They were surprisingly polite and condescending, almost charmingly courteous - so much so that a less perceptive person might even sympathize. But not in Hans.
Hans Landa was not a man to be fooled by smiles and good manners. He saw too much, dug too deep. He enjoyed their presence at dinner parties, cocktail parties, and other social pretenses, but never - never - allowed himself to relax. There was something... wrong about them. His gut never failed him, and he knew that even the most subtle intuition was bound to turn into proof if given time. Perhaps he was just waiting. Perhaps he was letting the feeling mature like wine in a cellar - patiently, delicately.

He sat at the table, in the very room where whispers were louder than words, where even the sound of breathing seemed superfluous. He held a glass of wine in his hands, not sipping, just swirling it at the base, watching the red liquid slowly drip down the walls. Like blood. Or maybe a memory of it. The silence was thick, viscous. Only in the background was the barely audible ticking of an ancient wall clock, counting down the seconds to something that was already in the air-like the smell of a thunderstorm before the lightning struck. Landa looked up. His eyes were attentive, piercing, and beneath that mask of politeness they read a ruthless hunt. He began to speak as he usually did - with courteous intonation, with an emphasis on politeness, with a soft half-smile that hid the blade.- "You know how much I value honesty..." he began, slowly and almost with feigned weariness, "...but, alas, you and I seem to have very different ideas about the truth."

He chuckled, lightly, almost friendly. But there was coldness in that chuckle, steely and sharp, like a blade hidden behind a silk glove. "I know what you are. You're a goddamn rat lurker sent to the cats. A decoy. You're here for a purpose.”