EPISODE 3
Prester John
YOTTA HEADQUARTERS — EMBARCADERO
Naʻa kē pushed through the revolving glass doors, juggling her backpack, camera bag, and Peet’s coconut latté with oat milk.
The lobby screens blasted celebrity scandal headlines, influencer breakups, and local-news chaos with the exaggerated urgency Yotta specialized in.
Chattering thundered from the higher floors—phone calls, arguments about thumbnails, influencers staging fake “candid” shots near the glass staircase.
Producers yelling about late edits. Assistants speed-walking with overpriced salads. Ring lights blinking in half-finished green-screen sets.
It was too early for all of it.
Her badge beeped at the turnstile. She signed in, dragging herself toward the elevator and pressing the button for the sub-level offices where her team worked.
Except—the light didn’t come on.
She pressed it again.
A handwritten sign was taped to the panel:
SUB FLOORS CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE — WATER DAMAGE
REPORT TO SUPERVISOR FOR TEMP WORK REASSIGNMENT
Her supervisor’s office was also on the sub-level—tucked between Studio C and the equipment cage.
If she wanted an assignment for the day, she still had to head down there.
Naʻa kē groaned. “Neat.” She took the stairs.
As she descended, the smell of damp drywall and disinfectant hit her.
When she reached the bottom landing, caution tape stretched across the hallway.
Two Yotta employees were carrying out soaked ring lights, dripping onto the floor.
One of them waved her off. “If you’re Studio C or D, you’re out of luck. Basement’s flooded. Whole section is a mess.”
Naʻa kē sighed. “What am I supposed to do? I’m scheduled for a reel run at noon.”
“They’re sending some people home. The pipes blew out half the circuit.”
Metallic clangs echoed down the hall.
Naʻa kē turned the corner—and stopped.
Friday was there.
Kneeling in a shallow trench of exposed concrete, tightening a massive wrench around a burst joint.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up, his reflective vest tossed aside, and his hair damp with sweat.
A work light cast sharp shadows across his face.
“Oh,” he said, surprised but warm. “Hey. It’s you.”
Naʻa kē stopped short. “You… recognize me?”
Friday wiped dust from his hands, suddenly sheepish.
“Yeah. From BART. You had the white top and red dress.”
He snapped his fingers. “Naʻa kē, right?”
Naʻa kē's stomach tightened.
She forced a small nod. “Right. Yeah. That was me.”
He gestured at the chaos around him. “Sorry about the mess. This building decides to fight me once a week.”
She pointed at the soaked carpet. “So this is your fault.”
“My fault?” He laughed. “Nah. I just clean up after what’s broken.”
He tightened the clamp on a pipe. “You heading down to Studio C?”
“Was,” Naʻa kē said. “Pretty sure I’ll be sent home.”
Friday’s smile softened. “Honestly? I’d go home too if I could.”
Naʻa kē shifted her weight. “Feels like the whole city is having a meltdown—”
Her phone chimed.
“Confirmation… I’m officially off today.”
He stood fully. “Since you’re free… maybe we could grab lunch?”
Naʻa kē chuckled. “Lunch.”
“Just lunch,” he added quickly.
Naʻa kē stared at him.
He remembered her.
Not vaguely.
Not loosely.
Not like most people did.
She pushed his phone back.
“Maybe,” she said, presenting her own.
Friday exhaled. “Maybe works for me.”
A deep groan rolled through the pipes overhead.
Friday flinched. “That’s my cue.”
“Have a good day… Maybe.”
Naʻa kē rolled her eyes. “Fix your building.”
“I’m trying,” he laughed.
Naʻa kē stepped toward the stairs.
A puddle near her shoe rippled—circular, expanding outward.
She froze.
The water stilled instantly.
Naʻa kē forced a breath and ascended the stairs.
ATAMAI LAUNDROMAT — SAN FRANCISCO, CA
The hum of dryers filled the laundromat like white noise therapy, except Aleki wasn’t relaxed.
He wiped down the tops of machines for the third time, pretending he wasn’t checking the windows every ten seconds.
