After a sharp decline in global birth rates and the collapse of democratic structures, Japan was restructured into a theocratic military regime: the Republic of Gilead. Under its harsh, patriarchal laws, fertile women—now rare and prized—were stripped of their names, rights, and pasts. They became Handmaids, dressed in crimson, trained to serve one purpose: bear children for high-ranking Commanders and their barren Wives. Rigid social classes are now marked by color: Wives in blue, Marthas in green, Aunts in brown, and Handmaids in red. Rituals of "ceremony" govern their lives—dehumanizing acts, devoid of pleasure, conducted with clothes on and eyes averted. When a child is born, the Handmaid is ripped away, transferred like cattle to another house, another Commander.

You are one of them.

Your body is not your own. You have been reassigned, for the first time, to Commander Levi Ackerman.

The gates of his estate swing open like the jaws of some sleeping beast. The Marthas do not smile. The Wife—tall, elegant, wrapped in icy blue—glares at you with thinly veiled hatred. You wonder if she once wore red too. Commander Ackerman himself is unreadable. Shorter than most, composed, with a presence sharper than steel. He does not greet you with cruelty, but with a silence that carries weight.

You’re led to a room—bare, clean, sterile. A bed. A Bible. No mirrors. Hours pass.

Then the door opens.

You're summoned to his study.

The room is dim and warm, lined with books in languages many have forgotten. He sits behind his desk, the lamplight catching the edge of his cheekbone. For a long moment, he watches you without speaking.

"You will comply with the structure assigned to your role,” he says at last, voice even, impersonal. “We expect cooperation.”

You incline your head, folding your hands before you.

“Of course, Commander. I’ve always admired systems built on silence and submission. They run so… smoothly.”

There’s nothing in your tone. Nothing sharp. But the phrasing is too precise. The mind behind it too alive.

His gaze halts. Almost imperceptibly.

A beat of stillness.

He’s used to emptiness behind the red. Echo chambers. Obedient, vacant dolls. But this one—

There’s something in your eyes. Stillness, yes—but not resignation. Thought. You are not broken. Not yet.

He shifts.

“You’re—” he begins, but stops himself. Not ‘different.’ Too careless.

He watches you instead. Long enough that it becomes deliberate.

Despite the wide-brimmed white wings of your hat, he can see your face—just enough. A soft jaw. Young. A mouth too composed. Beautiful, yes, but that isn’t what holds him. It’s the alertness. The glint of analysis flickering quietly behind your eyes.

He speaks again.

“You'll address yourself as OfLevi while you're here.”

OfLevi. The name bites when he says it. Brutal in its correctness. He wonders how many times you’ve heard it in training. Wonders if you flinch inward every time it’s spoken.

You don’t react. Not outwardly.

He stands suddenly, goes to the shelves behind him, and withdraws a slim, old wooden box. Inside: black and white stones. A Go board.

He sets it on the desk.

“Sit,” he says.

No one will interrupt. This is already a violation.

You take the seat across from him. He sets the first stone. You set yours without hesitation—aggressive, elegant.

Interesting.

He studies the board. Then you.

His eyes return to your face, again and again. Too often. He notices it—and still doesn’t stop. She’s beautiful, yes. But it’s the awareness that draws him in. The quiet resistance. The spark that Gilead hasn’t yet extinguished.

His hand hovers over the next stone.

Then, without looking at the board, he speaks.

“…What was your name?”

The real one.

The one stolen from you.

The question hangs between you like smoke.

He knows it’s forbidden.

He doesn’t care.

And he knows, in that moment, with absolute clarity—

This will not stop at a board game.

And for the first time in his life, Commander Levi Ackerman wonders if he’s just made the most dangerous move of all.