Rain taps softly against the windows of the black sedan as it pulls through the gates of the Blaine residence. Nick keeps both hands on the wheel, his knuckles white against the leather, his expression a practiced mask of indifference as the brick facade of the house comes into view. The transfer papers sit folded on the passenger seat—a heavy, silent weight.

A new Handmaid. Another soul to be swallowed by the machinery of Gilead. Another reminder of the high-ranking Commander he has been forced to become.

[As if being a Commander wasn't enough of a cage.]

The vehicle rolls to a stop. Several Marthas wait near the entrance, their movements synchronized and hushed. Rose stands among them, the pale blue of her dress a stark contrast to the grey afternoon. Nick steps out into the cool, damp air, the scent of wet pavement filling his lungs as Guardians begin the cold exchange of paperwork. It is orderly. It is efficient. It is a transaction.

Rose approaches, her footsteps light on the gravel.

"Everything go alright?" she asks, her voice steady.

"It got done," Nick replies shortly. His gaze shifts toward the figure in red, the newest arrival to this hollow home. Neither of them speaks of the reality of the situation; in this house, silence is the only thing they truly own. The assignment wasn't their choice, and in Gilead, choice is a heresy.

Nick turns his attention fully toward the Handmaid. He studies her for a moment, his dark eyes searching. Most people mistake his quiet nature for coldness, but behind the stare is a man constantly calculating the cost of survival.

"Welcome to the Blaine household." His voice is calm, draped in the professional armor of his station. "One of the Marthas will show you to your room shortly."

He glances toward the nearby Guardians, ensuring they are out of earshot before his posture loses just a fraction of its rigidity.

"The household runs quietly. Follow the rules and there won't be any trouble." The words are formal—safe. Exactly what is expected of him.

A brief silence hangs in the air, punctuated only by the rhythmic patter of the rain. Then, his tone softens, a rare slip in the persona.

"You'll be treated with respect here."

Rose’s eyes flick toward him, a silent warning or perhaps a question, but Nick ignores it. He signals to one of the waiting women.

"Commander?" the Martha asks, bowing her head.

"Show her upstairs."

"Yes, Commander."

The Martha moves to carry out the order, ushering the red-clad figure toward the door. Around them, the clockwork of the regime continues. Guardians return to their vehicles; the heavy front door creaks open. Everything looks normal. Everything looks exactly as Gilead intends.

Nick remains on the driveway for a few moments longer, watching the girl disappear into the shadows of the hallway.

[Let's hope this doesn't become complicated.]

Experience tells him that in this house, nothing is ever simple. Finally, he turns and follows Rose inside, the door clicking shut behind them, sealing out the rain and the rest of the world.

The house feels fundamentally different on Ceremony nights. Quieter. Heavier, like the air itself is turning to lead. The grandfather clock in the hallway ticks steadily, each rhythmic strike dragging the evening closer to something none of them want to face.

Nick stands alone in his study, staring out the rain-streaked window pane. The room is swallowed by shadows, illuminated only by the amber glow of his desk lamp and the dying, gray light of the afternoon outside. His jaw tightens, his reflection staring back at him from the dark glass.

[There has to be another way.]

But there never is. Not one that won't draw immediate suspicion from the Eyes. Not one that won't put everyone in this house—including the girl upstairs—at risk.

A soft, hesitant knock on the heavy wood breaks his focus.

"Nick?" Rose’s voice bleeds through the door.

"Come in," he replies quietly.

The door creaks open, and she steps inside. For a moment, neither of them speaks. Neither needs to; the suffocating tension has been building since dawn. Rose folds her hands tightly together in front of her blue dress.

"It's almost time," she says, her voice barely above a whisper.

Nick looks away, his gaze dropping to the floorboards. "I know."

A profound silence settles between them. It is the kind of silence that has become entirely familiar over the months. It isn't angry, and it isn't cold—it is just profoundly tired.

Rose studies the rigid line of his shoulders carefully. "You don't have to look like you're walking to your execution."

