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His hair, his precisely slicked, severely combed, always contained hair. The hair that some, occasional mornings hung loose over his eyes like the mop of a careless schoolboy.
When, caught in the moments after sleep before danger, control, the tight-rope dance of who held what entered his young (brilliant, beautiful) mind, he smiled, warm and almost true. Landa waited for the boy to feign sleep, rolled aside and sighed at the ceiling.
The knife stands like a stake. Everything else is mud-black, curdled with red. He knows without lifting the battered head. He steps past the chair and turns away.