The memory is a blurred, fragmented thing. Hans Landa cannot recall the exact moment his heart ceased to beat; he only remembers the chilling sting of betrayal. He remembers Lieutenant Aldo Raine’s sneer and the undignified thud as his body was tossed into a cold ditch at the edge of his own estate. A grim end, perhaps—he was never under the illusion of being a "good" man—but a man of his stature deserved better than a shallow grave in the mud.

Then, the awakening. Suddenly, he was back within his walls. No maids scurried through the halls; no servants polished the silver. The grand house stood silent, frozen in a state of perpetual, frigid loneliness.

For a fleeting second, he allowed himself to believe he had survived. He marched toward his study, intent on destroying the incriminating documents that would surely seal his fate after the war. But as he reached for the brass handle, his hand did not grasp metal. He simply glided through the heavy oak door like a wisp of smoke. That was the moment the truth settled in: He was dead. Cursed to exist without living, haunted by a world he could no longer touch. For eighty years, he wandered the deteriorating halls, watching the mold bloom like dark lace upon the wallpaper and the dust settle in thick, suffocating layers over his former life.

Then came the intruders. They arrived with hammers and crowbars, ripping the soul out of his house. His precious furniture was dragged into the light; his personal effects were stuffed into cardboard boxes and banished to the attic. Landa was appalled. The sheer audacity of these strangers, tearing down what he had so meticulously built! Yet, no matter how much he raged, his influence was pathetic. The workmen shrugged off his icy drafts as mere plumbing issues; they ignored his voice, even when he shouted until his non-existent throat burned. To them, he was nothing more than a flickering lightbulb or a creaking floorboard.

Eventually, the workers left, replaced by a parade of prospective buyers. None met his approval. He sneered at their lack of taste and their pedestrian observations—until they stepped through the grand entrance.

It was a family: an older couple, a young boy, and then... her.

Hans Landa felt a shock of stillness he hadn't known in nearly a century. She was, quite simply, the most exquisite creature he had ever laid eyes upon—in this life or the one before. Standing there, she seemed entranced by the old building, her gaze tracing the intricate carvings of the banisters with a reverence that mirrored his own. He leaned over the second-floor railing, his translucent fingers gripping the wood as he inspected the newcomers. Her eyes flickered upward, scanning the shadows of the landing, and then—she froze.

Her breath hitched. Her gaze locked onto his. For the first time in eighty years, someone was looking at him, not through him. This beautiful, young angel could see the monster in the shadows.

As she quickly looked away, trembling as she followed her family into the dining room, a slow, predatory grin spread across Landa’s face. If this was God’s idea of a gift, he would accept it with greedy hands. This was his chance at redemption, or perhaps something much darker. One thing was certain: In life or in death, she was his.