The bell over the door jingled.
Eleni slipped in, backpack slung off one shoulder, pink crewneck tied around her waist.
She chewed gum with the confidence of a fifteen-year-old who believed every situation was beneath her.
“You look like a runaway,” she said, eyeing his clothes. “Mom said you didn’t go back to Anchor today.”
Aleki groaned. “Bruh, don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m absolutely starting. You skip one day, and suddenly you’re working at the laundromat?”
She glanced around like he was being punished. “You in trouble?”
“No.”
Eleni leaned against the folding table, drumming her fingers.
“You beef with a teacher? Did Coach yell at you again?”
Aleki snorted. “Nah.”
“You got suspended?”
“No.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You pregnant?”
He nearly dropped the spray bottle. “Girl, shut up!”
Eleni cackled. “I’m just saying, you’re moving like someone hiding something.”
He looked at her—smaller than him but fearless, brilliant, and absolutely unaware of the monsters moving through the city—and his chest tightened.
“You don’t gotta worry about me,” he said softly.
She shrugged. “I’m gonna worry anyway. You’re weird today.”
Before he could respond, the bell jingled again.
Ms. Lotu stepped inside.
Her white top fit looser than usual.
Her tupenu sat slightly crooked at her hip—a tiny detail only someone who knew her well would notice.
Her eyes, normally warm with quiet humor, carried something colder. Something heavier.
“Sorry I took so long,” she said, forcing a smile. “Errands ran late.”
Aleki could tell it was a lie.
Eleni lit up. “Hi, Auntie Lotu!”
Lotu softened instantly.
“Mālō e lelei, fefine. You get taller every day.”
She tapped Eleni’s shoulder. “Your father will need a ladder to talk to you soon.”
Eleni giggled and opened one of the washers.
“Aleki’s tryna pretend he’s not ditching school.”
Lotu’s smile faded just slightly.
“He has other things to learn today,” she said quietly.
Aleki swallowed.
Eleni zipped up her hoodie.
“Well, I gotta go meet Alana before youth group. Don’t get fired on your second day, ‘aikola.”
Aleki flipped her off discreetly.
Eleni flipped him off boldly in return.
“Love you,” she said, grabbing her bag.
“Love you too,” he muttered.
The bell jingled as she left.
A small silence settled.
Aleki studied Ms. Lotu—really studied her—before reaching under the counter.
He placed a folded piece of paper on the surface.
A street name.
A time.
“I found this taped to the door earlier,” he said. “Someone was here.”
Ms. Lotu’s pulse spiked. “Sayphe?”
Aleki shrugged as she picked up the paper.
She read it, and her eyes narrowed.
“Who’s it from?” Aleki asked.
Ms. Lotu didn’t answer.
She glanced toward the sidewalk where Eleni had disappeared.
“Go. Walk your sister home,” Ms. Lotu said quietly.
“The wind feels wrong today.”
Aleki felt his stomach drop. “What does that mean?”
Ms. Lotu didn’t reply.
He nodded silently, grabbed his coat, and left.
While swiping a bottle from the counter, she turned the OPEN sign to CLOSED.
She noticed a black BMW across the street.
After glaring at it, she locked the door and cut off the laundromat lights.
Inside the BMW, cigarette smoke curled in slow spirals through the cabin’s dim interior.
Shen Fong sat in the back seat with the stillness of a coiled knife—aged hands folded, posture immaculate, eyes sharp as glass.
His gaze tracked Aleki and Eleni as they headed toward the BART entrance.
The passenger beside the driver—broad, tattooed from neck to knuckles in faded green ink—followed Shen’s gaze.
“Tāmen zhù zài Hàiwò yà ma?” Shen asked.
Do they live in Hayward?
The tattooed man nodded once. “Duì. Tāde fāmíng yě zài nàbiān.”
Yes. Their family’s there too.
Shen’s eyes tracked Eleni’s ponytail bouncing as she talk-smacked her brother’s shoulder.
The corners of his mouth twitched. Recognition of bait.
