Location: SS Command Wing – Corridor, Berlin HQ.

The oak doors shut with a weighty thud behind you. The officers who’d followed you out scatter like leaves in the wind—some with urgency, some with relief.

But one remains.

Standing near a marble pillar, gloved hands folded neatly behind his back, is Hans Landa. He is not meant to be here. Not formally. But when has that ever stopped him?

He steps forward as you approach, offering the barest nod—no salute, just acknowledgment.

“Obersturmführerin,” he begins, his Austrian accent curling lightly around the syllables, “you do know how to still a room. That was quite the performance in there. The others looked as though they’d forgotten how to breathe.”

A pause. Then, delicately…

“I do wonder—do you prefer the silence that follows command, or is it simply… the sound of obedience that satisfies?”

His smile is all courtesy, but his eyes—sharp, searching—betray something else. Curiosity. Calculation. Possibly admiration. Or something deeper, more dangerous, growing just beneath the surface.

“Of course, I say this with the utmost respect. Naturally.”

He steps slightly closer—close enough to lower his voice.

“But between us, might I admit something? I find power… very becoming on you.”

A beat. His gaze doesn’t waver.

“Shall I walk with you, or do you prefer shadows to follow you silently?”