EPISODE 1
Sai pe?
ATAMAI LAUNDROMAT - SAN FRANCISCO, CA
The cramped cornerstore had a way of folding into the background. Even the neon sign seemed embarrassed to exist—its flicker a tired apology to the street. People walked past without seeing it, as if the building had learned to survive by being forgettable.
Inside, the machines droned their metallic lullaby.
Ms. Lotu worked alone—but not really. She folded towels slowly, deliberately—less because she was seventy-two years old, more because her memories slipped if she rushed. Her phone was cradled between shoulder and ear, a voice chattering softly through the speaker as she folded.
“No, Sogi,” she said, amused, “you cannot put bleach and colors together. That’s how shirts die.” A laugh crackled back at her. Too loud for such a small Tongan woman.
“I told you already,” Sogi said. “‘Oku ou manatu’i ma’u pe ‘a e taimi ‘oku fu’u tuai ai.”
I always remember when it’s too late.
Ms. Lotu smiled and slid a towel into a perfect square. “Then you learn again tomorrow. That’s called living.”
The bell over the door chimed. A regular waved without stopping—coin change, gone.
“Hey, uh...” another patron called out from the dryers, searching her memory.
“Ms. Lotu.” she sighed and reached under the counter. She tucked the phone closer. “I’ll call you later, So. I still have people.”
“You always do,” Sogi replied, fond.
“Exactly! Ms. Lotu.” the patron agreed, snapping her fingers. “Do you still have that lost sock bin under the—”
Ms. Lotu loudly set the clear plastic tub on the counter.
“Always,” Ms. Lotu said. “Socks like to wander.”
Ms. Lotu tucked her phone in her tupenu waistband and returned to her folding, the laundromat breathing around her like it always had.
The door chimed.
A teenage Polynesian boy stepped in, clutching his shoulder, hoodie damp from fog. Ms. Lotu’s eyes narrowed in on him as she folded.
He moved like someone trying not to draw attention, even though his whole body was screaming. He headed for the far machines. No laundry in hand.
Moments later, a man entered—older, freakishly well-groomed, wearing the red-yellow-blue SAYPHE windbreaker. He was unhurried, hands empty, breathing steady. He paused just inside the door, eyes flicking once to the old woman, once to the windows, once to the corners where cameras would have been if this were the kind of place that kept them.
He spotted the boy immediately.
“There you are,” the man said lightly. “Did you get my messages?”
The boy looked at the dryers. “I told you… I’m not signing anything.”
The man stepped closer, blocking the exit with practiced subtlety. “Most kids would kill for this opportunity. Your family—”
“My family didn’t understand the contract. I-I-It’s about more than money—”
“Contracts don’t guarantee everything, Aleki. But you’re big, son. Strong. This is your shot.”
The boy swallowed hard.
Ms. Lotu silently watched from the corner. She knew that tone. She’d heard it whispered in church halls, school auditoriums, and family meetings: We’re here to uplift you. Just sign.
She kept folding.
The man lifted two fingers and tilted the boy’s chin upward—examining his shoulder bruise like checking produce at a market.
The boy winced.
The sound of his pain shuddered Ms. Lotu. Something in the steel folding table beside her rippled—just a shiver, a tremor that shouldn’t have happened.
She set her towels down.
Her slippers loudly shuffled across the floor.
“Boy,” she called gently, “your shoulder is swelling. Sit.”
The man finally noticed her.
“Good evening,” he said, mustering respect from habit, “we’re just talking. A development opportunity.”
She didn’t look at him. She knelt beside the boy.
Her voice dropped into the boy’s ear. “Sai pe? ʻOku ke lave’a?”
Are you alright? Does it hurt?
The boy’s eyes widened. He nodded tightly as the man’s polite mask wavered.
He attempted to gain her attention. “Sorry, ma’am, but this is a private matter.”
She ignored him. Her hand hovered just above the boy’s shoulder, not touching, but close enough that he felt steadied by her presence.
“Unu mai ki heni,” she said softly.
Come closer to me.
