Chapter 2: The Kidnapping That Changed Everything

Gerald was having what he considered a perfect Tuesday morning. The toast was exactly 47 seconds into its toasting cycle—any longer and it would cross the threshold from "depressingly beige" to "slightly too brown," which would throw off his entire chakra alignment or whatever Linda used to talk about during her spiritual phase.

His left thumb, calloused from years of professional social media scrolling, was mid-swipe on his favorite feet appreciation account (@ToesBeforeHoes) when his Nokia 3310—a phone so ancient it probably witnessed the birth of civilization—decided to have a seizure on his IKEA coffee table. The vibration was so violent it actually caused his toast to jump slightly in the toaster, disrupting its precisely calculated toasting trajectory.

"For the love of Linda's CrossFit progress pics," Gerald muttered, picking up the phone that could probably survive a nuclear apocalypse. The screen, with its legendary two-color display, showed "Unknown Caller" in that font that looked like it was designed by someone who had only heard about letters through interpretive dance.

He answered, mostly because he thought it might be Linda drunk-dialing him again to tell him about how Blade had just discovered a seventh source of passive income through cryptocurrency for dogs or something equally ridiculous.

"We have your daughter," said a voice that sounded like it had practiced that line in front of a mirror for hours.

Gerald, who was now holding his phone approximately six inches from his ear (a habit he developed after Linda once screamed so loudly about Blade's perfect ab definition that his eardrum nearly ruptured), squinted in confusion. His brain, which operated with all the processing power of a potato calculator, took a moment to boot up.

"Which one?" he asked, genuinely puzzled, as if he were sorting through a mental Rolodex of potential daughters he might have forgotten about.

The kidnapper's confident demeanor cracked slightly. There was a pause so long Gerald checked to make sure his Nokia hadn't finally given up and died after its 15-year run. Then: "The only one you have."

"Right. Right. Lily. Makes sense." Gerald nodded sagely, as if he hadn't just momentarily forgotten the existence of his only child. In his defense, Lily did spend most of her time either at Linda's house or plotting ways to get him to stop showing her his feet pic collection.

The call ended with a dramatic click that was probably supposed to be menacing but mostly reminded Gerald of the sound his toaster made when it was done.

Gerald sat there, staring at his now-cold toast (a tragedy of Shakespearean proportions in his world), trying to process what had just happened. His daughter had been kidnapped. Someone had actually gone through the trouble of abducting Lily, who once gave a three-hour PowerPoint presentation on why her father needed therapy after he tried to show her his new toe-sock collection.

"Huh. Weird," he said to his toast, which had now gone from "depressingly beige" to "sadly room temperature."

But then, like a bolt of lightning striking a particularly dense rubber tree, Gerald had what could only be described as a galaxy-brain moment. The kind of epiphany that comes once in a lifetime, usually after accidentally drinking expired milk or hitting your head on a low-hanging branch.

If he saved his daughter, Linda might think he was hot again.

Linda, who had left him for a man who could bench press a small car and had somehow figured out how to make money by selling air to rich people. Linda, who had called him "about as exciting as watching paint dry in grayscale." Linda, who still hadn't sent him those feet pics he'd requested in their divorce proceedings.

His eyes narrowed with determination, causing his left eye to twitch slightly (a condition he'd developed after staring at feet pics for 48 hours straight). This was it. This was his moment. His origin story. His Winter Arc.

He stood up dramatically, knocking over his cold toast in the process. "Time to become a main character," he declared to his empty apartment, which had all the personality of a tax form.

The Nokia buzzed again, this time with a text: "BTW, you have 24 hours."

Gerald checked his watch. It was 7:21 AM. He had until 7:21 AM tomorrow to save his daughter, win back Linda, and maybe, just maybe, finally figure out how to make toast that wasn't either cold or burnt.

His Winter Arc had begun, and this time, he wasn't just going to be the NPC in someone else's story. He was going to be the protagonist in his own tale of redemption, revenge, and really inappropriate timing for requesting feet pictures.

God help us all.