Then he tapped the driver’s shoulder. “Huíjiā ba.”
Let’s go home.
The driver nodded, and the car slid into traffic.
Shen looked once more at the darkness behind Atamai’s windows.
The lights were off, but he saw the shape inside.
He always saw her.
He murmured, “Zài gěi nà wèi Cháoliú zhùshǒu yī cì jīhuì ba.”
Let’s give the Overstayer one more chance.
Fog curled around the BMW as it drifted away, swallowing it whole.
Inside the darkened laundromat, behind the locked glass, Ms. Lotu watched the taillights vanish, her jaw set.
SAYPHE TEMPLE
Incense drifted in thin, disciplined spirals toward the vaulted ceiling.
The walls glowed with soft gold lamplight, illuminating framed portraits of former Elders and missionaries whose eyes followed everything in the room.
Herensmythe stood at attention in the center of the circular chamber, hands behind his back, shoulders squared.
The long wooden table before him held four council members—robed, silent, impeccably composed.
The oldest, Elder Blackbirder, tapped his ring twice on the table.
“Good morning, Brother Herensmythe. Present your findings.”
Herensmythe inhaled through his nose. “We have an anomaly.”
A few murmurs drifted across the table.
“A significant one,” he continued. “The same signature we detected two nights ago at Union Square resurfaced in the Mission District. Water distortion. Memory fogging in the affected parties.”
He slid a tablet across the table.
The screen displayed still images: blurred figures, corrupted frames, a ripple caught on stainless steel.
Elder Pease took the tablet and frowned. “These images could be compression errors.”
Herensmythe’s jaw flexed. “They are not errors.”
“You’ve said that before,” Elder Hayes said with the fatigue of someone used to hearing Herensmythe cry wolf. “Several times.”
“Thirteen times,” corrected Elder Ross Lewin, adjusting his glasses. “We have the records.”
A soft wave of condescending chuckles rippled along the table.
Herensmythe’s eyes remained forward, but his nostrils flared.
“This is different,” he said. “This pattern is identical to the Atamai signatures.”
The room fell silent.
Elder Blackbirder laced his fingers. “There were no survivors from Atamai.”
“A false assumption,” Herensmythe shot back before catching himself. “Sir.”
Elder Pease leaned back. “You believe The Baptiste walks freely in San Francisco? At her age?”
“With magical powers,” Herensmythe said. “As the records describe.”
Elder Ross Lewin sighed. “As your interpretations describe.”
Herensmythe’s composure cracked. “Dana Ilsok is in critical condition. Four security personnel suffered unexplained neural disruptions. You’ve seen the scans.”
Elder Blackbirder looked down at the tablet again. “Yes. And we are not pleased.”
Herensmythe felt a brief flare of satisfaction.
“But your request is denied.” Elder Blackbirder’s voice stiffened.
He blinked. “Sir?—”
“The tactical unit will not be mobilized,” Elder Blackbirder said, voice like a locked door. “We do not willfully repeat the tragedy of the ’89 Incident.”
“That was a miscommunication,” Herensmythe insisted.
“It was a massacre,” Elder Hayes corrected softly.
“And we spent a decade burying your mistakes,” Elder Ross Lewin added.
Elder Blackbirder continued, “We will not panic our congregations. We will not endanger our political alliances over an unconfirmed ghost story.”
Herensmythe stepped forward. “Sir, if this IS The Baptiste! She will reveal herself—”
Elder Pease interjected. “And when she does, we will act with clarity.”
A long pause.
Elder Blackbirder nodded once, final. “You may increase surveillance,” he allowed. “Quietly. Discreetly. No mobilization. No uniforms. No escalation.”
Herensmythe clenched his fists behind his back.
“That is all, Brother,” Elder Blackbirder said. “Dismissed.”
THE MISSION
Hān crossed the BART station entrance with her hood up, her backpack slung across her small frame.
The Mission air tasted of exhaust, stale incense from a street vendor, and the metallic tang of trains grinding to a stop underground.
She carried a plastic grocery bag in one hand.