He obeyed devoutly, like every island kid does when an elder speaks in that tone.
The man stepped forward. “Ma’am, please. You’re confusing him.” His hand landed on the boy’s shoulder again.
Harder this time. The boy hissed in pain.
Ms. Lotu’s eyes finally lifted to the man.
“Let him go,” she said.
He didn’t. “Ma’am, I’m doing my—”
He never finished.
Twenty minutes later, paramedics find him outside on the sidewalk. His jaw is dislocated, ribs folded inward, but no one can explain the absence of defensive wounds. He looks like he was punished by the air itself.
Nearby onlookers aimed their phones at the red and black painted commotion on the Mission District block.
“Ms. Lotu, please try to remember,” the police officer asked Ms. Lotu. “What did the attacker look like?—”
“Attacker,” she scoffed. “Attacker?! That man attacked Aleki and sai pito!”
“I don’t know what that means—”
“It means his ass deserved it!” Ms. Lotu thumbed her nose as the officer sighed.
“Can you at least tell me which way Aleki Mafi went?”
“Home!” She locked the now darkened laundromat doors. “And I’m doing that too.” She briskly trotted away as the officer scanned the hours on the door.
He called out to her, “But you don’t close for another three hours!”
She kept walking. “Your uniform is clean! Nothing my cleaners can do for you!”
TARGET
A girl moved along the congested aisles.
She walked with certainty, scanning shelves like a thief with a doctorate. Her bone-colored top was three sizes too big, and black shorts were folded up at the waist. Her thong sandals were blackened from asphalt. She couldn’t have been more than nine.
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead as she slipped into the water aisle. She didn’t look hungry, but she looked dry—like a child who had outrun something and left her breath behind.
She paused in front of the corner-stocked waters. Not the name brands or fancy electrolytes. Her fingers hovered over labels the way a safe-cracker studies tumblers.
Smart Water.
Fiji.
Dasani.
Arrowhead.
Target Brand Purified.
Her nose twitched slightly. She grabbed the Evian bottle first. Lifted it to the light.
Tilted it. Watched the way the water broke around the plastic, as if its molecules whispered something only she could hear.
“Hmph.” She shook her head. Set it back.
Then Dasani. She uncapped it. That was strange—she opened it in the store—and held it close to her cheek as though trying to feel its age. She winced. Too processed.
Next, she took the Fiji. She didn’t smell it or shake it. She listened. The bottle gave a faint, almost imperceptible shimmer—like a bowed violin string vibrating at a pitch outside human range.
Her shoulders relaxed. She slid it into her backpack and scanned the shelf again.
Then she grabbed another bottle—cheap, generic purified water, the kind that tasted like drywall—and held it upside down, watching the air bubble climb.
Her lips flattened.
Burns.
With a flick of her wrist, she tossed it under the shelf.
Her fingers found one specific brand tucked far in the back: a rare Pacific artesian spring bottle, imported, fairly-priced, dust-covered. The store stockers probably forgot it was there.
“Váisamilla.” She cooed, hesitating before touching it.
A strange sadness crossed her face. She gently took it and placed it in her backpack.
Finally satisfied, she closed her bag.
Then she did something even stranger—She placed two one-dollar bills on the shelf. Exactly where the Fiji and Váisamilla were.
Even thieves have rules.
She turned to leave and spotted the convex security mirror above the aisle.
She stared at it while cracking open the Fiji water.
She drank it and watched the security mirror ripple, just faintly.
A shimmer spread outward, as something beneath it had touched the other side.
The girl didn’t react. She didn’t gasp or jump or cry.
She blinked… as if this happened often.
Without a word, she slipped out the back door, melting into the dark with her stolen water—one bottle for healing, one for shifting, one for survival.
Behind her, the mirror stilled like a puddle falling to sleep.
Outside the building, two patrol officers sat in their squad car half a block away, watching drunks argue over a broken parking meter.
The night had been dead quiet—the kind of shift where boredom grows teeth.
Officer Dutch was mid-rant about the upcoming NFL draft, checking his finely sculpted, dirty blonde hair in the visor mirror.
