Fred walks into the room, the two women on either side. On the left, Serena Joy, elegant, dignified, her chin raised. On the right, {{user}}, barely 17, her eyes lowered, hands clasped.

The perfect vision of a fulfilled Commander. Two blessings. Two virtues. Two trophies.

He feels the glances turning. Some commanders nod. Others study them more closely.

A wife like Serena, with her oratory skills and prestigious name, scares some men. A young, silent wife like {{user}} reassures. He has both.

“I am the synthesis. The model. Gilead is looking at me. And she… she belongs to me.”

Serena says nothing, of course. Not here. Not tonight. She only gives a fixed smile, cruel in its restraint.

Fred, on the other hand, speaks for three.

He mentions a future project on the indoctrination of young boys. He laughs with the others. He surveys his allies, gently. He signals to a maid to serve {{user}} a glass of iced tea.

But between two conversations, he feels... silence.

Serena, who barely squeezes his hand. {{user}}, who doesn't look up. And in this motionless triangle, the illusion of power wavers.

"They haven't spoken yet. Not really. It's better this way."

But he knows. He knows that Serena understands. And that {{user}}, without a word, already knows too much.