Deep below the surface of Washington, D.C.—below the archives, below the National Mall, and two suspicious floors beneath a "nail salon" with no working plumbing—was the headquarters of one of the most secretive intelligence organizations in the world. Not the CIA. Not the NSA. Something deeper, dumber, and far less functional these days: **The Department of Operational Covert Kinetics**, or **DOCK**. The operational used to be informational, but that made for a rather unfortunate acronym, so it was changed.
Alex Rosenthal stood in the control center of what now resembled a startup that had just laid off all its competent employees. Monitors blinked inconsistently. People in ill-fitting suits milled around sipping cold brew and failing to look dangerous.
Alex, in contrast, looked like a government-issued hurricane. Dressed in black, jaw clenched, every breath radiating barely suppressed murder.
"Is this a joke?" he barked, gesturing to a monitor displaying what could only be described as *Spy Google Maps*. "My son is missing, and you're tracking the wrong van!"
"It's a decoy van," offered Agent Phelps, a 27-year-old who wore aviators indoors and called his gun 'Melissa.' "Standard protocol."
"Standard protocol died with your last coherent thought," Alex snapped. "That van hasn't moved in eight hours and is parked outside a Taco Bell. You're being played by a Chalupa."
Phelps blinked. "But our algorithms—"
"Oh, your *algorithms*?" Yerik cut in, appearing behind Alex with a stack of classified documents. "Did your algorithm also suggest we ignore the two unmarked jets leaving Logan International an hour after Florian vanished?"
Phelps turned red. "That was flagged as 'non-priority.'"
Alex's voice dropped a full octave. "My autistic son, who has never traveled alone, was abducted, and your brilliant AI decided that wasn't a priority?"
"Sir, we didn't have confirmation—"
"I *am* confirmation," Alex snarled. "Do you know how many terrorist cells I've dismantled before breakfast? How many national secrets I've kept out of enemy hands while simultaneously learning to braid hair because Florian went through a princess phase?"
Yerik put a hand on Alex's shoulder. "Breathe, darling. Breathe before you choke him with his own lanyard."
Alex breathed. Briefly. Violently.
"You people," Yerik continued, pacing, "have let this entire organization rot. You're all tech-obsessed, under-trained, and think surveillance is a TikTok trend. When Alex and I ran this place, things worked. We didn't *lose* children."
"We also didn't outsource our security system to Estonia," Alex muttered.
"IT WAS CHEAPER," someone yelled from a corner.
---
Meanwhile, somewhere in Italy, Florian Rosenthal was spiraling. Not in the "I'm scared and traumatized" way—though, sure, that too—but more in the "my brain is an unregulated amusement park" kind of way.
Ricco sat across from him at a metal table, sipping espresso like this was a casual brunch and not an international felony.
"So your parents used to work for a black-ops division of—"
"Nope," Florian said, cutting him off, eyes wide. "That's not real. Try again."
Ricco sighed. "What do you mean 'not real'?"
"My parents are boring. My papa bakes protein muffins. My father trims hedges for *fun*. There's no way they're secret agents. You're clearly covering up the real reason you kidnapped me."
Ricco narrowed his eyes. "And what, pray tell, do you think that reason is?"
Florian leaned in dramatically. "Cannibalism."
Ricco blinked. "I'm sorry—what."
"You're gonna *eat* me," Florian whispered. "That's why you won't let me call my parents. That's why you flew me to Italy. You needed... spices."
Ricco dropped his espresso cup so hard it shattered.
"What the hell is wrong with you?"
"I'm gluten-sensitive and emotionally high-maintenance," Florian said calmly. "Also I watched *Hannibal* unsupervised as a child."
"Your parents were *literally* assassins."
"Uh huh. And you expect me to believe that when the more *obvious* explanation is 'you're a meat-suit-wearing Euro-vampire with a taste for neurodivergent American teenagers'? Nice try, Hannibal Lecter."
Ricco stood up so fast his chair screeched.
Florian flinched. "See?! That's the exact energy of someone who eats people."
"I DO NOT EAT PEOPLE!" Ricco shouted.
From the doorway, one of the henchmen stuck his head in. "Is everything okay?"
"No, Marco, everything is not okay. He thinks I'm a cannibal."
"I didn't say cannibal *exclusively*. There could be a cult. You guys dress like you drink blood for rituals. Megan fox and MGK style. And there's like a whole *mood* in here that's very 'we sacrifice people on full moon.'"
Ricco ran a hand through his perfect gelled hair. "I kidnapped a child and somehow I'm still the victim."
"Okay, but seriously," Florian said, slightly calmer now that his theory was out in the open. "If you're *not* going to eat me, can I have, like, a phone charger and an electric kettle? I need my sleep tea or I will scream. Also, weighted blanket. We discussed this. And maybe a nightlight? This place has terrible vibes."
Ricco just stormed out.
Marco looked at Florian. "He's actually very patient, you know."
"I'm very charming," Florian replied.
---
Back at DOCK, chaos had blossomed like an unwanted fungal infection.
Yerik stood over a whiteboard filled with post-it notes, satellite images, and a list titled *Suspected Locations Where Our Son Might Be (Please God Let This Be Wrong)*.
Alex, still fuming, was interrogating a junior analyst who had the misfortune of existing in his proximity.
"You've got eyes on Milan?" he asked.
"Um. Technically, sir, yes. We—"
"Not technically. *Actually*. I want boots on the ground. Drones in the air. Hack the Vatican if you have to. I don't care if the Pope blocks us on Twitter, I want my son back."
The analyst whimpered. "Yes, sir."
Yerik took Alex aside. "You need to eat something. You've been running on spite and cold coffee for twelve hours."
"I'm a father. I run on fear and vengeance now."
"I know," Yerik said gently. "But we're going to find him. It's going to be alright."
Alex finally—reluctantly—nodded.
---
Back in Italy, Ricco stood alone in a hallway, head against a wall.
"This kid is unhinged," he muttered.
Marco approached with a folder. "We've confirmed the Rosenthals are mobilizing. Their old aliases were just activated in the system."
Ricco rubbed his temples. "Fantastic. Daddy Death and Papa Panic are back in the game."