“I’m telling you, bruh,” he said, tapping the steering wheel, “that kid from the Town? The Samoan? He’s going top three, easy. Built like a damn cathedral.”
Officer Baker snorted, jotting on her mini notepad. “They always say that. Tongans and Samoans show up, carry the whole team on their backs, then get traded the second their knees go.”
Dutch nodded. “Yeah, well—money machine don’t care who bleeds.”
The radio chirped.
“Advisory for units in the vicinity of 23rd and Mission: reporting a possible assault involving victim Dana Illsok. Suspect is a Polynesian male juvenile, identified as Aleki Mafi, last seen fleeing the area.”
Dutch blinked. “Wait—Illsok? The Sayphe recruit? He was making sure we made playoffs this year!”
Baker sighed, already flipping on the lights. “There goes the season.”
The cruiser rolled toward Mission as the neon blur of the laundromat passed in their mirrors.
Neither officer noticed the girl in the shadowed alley—barely four feet tall—watching their headlights fade with analyzing eyes.
ANYTIME FITNESS
The iron clanged loud enough to turn heads.
Naʻa kē locked out her final rep of the deadlift—four clean plates on each side—and held it at the top just long enough to be petty. Sweat trickled down her temple, but her grin was dry, smug, and perfectly earned.
Beside her, the guy she’d been teasing—a wiry Russian lifter built for long-distance running, not demolition—stared at her like she had violated physics.
“Oh come on, Nike,” he gasped. “You said you ‘lift a little.’”
“I do,” Naʻa kē said, lowering the bar with effortless control. “I lift a little more than you.”
He threw his hands up. “That’s rude!”
“I lied. I lift a lot more than you.” Naʻa kē shrugged, wiping her hands on her shorts. “Hey, you challenged me.”
“And you didn’t have to accept!”
She corrected, grabbing her water bottle. “That so-called flex of yours was clearly a cry for help.”
He shook his head, defeated, laughing as she headed toward the lockers. “You’re a menace, Nike!”
“Yup,” she called. “And don’t forget to stretch your back—unless you want to fold like a church chair at a funeral.”
“Stop talking about my back!”
She left him complaining to his reflection as the gym speakers cycled through late-night R&B covers.
Outside, the fog had thickened into a cold silver sheet.
Naʻa kē pulled up her hood and jogged lightly toward the BART station, legs still humming with adrenaline.
She loved this hour—the quiet between the city’s day-worn anxiety and its after-midnight danger.
She slipped into the station just as a cluster of technicians packed up orange cones.
Pipes were scattered, tools laid out like a deconstructed instrument set.
One worker remained.
A handsome Black man—medium height, broad-shouldered, reflective vest open just enough to be distracting—was fitting a steel connector into a length of pipe.
He paused when he noticed her.
Naʻa kē offered a polite smile.
He returned it—then let his eyes linger, warm but cautious.
Naʻa kē leaned against a pillar, toe tapping to the distant train hum.
He tightened a bolt.
She adjusted her off-shoulder top.
Their glances traded like sparring jabs.
When he straightened and wiped his hands on a rag, she realized he’d been watching her more than his tools.
“You waiting for the last train out?” he asked.
“Depends,” she said, pretending to check her phone. “Am I waiting alone?”
He chuckled, looking down at his boots. “I’m off in five. If the drains behave.”
“Do drains misbehave a lot?”
“All the time,” he smirked. “Especially around beautiful-minded women.”
Naʻa kē laughed—an involuntary, too-loud burst that got one older commuter to glance over with suspicion and mild annoyance.
“You got a name, Mr. Plumber?”
The worker bowed his head to hide a grin. “I’m Friday.”
“Like today?” She squinted.
“Correct.”
“Naʻa kē,” she said, extending a hand. “Everyone calls me Nike, though.”
Friday shook it gently, eyes flicking to her forearm tattoos.
“Does it mean ‘goddess of victory’ or ‘one-hundred-dollar sweatshop shoes’ in Samoan too?”
“It’s Tongan, smart ass,” her dimples sank from her judgmental grin.
