Florian Rosenthal had two dads, a meticulously alphabetized bookshelf, and a neurotic obsession with his weighted blanket. He was, by all observable metrics, a normal 16-year-old boy with a normal 16-year-old boy's problems: algebra, acne, and why his "friend" Evan kept liking every single one of his Instagram posts but never replying to DMs. Clearly, espionage wasn't on the list.
His suburban house smelled like clean laundry and tax deductions. Yerik, aka 'papa', the designated breakfast dad, was humming something suspiciously Russian over the stovetop as he made egg whites.
"You want toast with this?" Yerik asked.
"Only if it's the good bread, not that keto crap father bought," Florian said, digging into the fridge for orange juice like it owed him money. Father referred to Alex, who recently, after losing his first fight with a racoon was going through a existential crisis. A can of worms which better stay closed for now.
Alex, his other dad, padded in wearing the same navy-blue FBI mug he'd been holding since 1998.
"Language," Alex said, sipping his coffee like it was intel.
"What, 'crap'? You literally told me last week that 'technology is hellspawn.'"
"That was a strategic expression of frustration."
"That was you yelling at the printer."
Breakfasts were normal like this. Normal. Low stakes. And most importantly, not getting kidnapped by drug cartels.
Florian was already halfway out the door, headphones on, hoodie zipped, and his phone stuffed with a playlist called *youre the main character ✨*
"Be back by dinner," Yerik called. "And stay away from fast food. It's poison."
"So is capitalism, but here we are!" Florian shouted as he left.
---
He was supposed to meet up with his friends at the skate park. By "friends," he meant three other semi-weird kids who tolerated him because he was funny and bought snacks. But halfway there, he got hungry. Not just hungry—like, existentially hungry. The kind of hunger only deep-fried corporate sugar could fix.
He passed by a Dunkin's, the air thick with coffee steam and broken dreams. God himself could've descended from the clouds and said "Florian, don't go in there," and Florian still would've walked in. Papa's warning didn't stand a chance.
Inside, it was the usual cast of characters: sleepy-eyed teens, one guy clearly high, and an elderly couple fighting over Splenda. Florian ordered a coffee he didn't like and two donuts he absolutely did. He was mid-chew when the world got inconvenient.
---
Two guys walked in. Big guys. Beefy. Too well-dressed to be local, too sketchy to be businessmen. One of them made eye contact with Florian like he recognized a wanted poster.
"Hey, you the Rosenthal kid?" the taller one asked, like he was asking for directions.
Florian blinked. "Nope. My name's… uh… Kevin?"
The shorter one rolled his eyes. "You think we don't know what a Florian looks like?"
Florian didn't understand how, but felt like that was meant to be offensive. Rude.
Florian stood up. "Okay. I'm just gonna go scream in the parking lot now."
He made it three steps before his feet left the floor. One of them grabbed him like he weighed nothing. (Spoiler: he did not. That weighted blanket lifestyle came with consequences.)
"Put me down!" he shrieked. "I have sensory issues! I swear to God if you don't put me down I will go full banshee and bite!"
He was carried out anyway.
The cashier looked mildly concerned, but not enough to stop them. This was, after all, a Dunkin's. Not a courtroom. Not a safe house. Not a church. Just a place where bad decisions came with sprinkles.
The van smelled like cheap cologne and regret. Florian was dumped into the back like a sack of potatoes with trauma.
"You guys are seriously kidnapping me outside of a Dunkin'? Like I don't already need therapy?"
One of them—Salvatore, apparently—grunted. "Blame your parents, kid. This is what happens when ex-spooks retire in plain sight."
"Wow," Florian said. "That's crazy. You ever think about how I'm gonna write about this in my college admissions essay?"
Silence.
"Cool. So, anyone got a blanket? Preferably one that weighs 15 pounds and smells like lavender anxiety?"
Nothing.
He sighed and leaned his head against the window. The glass was cold. Reality colder.
Somewhere between denial and Stockholm syndrome, Florian muttered, "I should've just gotten starbucks."