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The family that owns nearly half of BMW helped pay for the Nazis to take power. Their grandkids are sitting on that fortune right now. HBO's Industry built a fictional version of a family like that, and you can see it on her face the second she reads the signature on the painting. Here's how real that is. On February 20, 1933, about two dozen of Germany's richest businessmen showed up at Hermann Göring's house in Berlin and agreed to bankroll the Nazi election campaign. The next day Goebbels wrote in his diary that 3 million was now available. One of the guys in that room was Günther Quandt. Quandt started out making textiles and became one of the regime's leading arms suppliers. His ex-wife Magda went on to marry Goebbels. After the war, his son Herbert bought into a nearly bankrupt BMW and saved it. Herbert's kids, Stefan Quandt and Susanne Klatten, still own close to half the company, and they're worth more than $40 billion between them. The family barely said a word about any of this until 2007, when German TV aired a documentary literally called The Silence of the Quandts, and only after that did they hire a historian to dig into their own past. Fun detail, the princess who owns the castle on the show is named Johanna, and so was the real Quandt matriarch who held a huge chunk of BMW until she died in 2015. The show's family is Austrian bankers, so there's an even closer match. Another guy at Göring's house that night was a Munich banker named August von Finck. When the Nazis took over Austria in March 1938, they arrested Louis Rothschild and seized the bank his family had run in Vienna for 118 years. By July, von Finck's bank was running it, and by 1940 it had been "Aryanized" into a new firm with von Finck's bank holding 71%. Some families didn't come clean until way later. In 2019 the Reimanns, whose holding company owned Krispy Kreme, Panera and Pret, confirmed that the two Albert Reimanns had donated to the SS before the Nazis even took power, then used Russian civilians and French prisoners of war as forced labor. Their spokesman said everyone "turned as white as the wall." Then they pledged €10 million, from a family worth an estimated €33 billion. For a normal person, that's like having $100,000 in the bank and apologizing with $30. On the show, Moritz Bauer has openly antisemitic politics, Henry flat out calls him a fascist, and Yasmin keeps pushing the merger through anyway. Honestly that's the most realistic thing in the whole episode, because in real life the deals kept closing too. Herbert Quandt was buying up BMW only 14 years after the war ended, and nobody stopped him. And the episode's title, Habseligkeiten, is a German word for the possessions closest to your soul.

A dad watched on his Ring camera as one of his sons held the other at knifepoint. He called 911 and told them exactly which son was which. Police showed up and shot the hostage five times. Then the DA's office cleared the officers by citing Newton's first law of motion. The 12-page memo is public, and honestly it's worse than the video. The hostage was Maverick Lyon, a 21-year-old lacrosse player home from college for winter break. His older brother Dakota had relapsed on drugs, grabbed a kitchen knife, and convinced himself Maverick was plotting against him with their dad. Dad was at work, saw it all on the camera, and told dispatch Dakota was the shirtless one in pajama pants. When the first cop got to the back door, he looked through the window and saw a shirtless guy and a guy in a grey shirt, which is exactly what the dad had described. He yelled "step out here" at nobody in particular. About 12 seconds later Maverick, the guy in grey, opened the door and came out fast. He was still holding a second knife Dakota had made him pick up, and he dropped it as his foot crossed the doorway. The DA's own slow-motion review says the knife was already out of his hand when the first shot went off. The memo even admits he came out because the cop told him to. The first officer fired twice while falling backward. The second fired as Maverick was hitting the ground, again while he was lying on his side facing away, and then three more times. Seven shots in about three seconds. When it was over, Dakota was standing in the doorway, still holding his knife. So how do you clear that? The memo says the clothing description might have been out of date, since people can change clothes in the five or six minutes it took police to get there. For the last four shots at a guy already on the ground, it says the officer's body had committed before his brain could catch up, and it literally compares him to an object in motion staying in motion. Maverick spent four weeks in the hospital and lost his senior season. Dakota pleaded guilty and got 77 months. And according to the lawsuit the family just filed, they'd asked the county to take Dakota into custody the day before. Here's the part that should bother everyone. Oregon law says before a cop uses deadly force, he has to consider de-escalating and give a warning if he has a reasonable chance to. The DA decided three seconds wasn't a reasonable chance, so none of that applied, and the case never went to a grand jury. By that logic, the faster a cop shoots, the more legal it gets.

A college professor asked AI to fix the page numbers in his old notes, then went to lunch. When he got back, a year of lecture notes and this semester's syllabus were gone. He got it all back, but only because of a 30-day timer hiding in apps most of us already use. The professor is William Baude, who teaches constitutional law at the University of Chicago. The AI left him a note while he was out. It said the page check had turned up one wrong citation, and that it had also accidentally deleted his syllabus and a year of notes, and they weren't restored. So the job technically got done. His files lived in Dropbox, and here's how Dropbox works. When a file disappears from the folder on your laptop, Dropbox makes it disappear from the cloud and from every other device you own a few seconds later, because keeping everything identical is the whole point of the product. It doesn't stop to ask whether you meant it. So the deletion went straight to the cloud too. Dropbox also quietly holds onto deleted files for 30 days on the free and Plus plans, and up to a year on the pricier ones. His notes were sitting in that holding area the whole time, waiting for someone to log in and click restore. The AI couldn't do that part. Read its note again. It asked whether he could restore the files from Dropbox himself, or whether it should "retry from the browser pane." Retry means it had already tried to clean up its own mess and failed. An AI can delete a file with one quick command, but getting it back out of Dropbox meant signing into Dropbox's website, and it apparently couldn't pull that off. So a constitutional law professor came back from lunch to cleanup duty. Here's what should worry you more. His computer's Trash wouldn't have helped him at all. AI agents do their work through the command line, and anything deleted that way skips the Trash completely. If his notes had been in a regular Documents folder with nothing syncing them, that apology note might be the only proof they ever existed. Google Drive and iCloud keep deleted stuff for 30 days too. A lot of people think of their synced folder as a backup and have never once clicked on the deleted files page. Go find yours before you need it. Funny enough, the most useful AI safety feature in this whole story came from a file sync company that built it long before anyone was worried about AI. It holds onto every delete for a month because it never trusted whoever hit the button, human or not.