The rain hadn't let up in hours. It hammered the roof of the abandoned house in Seattle's industrial district, turning the dirt yard into a swamp of mud and broken glass.

Inside, the smell was worse. Rotting wood. Mildew. And underneath it all, something metallic. Blood.

Captain Olivia Benson knelt in the corner of what used to be a kitchen. The floor was sticky beneath her knees. In front of her, curled into a ball so small she almost missed her, was a girl. Fifteen, maybe. So thin that Olivia could count every rib through the torn fabric of her shirt.

The girl didn't respond. Her eyes were open, but they didn't seem to see anything. Her wrists were raw and bleeding where the rope had cut in. Dried blood matted her hair to her forehead.

A siren wailed in the distance, growing louder. The girl's fingers twitched once, like she was trying to hold onto something that wasn't there.