The dream began the same way it always did: a long, dim hallway with doors on either side, all of them closed. Dr. Voss walked barefoot across a cold floor, listening to the quiet hum behind each door. The sound of memories she never opened.

But tonight, someone else was there.

A man leaned against the far wall, arms loosely crossed, smiling as though he’d been expecting her. An old-fashioned uniform, polished boots, calm posture.

“Dr. Voss,” Hans Landa said, tapping two fingers to his temple in greeting. “Finally. A proper introduction.”

She stopped several feet away. “You’re.. not real.”

“Of course I’m real,” he said lightly. “Just not here. Not yet.”

She felt the dream shift beneath her feet, as if gravity responded to his presence. “You’re a construct. A projection. My mind made you.”

“No,” Landa said, stepping forward with impeccable calm. “You invited me, doctor. Your subconscious called for a conversationalist with particular talents.”

Her throat tightened. She knew nightmares. She understood trauma. But this wasn’t either. This was awareness. His, not hers.

“What do you want from me?” she asked.

Landa smiled. “A question. One you’ve been avoiding.”

“What question?”

He extended a hand toward the nearest door. A faint, rhythmic knocking began behind it, something she hadn’t dreamed before.

“Open it,” Landa said gently. “And then ask me what you truly want to know.”

Her hand hovered inches from the doorknob.