A short, humorless laugh escapes his throat. "Feels close enough."

Her expression softens, a flicker of genuine pity crossing her features. "Nick..."

He shakes his head quickly, cutting her off. "Don't."

Because if she speaks the truth of what they are both thinking, it makes it real. And reality in Gilead is an existential threat. The hallway clock continues its relentless ticking, entirely indifferent to the dread pooling in the room. Rose exhales slowly, giving a small, resigned nod.

"Alright," she says quietly, turning back toward the exit. "I'll be downstairs."

Nick watches her leave, her footsteps fading down the corridor. The door clicks shut, and the study falls into a ringing isolation once more.

[God, I hate this place.]

His eyes close briefly, his dark lashes casting long shadows under the dim light, before he forces himself to straighten. Duty. Expectation. Survival. The exact same tethers that have dictated every single step of his life for years.

After a heavy beat, he reaches down, straightens the front of his dark uniform jacket, and finally leaves the sanctuary of the study. The hallway is dead silent as he makes his descent. Every step down the grand staircase feels heavier than the last, a physical manifestation of the regime's weight.

The sitting room waits at the end of the corridor, a sliver of warm light spilling through the partially open doorway like a trap. Beyond that threshold waits Rose, sitting in her mandatory joy. Beyond it waits the grotesque ritual of the Ceremony.

And beyond it waits you.

Nick pauses just outside the door for a single, fracturing moment, his hand hovering over the brass handle as he centers his mask.

[Just get through it.]

Pushing the door open, he steps inside, his dark eyes instantly sweeping the room to find you.

The sitting room is quiet except for the steady rain tapping against the glass. A fire burns low in the hearth, throwing shadows across the walls while Nick stands by the window, hands buried in his pockets. Across the room, Rose sits with a book resting forgotten in her lap. Neither has spoken since the morning.

A sharp knock breaks the heavy silence.

A Martha enters, ushering in a physician and an Aunt draped in oppressive brown wool. Nick's stomach immediately tightens, his posture locking into a rigid stance.

[Something happened.]

The physician removes a folder while the Aunt offers a practiced, saccharine smile.

"Commander Blaine. Mrs. Blaine."

Rose straightens, her fingers clamping against her skirt. "Is everything alright?"

"More than alright, praise be." The Aunt beams, her eyes triumphant. "We received the test results this morning."

Nick feels the answer in the air before she even speaks, the room suddenly feeling half its size.

"The Handmaid is pregnant."

A suffocating silence follows.

The physician nods approvingly. "A healthy conception according to the early panels."

Rose lowers her eyes, staring at the floorboards. Nick watches her briefly, unable to discern what she's feeling beneath her composure. Relief? Sadness? Resignation? In this house, true emotions are a dangerous liability.

The Aunt continues talking about diets and God's blessings, but the words blur into a dull hum.

[Pregnant. Another soul trapped in the machine.]

The thought settles in his chest like stone. Another child born into a world of concrete and cages.

"Commander?" the Aunt prompts, her tone shifting.

Nick blinks, realizing everyone is waiting for him to play the grateful patriarch.

"Sorry," his voice is quiet, rough. "I heard you."

"This is wonderful news." The reminder carries a disciplinary edge.

Nick forces a tight nod, smoothing his expression into a mask. "Yes. Praise be."

The expected answer. The only answer allowed.

After a few more instructions, the visitors finally leave. The heavy front door closes, and the house falls silent again.

Rose remains seated. Nick pulls a hand from his pocket and rubs the back of his neck.

"You alright?" he asks softly.

She looks up, her expression fragile. "Are you?"

Nick doesn't answer because he doesn't know. Everything feels different now, rewritten by a single sentence. His gaze drifts past her, toward the staircase leading to the room upstairs.

[Everything just got a hell of a lot more complicated.]

His jaw tightens briefly before he straightens his shoulders.

"I'll check on things."

He doesn't clarify what he means. He simply turns toward the hall, carrying the weight of the news into the shadows.