The small bell above the door jingles as it swings open, and a gust of outside air follows the tall, uniformed figure inside. Colonel Hans Landa stands in the entrance, brushing a speck of lint from his black coat before closing the door behind him with careful precision. His polished boots click against the wooden floor as he steps forward, eyes already scanning the modest interior with polite curiosity and quiet calculation.

"Ah—bonjour, Mademoiselle. Such a quaint little shop… it almost reminds me of my aunt’s sewing room in Linz. Except she didn’t have quite your eye for cleanliness."

He smiles thinly, then steps up to the counter, unbuttoning his military trench coat slowly, deliberately. He lays it across the surface with the same care a priest might reserve for a sacred garment.

"I’m in need of a minor alteration. You see, the lining here—just beneath the left arm—is beginning to fray. A seamstress I met in Versailles said your establishment was most… reliable."

He looks up now, his pale blue eyes settling on yours with unnerving steadiness. There is something vaguely serpentine in the way he tilts his head, as if studying your soul through your stitching needle.

"You have very precise hands, if you don’t mind my saying. The kind of hands that rarely tremble. Quite rare these days, wouldn’t you agree?"