“See?” His handshake lingered with undivided eye contact. “What a mind.”
Before she could flirt back, the platform speakers crackled and a low rumble announced the approaching train.
“That’s me,” she said.
“Hope I see you again,” Friday replied.
“Same,” she said, stepping back toward the yellow line. “You’ll get another shot to introduce yourself.”
“What?” He snorted. “That… didn’t make sense.”
“It will if we see each other again,” she said, stepping into the train with a wink and cracking open her water bottle.
The doors hissed closed between them, leaving Friday smiling like he’d been sucker-punched by charm.
On the train, Naʻa kē slid into an empty seat and sipped her water.
It was cold, and clean, but not her favorite brand.
She took a sip anyway. Her brows pinched.
“Treated water again. Why does it taste like a swimming pool?” she pondered.
She shook off the thought and pulled out her phone to edit her latest YouTube video—an investigative piece about “Bay Area Cryptids: Monsters Disappearing From Cameras.”
The train rattled through Daly City when her earbuds picked up the faint buzz of the police band scanner app she’d forgotten she left running.
At first, it was static.
Then voices:
“—male juvenile, name Aleki Mafi—”
Naʻa kē's head snapped up.
“—repeat, person of interest in the assault of Dana Illsok—”
Her stomach knotted.
Aleki Mafi? The shy kid she’d interviewed last month for her piece on Polynesian athlete burnout? That didn’t make sense.
He would bruise a peach. The kid apologized when stepping on gum.
Naʻa kē turned the volume up.
“Witnesses claim he fled the laundromat on Mission—”
Her pulse quickened.
SAYPHE MEDICAL
The well-equipped facility looked less like a medical center and more like a cathedral repurposed for billionaire villa parties and billing codes.
Frosted-glass murals of smiling Polynesian and White families lined the lobby, each figure subtly backlit by the corporate halo of the SAYPHE logo.
Herensmythe walked through the automatic doors without breaking stride. His black dress shoes were polished, his posture was straight, his presence was an unspoken command.
Nurses stiffened when he passed. A chaplain avoided his eyes. The man carried war within his shoulders, and everyone sensed it.
He entered Room 676.
Dana Illsok lay propped against pillows, jaw wrapped, ribs bound, IV drip ticking beside him. His face was swollen on one side—an imprint of violence he couldn’t rationalize.
Herensmythe closed the door behind him.
“Dana,” he said. His voice had too little warmth to be called human. “Sit up.”
Dana tried. Pain folded him halfway.
Herensmythe pulled a chair to the bedside and sat. “You were meeting with a prospect today. Aleki Mafi.”
Dana blinked. “I… yeah. We spoke.”
“What happened at the laundromat?”
Dana exhaled, shaky. “I don’t… I can’t remember.”
Herensmythe watched him with a steady, unreadable stare. A career built on evaluating fear made him an expert in distinguishing lies from fractures.
Dana’s eyes trembled. His pulse jumped.
“You sustained severe trauma,” Herensmythe said. “Ribs compressed inward, jaw displaced. No weapon marks.”
He leaned in slightly. “So tell me again: what happened?”
Dana rubbed his forehead, wincing. “I’m trying. I— one second I was talking to the kid… the next I was outside on the sidewalk.”
His fingers shook. “It’s like—like I-I-I don’t know, man.”
“Who else was there?”
“I don’t know.”
Herensmythe’s gaze narrowed. “You’re certain?”
Dana nodded too quickly. “Everything’s foggy. It’s like my head won’t let me rewind the moment. I swear I’m not hiding anything.”
Herensmythe tapped the bed rail once—a soft metallic click that made Dana flinch.
“You’re sure you can’t recall anything specific? A face? A voice? A direction?”
Dana hesitated. A faint twitch of memory flickered across his expression.
“There was… a name.”
Herensmythe straightened.
Dana swallowed. “The laundromat. Atamai. I remember the sign flickering.”
Herensmythe stood immediately, chair legs scraping the tile.
“That’s all?” he asked.
“That’s all,” Dana whispered.
