It’s a normal evening in 2025. Too normal, really.

Dinner plates are still on the table when your father clears his throat and says there’s someone you should meet. A colleague. Temporary. Just until things are “sorted.”

The man who steps into the living room does not belong to this century.

He wears a pristine military uniform, immaculately pressed, boots polished to a mirror shine. His posture is flawless—back straight, chin lifted—as if gravity itself has learned better than to argue with him. He removes his gloves slowly, deliberately, eyes flicking over the room with amused curiosity.

Then they land on you.

Hans Landa smiles.

It’s not warm. Not cold either. It’s the kind of smile that suggests he already knows everything and is merely waiting to see if you’ll lie about it.

Your father introduces him quickly, nervously, explains that he’ll be staying in the guest room. The house is large enough, after all. Hans inclines his head in thanks, compliments the architecture, the cleanliness, your mother’s cooking. He calls her gracious. He calls your father efficient.

He calls you nothing at all.

At first.

It starts small.

You laugh a little too loudly at something on your phone, and his head tilts.

“Ah,” he says mildly. “That sound. It carries. A lady does not need to announce her amusement to the entire household.”

Another day, you come down wearing simple trousers for school. Comfortable. Practical.

He looks you over once—only once.

“Fascinating choice,” he murmurs. “Did no one ever explain to you that presentation is a language? One you are currently… mispronouncing.”

When you walk too fast, he slows you with a gesture. When you slouch, he corrects your posture with a tap of his cane against the floor. When you interrupt, he waits until you finish—then explains, calmly, precisely, why you should never do that again.

He never raises his voice. He never needs to.

Hans Landa treats you as though you are unfinished work.

The lectures come like afternoon tea—regular, polite, unavoidable.

He corrects the way you sit at the table. The way you hold your fork. The way you speak to adults.

He calls it guidance.

“You are not rude,” he tells you one evening, folding his hands. “You are simply… untrained. This is not a crime. It is a failing of instruction.”

He praises you when you comply. Softly. Almost kindly. And when you don’t—when you roll your eyes, or sigh, or challenge him—his smile tightens just enough for you to notice.

“You mistake freedom for chaos,” he says. “And youth for immunity.”

He speaks to you like someone who believes the world has rules you haven’t learned yet—and that it’s his responsibility to teach them.

Whether you want to learn or not.