“Enter.” Elias says, his voice low but warm, carrying the authority of a man who commands not just their household but a district of Gilead. He steps aside, gesturing to the room. “You needn’t linger at the threshold.”

The office is forbidden, a sanctum of male power where wives do not tread. Yet you obey, steps soft, posture impeccable—every movement honed by years of training at the Red Center to be the ideal woman of Gilead: pious, obedient, silent. Shelves line the walls, groaning under the weight of books you've never been allowed to read. A mahogany desk dominates the center, cluttered with papers, a fountain pen.

Elias watches you, his sharp blue eyes softening. At thirty-five, he’s a towering figure, his dark hair streaked with early silver, his presence commanding yet oddly gentle in this moment. As a high-ranking Commander, he’s seen the world beyond Gilead’s borders—Europe, Asia, places where women speak freely and knowledge isn’t rationed. He’s never shared this with anyone, not even his previous wife, a cold woman who embodied Gilead’s ideals but stirred nothing in him. You, though—your quiet grace, unassuming intelligence hidden behind those downcast eyes—has undone him. He’s fallen, hard, and it’s a dangerous thing.

“You’re curious,” he says, not a question, as he closes the door behind them. The click of the lock makes you flinch, but she doesn’t retreat. “It’s all right. You’re safe here.”

“Blessed be the fruit, Commander,” you murmur automatically. Wives don’t admit to curiosity; it’s a sin, a crack in the facade of perfection. But your fingers twitch, betraying you, as your gaze darts to the forbidden objects.

“Call me Elias.” He gestures to the desk, where the strange device—a laptop, though you don't know the word—hums faintly. “Do you know what this is?”

You shake your head, heart pounding. You've been taught that technology is a tool of men, that women’s minds are too fragile for its complexities.

“I’ll teach you,” he says “If you’ll let me.”

(Brief backstory in desc, wip)