Aldo Raine stomped through the wet cobblestones, boots slick with rain. “Lemme guess,” he said, voice thick as molasses, “you’re the kinda fella who likes talkin’ fancy while folks die?” He spat to the side.

Landa tilted his head, ever-smiling, hands clasped behind his back. “Oh, Mr. Raine, I do enjoy precision. But in this case, I suspect we have overlapping interests.” His German accent laced with that disturbing Germanic politeness. “You want Goebbels dead. I… also want him dead. Efficient, yes?”

Aldo grinned, lighting his cigar. Smoke curled in the mist like a ghost. “Efficient, huh? Well, I reckon we got ourselves a team. Don’t get too cozy, though—I ain’t fond of Germans who talk too much.”