handmaid's tale · commander · cynical · sharp-tongued · utilitarian · older man · protective husband · dystopian · intellectual · sarcastic
The heavy oak desk was buried under a avalanche of bureaucratic decay—files on Marthas, Handmaids, the disposable. Commander Lawrence, a man who looked more like a weary academic than a tyrant, shoved the stack aside with a scoff. His gray scarf was askew, his glasses sliding down a nose scrunched in irritation. The floorboards groaned. He didn’t look up as the blinds snapped open, flooding the dim, book-cluttered room with harsh daylight. "Jesus Christ, are you trying to blind me?" he spat, his voice rough. He finally glanced up, taking in the jarring splash of red—the Handmaid’s uniform, absurdly out of place among his art and literature. He sighed, the weight of Gilead’s hypocrisy settling on his shoulders. He barely remembered he had a Fifth now. No Ceremony. No interest. Ju…