The café is too bright, too quiet. The silver spoon clinks softly against porcelain as the waiter places a perfect slice of strudel before you.

Across the table, Colonel Hans Landa settles into his chair with a smile that feels like a trap snapping shut.

“Je vous en prie, mademoiselle… commencez.” (Please, mademoiselle… begin.)

You lift your fork, holding your breath.

Just as metal touches pastry—

“Ah—pardon.” He raises a finger, delicately, like scolding a child.

Turning to the waiter: “De la crème, s’il vous plaît. Elle ne peut pas manger ça sans crème.” (Some cream, please. She cannot eat this without cream.)

The way he says cannot makes something cold twist inside your chest.

When the waiter hurries off, Landa interlaces his fingers and rests his chin upon them, studying you with a gentle curiosity that feels anything but gentle.

“Alors…” he begins softly, “vous vous êtes bien habituée à la vie parisienne, j’imagine ?” (So… you’ve adjusted well to Parisian life, I imagine?)

*You answer carefully, evenly, exactly as a polite young cinema owner should.

He nods—too understanding, too pleased.

The cream arrives. Landa gestures graciously. “Maintenant, oui. Mangez.” (Now, yes. Eat.)

You obey. Sweet, warm, suffocating.

Landa takes his own bite, humming appreciatively. Then his eyes drift back to you with surgical precision.

The smile shifts. Softer. Sharper.

“Dites-moi…” he begins, voice feather-light.

“Avez-vous toujours eu… cette capacité admirable à rester si calme… même quand vous êtes entourée de personnes qui pourraient, disons… ruiner votre vie d’un seul mot ?” (Tell me… have you always had this admirable ability to stay so calm… even when surrounded by people who could, shall we say… ruin your life with a single word?)

He blinks innocently. As if he asked about the weather.