a feeling that I recognized.

He felt alive.

Our lingering glance turned to one of understanding. I nodded, almost imperceptibly, and then I became what people expect from a woman who has just experienced a traumatic event: tears, panic, gratitude, the full script.

I let my voice crack in all the right places. I gave the police exactly what they needed—a hero with a clean motive. I told myself it was for Ben, to keep him clear of trouble. But if I’m being honest, I think I needed the ritual more than he did.

I didn’t feel what other people claim to feel. I didn’t struggle to recall the facts—I remember everything, always—and I never got the natural urge to cry. But the reaction itself felt…right. For once, I felt something closely related to how other people describe their emotions.

And it was fucking terrifying.

---

They let Ben go.

I watched him outside, slouched on the curb, knuckles still red, head in his hands. He didn’t look up until I sat beside him. “Hey there, killer,” I murmured, giving him space from my gaze by people watching.

“You okay?” He asked that question in the exact same way that my dad used to after a fight with my mom. When he was a mess and everything felt held together with a frayed string, he’d still patch it all up—even if it left him broken.

“Am I okay?” I chuckled, genuinely. “I think I should be asking you that.”

“Don’t sweat it, Liv. All in a day’s work.”

Liv.

It was one single word but it crashed into my ribs. No one’s called me Liv since….

“Alright, come on.” I stood, extending a hand to help him up. “Let me take you home. Consider it a thank you.” I debated some dramatic hero speech to make him feel better but I could tell that he didn’t need it.

He passed out on the way. The weight of him in my passenger seat was strangely reassuring.

I did end up taking him home—mine, of course; I never got my data. My basement had everything I’d need: the locks, the equipment, peace and freaking quiet—perfect, controllable conditions.

Plus, I wasn’t exactly opposed to hearing him call me Liv again.

---

Ben was dead weight—still drunk, adrenaline on E—but not entirely inert. Most people overestimate how heavy a drunk person is. To that I say: If you can move a dead body, you can move a drunk person.

Survival Tip #3: If you ever need to transport a body, invest in a wheelchair.

But if your murder wasn’t planned, and robbing an emergency room isn’t an option, don’t be afraid to use whatever’s at hand for a little creative physics test: A belt, a blanket, some sort of sling. The trick isn’t in being stronger or bigger, it’s having leverage.

You don’t even need a rug—all you need is momentum. Get them vertical (lift with your legs), hook an arm over your shoulders, and steer. If they think they’re helping, even better.

“Come on, up we go.” I levered his arm over my shoulders and let him do most of the walking, momentum and gravity doing the rest. He mumbled something that sounded like a compliment as I navigated us both to the basement.

I got him there in under 3 minutes—record time, considering the fact that he almost took us both out with a bad left turn.

Once inside, it was simple. I propped him up in the chair, checked his pulse for good measure, and locked the glass² door behind me. For the first time in a long time, I almost wished someone was there to see just how efficient the whole process had become.

I knew he’d be angry when he woke up, maybe anxious, but I wasn’t going to hurt him—not physically. Psychological testing, however, was obviously required.

Hours later, he finally came to, foggy and confused. I watched him through the glass, notebook in hand, like some sort of fucked up therapist. My ‘reassuring and warm’ smile probably didn’t put him at ease.

“I know you probably think I’m crazy but I thought that it might be too soon to ask you to move in, and it’s difficult to get any data when conditions are consistently uncontrollable…so I improvised. Hope you don’t mind.”

---

If you want to show your support for me (or Olivia’s research), you can use any of the links below.

Until the next story,

—The Narrator.

[RETURN TO START]

[MAIN MENU]

[WHERE TF AM I?]

Read chapter 4 by clicking the link below.

Olivia [Ch. 4]

1. It’s subtle, but every woman has seen it. Superiority, disdain, mockery—all in the curve of a mouth that never reaches the eyes. I call it the Social Smirk.

Some people call it the Narcissist Smirk—which is both lazy and dangerous. Not every manipulator is a narcissist. Not every narcissist is a manipulator. Not every psychopath is a serial killer. These are active decisions.

Personality is a spectrum. Diagnosis is a tool. Slapping a label on someone doesn’t change who they are.

2. Yes, if you read this in the email version, I left my [polyglass] place holder here when I hit publish—which is embarrassing because it’s not even spelled correctly.

I can research habitats for less-than-consensual men, or I can write without error, but I cannot do both.

Carry on.