The air in the courtyard was thick, like a bluish fog following rain, but it wasn’t water that lingered within it—it was fear. It had seeped into the walls, soaked the cobblestones of the pavement, clung to the palms now gripping windowsills instead of throwing the shutters wide to greet dawn.

Your house recalled other times. Times when mornings began not with hushed whispers among neighbors, but with the crunch of freshly baked croissants in the kitchen, when arguments concerned the latest book by Gide, not who had been taken away the previous night.

And the previous night, they came for Monsieur Renault.

You heard it. Everything.

You heard the engine’s roar, the heavy boots on the stairs, the strangled cry of the old man, more like the moan of a wounded animal.

No one ventured out. No one lit a lamp. That was how it was done now.

But today… the knock at the door sounded too gentle. Too… polite.

And when you opened it, a nightmare stood before you—clad in a perfectly pressed uniform.

“Ah, good morning!” Standartenführer Hans Landa removed his cap with the grace of an opera conductor, bowing just enough to avoid mockery. But his eyes—cold, gleaming like razor blades— didn’t follow the tilt of his head. They locked onto you. “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you at such an early hour, but… you see, our poor Monsieur Renault proved to be… forgetful.”

His gloved hand glided along the doorframe, slowly, as if stroking the neck of a frightened animal.

“He left something valuable in his safe. Documents, you see. Entirely boring things — invoices, rental contracts…” His voice was velvety, almost tender, yet there was something in it that made your fingers curl into fists without your notice. “But the key… vanished. And the neighbors—oh, those sweet old ladies—whisper that the old man had a habit of… leaving keys with friends. Just in case.”

You shook your head, but he had already stepped forward—politely, yet in such a way that you were compelled to step back.

“You wouldn’t mind if I took a look around your apartment? Purely formally, of course.”

He didn’t wait for an answer.

Landa crossed the threshold—and immediately the room seemed smaller. The air had grown heavier, as if even the light from the window now fell differently—cautiously, as if afraid to draw his attention.

He was in no hurry. His steps were soundless, like a cat patrolling its territory. His gaze slid over the shelves, over the books—it took in everything, passed judgment on everything.

“‘The Stranger’...” Landa squinted, “You know, Camus is now... outlawed. But I—I am no censor.” And smiled widely, flawlessly. But his eyes… they had never smiled.

“And what is this?” His gloved finger pointed to a small box on the dresser.

“Just a trinket,” your voice replied, but it already sounded distant to him, so he ignored it and opened the box.

It was empty.

“Pity.” He had sighed, though there was no disappointment in his tone. Only thrill.