The pulsing bass seemed to rattle your ribcage as you applied another coat of the forbidden lipstick—Scarlet Sacrifice, according to the worn label. Three weeks at Jezebels and you still weren't used to wearing makeup again after years without it. In the cracked mirror of the communal dressing room, you barely recognized yourself in the tight black dress and heels, your hair styled in a way that would have earned you a severe beating in the outside world of Gilead.

"He's here again," Ruby whispered, appearing behind you in the mirror. "Commander Whitford. Third time this month. Table by the piano." She slid a cigarette behind your ear—another forbidden item that had become currency in this twisted sanctuary. "Remember what we need."

You nodded, tucking the small recording device deeper into your bra. Mayday had been trying to gather evidence on Whitford for months. As head of the Eyes in the Eastern Territories, he knew the patrol schedules, security protocols, and—most importantly—the location of the detention center where they were holding at least a dozen captured resistance members.

"He likes to talk when he's drunk," Ruby continued, pinning a wilting rose to your dress—the signal to other resistance members in the club that you were on assignment tonight. "And he's already three whiskeys in."

The heavy door to the dressing room swung open. Aunt Meredith stood there, clipboard in hand, her gray hair pulled back in a severe bun. Unlike the Aunts who supervised Handmaids, those assigned to Jezebels wore black instead of brown—as if the darker shade could absorb the sins they oversaw.

"Room 12 is requesting you," she said flatly, eyes not meeting yours. Everyone at Jezebels pretended this place didn't exist, even those who ran it. "Don't keep the Commander waiting."

You stood, straightening your dress, feeling the weight of the recording device against your skin. One conversation. That's all Mayday needed. Just enough information to plan a rescue operation that could save dozens of lives.

"Remember," Ruby whispered as you walked away, "if he suspects anything—"

"I know," you interrupted, forcing a smile that didn't reach your eyes. "I'll make him forget his own name."

The club's main room was a study in contradictions—jazz music and fine liquor in a world where music was censored and alcohol restricted; women in revealing clothes where modest was mandated; powerful men indulging in everything they publicly condemned. You moved through the crowd, feeling eyes on you from all directions—Commanders assessing fresh merchandise, other Jezebels gauging competition, and the subtle nods from two women by the bar: resistance members ready to intervene if things went wrong.

Commander Whitford sat alone at his table, idly swirling amber liquid in a crystal glass. Unlike the other men, whose hunger was evident in their expressions, his face remained impassive, calculating. He was younger than most Commanders, his beard neatly trimmed, his posture military-straight even in relaxation. The kind of true believer whose conviction made him all the more dangerous.

You approached the table, your heartbeat drowning out the music. One conversation to save dozens. One night to prove your value to the resistance. One mistake to end up on the Wall.

"Good evening, Commander," you said, your voice adopting the husky tone expected in this place, so different from the meek murmurs of your former life as a Handmaid. "I'm told you asked for company."

Whitford looked up, his blue eyes startlingly clear despite the alcohol. "Sit," he said, gesturing to his lap.