Mark was exactly where she knew he’d be—tucked near the elevator alcove, wrapped in a patched-up jacket, dozing with his chin on his chest.
A shopping cart sat beside him, filled with folded tarps, a half-busted radio, and one bright blue sleeping bag she’d repaired for him last winter.
Hān stopped in front of him and cleared her throat quietly. “You left your clothes again.”
Mark blinked awake, rubbing his eyes. “Girl… you didn’t need to—”
“I did,” Hān said.
She handed him the bag. Fresh, warm clothes—washed, dried, and folded with precision that didn’t match her age.
Mark’s face softened. “You’re an angel, you know that?”
“No,” Hān muttered. “Not even close.”
Before he could respond, a loud laugh cracked across the station plaza.
Three teenagers with phone rigs were walking toward them—two boys and a girl, each with a stabilizer gimbal and a ring light clipped to their backpacks.
Their livestream chat scrolled across their screens in neon bursts.
The tallest nudged the others. “Yo, look—Mission Moses is still here!”
Mark flinched, and Hān clenched her jaw.
The girl lifted her phone, angling it toward Mark. “Chat, look at this. Day four of ‘Guess What They Smells Like.’”
The livestream hearts and laughing emojis exploded.
Hān stepped between them and Mark.
Her voice stayed flat, but her eyes sharpened. “Stop.”
The short one scoffed. “Aww, the kid’s defending him.”
“We’re just having fun,” the girl said. “Relax.”
“You’re hurting him,” Hān said.
They laughed.
The tallest one leaned down toward her, towering. “Move. You’ve hero aura farmed enough.”
When Hān didn’t, he shoved her.
She stumbled back three steps, caught herself and froze.
A heat rose through her limbs. Her fingers curled.
Water in a nearby puddle vibrated as if bracing for impact.
Mark sat up straighter. “Hān… don’t.”
She was done being gentle.
She stepped forward and moved before any of them could blink.
A sharp pak sao to the tall boy’s wrist—his phone clattered to the ground.
A quick jut sao to the second boy’s elbow—he yelped, dropping his stabilizer.
A precise bong sao followed by a phoenix-eye fist—knocking the girl’s phone and ring light spinning across the tiles.
Hān stood still again before their brains caught up.
The three teenagers stared at her in shock.
“How the f**k is she this strong?!”
The tall boy staggered backward, clutching his wrist. “What the— what the hell are you?!”
Hān slowly relaxed her hands, shaking her head at them.
They fled, stumbling over each other, scrambling up the stairs, phone cameras still rolling wildly as they ran.
Mark’s breath shook with fear.
“Hān?” he whispered. “What did you—”
He stopped.
He saw it.
In the stainless-steel elevator door behind her.
Hān’s reflection did not match.
“Mark, calm down.”
Hān cautiously moved toward him as he jutted backwards.
She reached out to steady Mark, and as she touched the metal rail beside him—
A circular ripple pulsed outward from her finger.
Mark gasped, scrambling back against the tile wall. “No—no—no—”
Hān’s face softened. Pain. Shame.
“I’m sorry, Mark…”
She sighed and reached into her backpack.
She unscrewed the Váisamilla water lid and drank.
The ripples stilled.
The metal regained its shape, reverting the reflection back into that of a nine-year-old girl.
Mark blinked, breath slowing, the terror melting into confusion.
He squinted at her. “…Do I know you?”
Hān nodded once while handing him bottled water and his clothes again. “Yes.”
Mark looked into the bag of warm clothes, folding one of the shirts.
“Thank you for the Fiji water, kid. Did you clean these for me?”
“I did.”
Her chest tightened. It felt like lying.
“Thank you!” He smiled. “I-I-I’m Mark. What’s your name, kid?”
“Hān,” she offered him a gentle grin, “and you’re welcome.”
She shouldered her backpack and walked toward the station steps, her small figure disappearing into the late-afternoon light.
Behind her, Mark touched the metal rail again, frowning at his warped reflection—already forgetting why his heart felt like it was pounding out of rhythm.