Herensmythe adjusted his cuffs, expression sharpening. “Rest, Dana.”
He turned for the door.
“Herensmythe—” Dana called weakly. “Am I… in trouble?”
Herensmythe’s silhouette paused in the doorway.
“You’re injured,” he said. “And that means someone out there believes they can harm us.”
Herensmythe left without another word, the door sighing shut behind him as Dana stared at the ceiling, heart pounding with a memory he couldn’t retrieve and a fear he couldn’t name.
UNION SQUARE
The plaza had mostly emptied for the night, leaving only the cable car tracks gleaming with fog-damp shine.
Tourists were long gone. Window displays glowed on idle timers. The only sound was the loose rattle of a MUNI cable running underground, humming like a tired ghost.
Aleki sprinted across Powell, clutching his throbbing shoulder, breath ragged.
He reached the open seating area near the giant Christmas-themed heart statue—bright, colorful, unmistakable.
A terrible place to hide, but he was out of places.
Flashing squad lights washed the plaza in frantic red and blue.
“STOP! HANDS UP!”
Four officers fanned out around him, boots slapping wet concrete.
Aleki froze, palms up, chest heaving. His hood clung to his sweat.
“Turn around!” one barked.
“I didn’t do anything,” Aleki said between breaths. “I didn’t hurt him. Please—I didn’t touch—”
“Turn around and get on your knees!”
Before he could move, headlights poured over the officers—white, high beams cutting through the fog.
A white Yukon rolled up behind the squad car, blocking the street like a closing gate.
The doors opened in unison.
Three men stepped out, all wearing the red-yellow-blue SAYPHE windbreakers.
The officers lowered their weapons just enough to let the Sayphe men advance.
Aleki’s stomach dropped.
The tallest man strode to the front. “Aleki,” he said, voice polished, almost fatherly. “You really messed up tonight.”
“You assaulted your recruiter,” another said. “Dana’s jaw is broken. Ribs too.”
“I DIDN’T!” Aleki shouted. “I swear—”
“You think the NFL wants a violent liability?” the tall man asked.
“Your chances were slim already. Now?” He clicked his tongue. “Gone.”
Aleki stepped back, bumping into the painted heart sculpture.
“Please… please believe me. I didn’t hit him. I-I-I’d never hurt anybody.”
No one listened.
The Sayphe men moved in first. Then the officers closed ranks behind them.
Aleki’s fear grew from their violent intent.
Flashlight beams jittered across his face while others retrieved their batons.
“That is enough.”
Ms. Lotu stepped into the plaza, slides scraping lightly on concrete.
A red, asymmetrically tied tupenu hugged her wide hips and loosened above and around her large calves.
She held a plastic bottle of Fiji water in one hand, her backpack oddly full, her face serene.
“Talavou,” she said, extending the bottle toward Aleki. “Inu.”
Boy… Drink.
The officers looked back at her in disbelief.
An officer chuckled. “Ma’am, you are hindering a active police invest—”
“No,” she said. “This is stupid.” Her eyes flicked toward Aleki. “Drink.”
He grabbed the bottle with shaking hands and twisted the cap.
The moment he touched it, every reflective surface nearby rippled like a pond.
The heart sculpture’s lacquered shine.
A store window.
The chrome trim on the Yukon.
Even the puddle by the cable car tracks.
Everything trembled as if stirred by an unseen hand, resonating away from Ms. Lotu.
“Ma’am,” the lieutenant said, unsettled, “I’m gonna need you to step back.”
“Go home. All of you,” Ms. Lotu replied. “Or I will help your bodies.”
One of the Sayphe men scoffed, stepping forward. “Lady, don’t—”
He didn’t finish.
Ms. Lotu moved with a speed that didn’t match her age.
A Wing Chun chain punch snapped out—one, two, five, ten—blows landing with surgical precision across his ribs, sternum, jaw.
Her elbow struck his temple with a crisp crack.
He hit the ground before his brain registered it.
The officers stared in awe.
“What the—”
Another man lunged. She slipped inside his reach, a perfect 52 Blocks shoulder roll, deflecting his arm and driving a palm strike into his solar plexus so hard he folded like laundry fresh from a spin cycle.
Aleki choked on his water, eyes wide. “What is happening?!”
The third Sayphe man swung wildly.
Ms. Lotu slid aside with a tiny step—an old woman’s shuffle that somehow outran his momentum—caught his wrist, and snapped a short, brutal elbow into his face.
He dropped instantly, knees buckling like someone cut his strings.
Three Sayphe men groaned on the ground at her feet.
The four officers froze.
Hands hovered near holsters. Their breathing shifted from one of authority to one of primal uncertainty.
One finally shouted, “DON’T MOVE!”
Ms. Lotu turned her head toward him. Calm. Almost bored.
“Go home,” she warned.
Two officers rushed her first—one reaching for her arms, the other going for her legs.
She stepped between them faster than they expected.
The first officer grabbed her sleeve—She trapped his wrist with a 52 Blocks fold, twisted, and drove her elbow straight into his sternum.
The breath left his lungs in one ugly wheeze.
He collapsed sideways into his partner.
The second officer swung a baton in a panicked arc.
She caught his forearm mid-swing, rotated her hips, and sent him careening into the heart sculpture with a soft grunt—like she was redirecting a stubborn child rather than tossing a grown man.
Both officers crumpled.
The last two made the mistake of drawing.
Before the first could level his weapon, Ms. Lotu was already on him.
A tight, economical Wing Chun blitz—knuckles rapping against nerve clusters along his arm—made his fingers spasm open.
His gun clattered harmlessly to the concrete.
She snatched it mid-drop.
The final officer froze, weapon shaking. “D-Don’t!”
Ms. Lotu unloaded the magazine with a single thumb flick, letting the bullets rain onto the pavement like marbles.
She tossed the empty pistol at his feet.
“You’re tired,” she said gently. “Go sleep.”
He hesitated—And she stepped forward once.
He flinched so hard his knee gave out.
He sat himself down on the cold concrete without another word.
Fog drifted, and the reflections in the shop windows receded to stillness.
Ms. Lotu breathed evenly, excorcising any seeded anger.
Aleki stood frozen, half a bottle of Fiji in his hand.
Ms. Lotu took another bottled water from her backpack and unscrewed it casually.
She drank in a slow, satisfied sip while scanning the police and Sayphe members.
Her eyes rose to Aleki, and she proudly smirked. “How’s your arm?”
Aleki blinked rapidly as he squeezed his shoulder. The pain was gone. Completely.
“It’s… It’s healed.”
He stretched experimentally. None of his lingering football pains remained.
After eyeing the bottled water, he stared at Ms. Lotu in horror and awe.
“Of course it is.” She tossed her empty bottle into a recycling bin without looking.
“You have practice tomorrow?”
“I quit the team today,” Aleki murmured.
Ms. Lotu considered that for a moment. A long, thoughtful silence.
She calmly turned and started walking back toward Market Street, fog curling around her.
“Come to the laundromat tomorrow,” she said without looking back. “Oku ke ngāue kiate au hē taimi ni.”
You work for me now.
Aleki stared at the sprawled bodies, terrified.
“W-What do we do about them? A-A-All of the people watch–”
He stopped speaking, studying the area for onlookers.
Tourists clustered around the heart statue, pausing their photos only long enough to glance at the officers—then oddly deciding it wasn’t worth capturing.
Cyclists coasted through the crosswalk, weaving between the squad cars with the resigned reflexes of people who’d seen stranger things in The City.
A handful of late shoppers drifted past Macy’s, bags rustling, barely glancing over as if police lights were just another busy Friday night accessory.
Aleki’s eyes darted back to Ms. Lotu, who wagged a hand dismissively.
“Go home,” she said. “And if you’re lucky… the men won’t remember.”
Fog swallowed her as she disappeared around the corner.
Aleki stood alone under the blinking streetlight, clutching the empty water bottle, heart pounding against a strain-free chest.
The officers blinked as if waking from a dream.