Chapter 2: The Episode

Luca Reyes keeps the volume low, like the truth might shatter if he plays it loud.

His “studio” is a spare room in a rented townhouse in Ballard, two streets from the water. Foam panels cling to the walls in uneven squares. A couple are peeling at the corners. He put them up fast, hands shaking, the week Mateo went missing. He told himself sound mattered. He told himself he needed a job to do. Anything but sitting in silence with his brother’s hoodie on his lap.

The room smells like warm electronics and coffee that’s been reheated too many times. A rain jacket drips from the back of his chair. Tap. Tap. Tap. Outside, Seattle stays gray and damp, like the sky never fully commits to day.

On his screen, a waveform stretches across the timeline. His voice, steady. Another voice, distorted. The small dead spaces where he stopped talking because grief got too close to the mic.

He drags the playhead back and hits play.

“So here’s what we know,” his recorded voice says. “A charter goes down in rough weather. Two men are recovered. One man is not. The footage of the recovery is missing. And the report is clean in a way that doesn’t match the night.”

Luca pauses it and rubs a hand over his face. His palm smells faintly like peppermint from the gum he’s been chewing to keep from tasting panic.

Missing footage.

Those words have sat under his tongue for weeks. Like a splinter. Like a dare.

Mateo’s disappearance is already an open wound. The missing footage makes it feel staged.

He presses play again, jaw tight.

“Kai Tanaka,” the recording says. “Rescue swimmer. Coast Guard. Experienced. Decorated. The face they put on a brochure when they want to prove they save lives.”

Luca lets it run for another minute, then stops it. His finger hovers above the keyboard. He stares at the name on the screen like it’s a match.

He is not trying to burn a man for sport. He repeats that to himself every day. Still, he knows how this goes. You put a name out there and the internet shows up with knives.

A knock sounds at the door.

“Luce,” a woman calls. “You alive?”

Nina Park steps in without waiting. Beanie. Wet coat. Sharp eyes that miss nothing. She drops a plastic container on his desk like she’s slamming down evidence.

“Eat,” she says.

Luca lifts the lid. Rice, chicken, something spicy. The smell hits him and his stomach flips. Hunger and nausea at the same time. He takes a bite anyway because Nina will stand here until he does.

She sits on the couch behind him, watching the screen.

“You’re really naming him,” she says.

Luca doesn’t look back. “I’m saying he’s connected.”

“That’s still a name,” Nina replies. “And you know what people do with names.”

Luca swallows. His throat feels tight, like he’s holding his breath without realizing it.

“They won’t answer basic questions,” he says. “They won’t release the footage. They won’t confirm who touched the system. They keep repeating the same lines. Storm. Tragic. Unavoidable. Like the ocean is a convenient excuse.”

Nina’s voice softens. “And the swimmer.”

Luca finally turns. His eyes feel hot. He hates that. He hates that grief always tries to show itself at the worst moments.

“I asked for an interview,” Luca says. “Twice. I got stonewalled. If Kai Tanaka is innocent, he can say that. If he’s being used, he should want to say that too.”

Nina studies him for a beat. “Or he’s being told to shut up.”

Luca hears it. The ugly possibility.

He turns back to the screen and plays the next segment. A tech source, voice warped, explaining that the system doesn’t just go blank. Not like that. Not unless someone with access interferes.

Luca’s pulse climbs. He can feel it in his hands.

He stops the audio at the last segment and records fresh, leaning into the mic.

“If you were there that night,” he says, slow and clear, “if you have logs, messages, footage, anything. Send it. Anonymously if you need. We will verify it. We will protect your identity.”

He swallows, then forces himself through the next part.

“And if you’re listening, Kai Tanaka, hear me. I’m not here to destroy you. I’m here because my brother is not a headline. He is a person. And I’m not letting him vanish into salt water and paperwork.”

He ends the recording and sits back. His chest feels tight. His fingers tremble slightly on the desk.

Nina doesn’t speak right away. She just reaches into her pocket and tosses him a charger cable.

“Charge your phone,” she says. “And don’t post your location tonight. Not even as a joke.”

Luca lets out a short breath that almost sounds like a laugh. “Okay.”

Nina stands. “You dropping tonight?”

“Yes,” Luca says. “Tonight.”

“Why,” she asks, careful. “What’s the rush.”

Luca stares at the Publish button, cursor hovering.

“Because waiting feels like letting them win,” he says. “And because I keep thinking if I pause, something else disappears.”

Nina nods once, like she hates it but understands.

“Then do it,” she says. “But be smart.”

Luca exports the episode. Uploads. Checks the title one more time.

THE SEA TOOK HIM, BUT SOMEONE HELPED.

His hand hesitates. His stomach rolls. He clicks Publish anyway.

The page refreshes. The episode is live.

Luca’s hands go cold as if the room temperature drops. He flexes his fingers, then presses both palms to the desk to steady himself. For a moment he can hear his own heartbeat louder than the rain.

For a few seconds nothing happens, then the notifications start piling up.

Shares. Comments. DMs.

Some people thank him. Some call him a parasite. Some ask for Mateo’s photo. Some ask if Luca is doing this for clout, as if a missing brother is marketing.

Luca’s jaw clenches until his teeth ache.

A private message pops up from a blank account.

Stop digging.

He stares at it. His skin prickles.

Another message arrives, same account.

You already got one man killed.

Luca’s stomach drops hard. The room tilts, just slightly. He grips the edge of his desk until his knuckles go white.

Nina’s expression tightens. She was halfway out the door. Now she steps back in.

“That’s not normal hate,” she says, reading over his shoulder.

“I know,” Luca whispers.

“Screenshot,” Nina says. “Report it. Document everything. And you are not meeting anyone alone. Not even for a ‘quick chat.’”

Luca nods. His mouth tastes like metal.

Nina pauses at the door again. “Lock up. Call me if anything feels off.”

After she leaves, the room gets too quiet. The rain jacket keeps dripping. Tap. Tap. Tap.

Luca sits down and refreshes the tip inbox.

Luca’s phone buzzes again. He opens the comment thread and immediately regrets it.

People are building stories faster than he can read. Some are furious on his behalf. Some are furious at him. And a few are doing what the internet always does when it smells blood. Hunting for a villain with a face.

Someone posts Kai Tanaka’s Coast Guard profile photo. Under it, a reply drops an address. Street. Building number. Like it’s casual. Like it’s nothing.

Luca’s stomach turns.

He screenshots it, reports it, then watches the platform spit back a bland message about “review times.” He wants to throw his phone.

He stares at a number labeled COAST GUARD INFO. A line he called in the first week, when he still believed somebody would answer with certainty. We found him. We have him.

He taps call anyway.

After menus and hold music that sounds wrong for the moment, a woman answers.

“My name is Luca Reyes,” he says. “I need to leave a message for Kai Tanaka. Someone posted his address.”

A pause. Then the same careful tone.

“We cannot route calls to personnel.”

“It’s about his safety,” Luca says, voice tight. “Just tell him to be careful. Tell him not to open his door.”

Another pause.

“I can note your concern,” she says.

Luca exhales hard. “Fine. Note it.”

The line ends and Luca sits there with his phone in his hand, pulse hammering, mouth tasting like burnt coffee.

This is not what he wanted. Not a swarm. Not a hunt. He wanted answers, not violence.

Outside, a car passes on the wet street, tires hissing. For a second he imagines headlights stopping. Someone watching his window.

He locks the computer, unlocks it again, restless.

He stands and checks the front door twice, even though he knows it’s locked. His palms are damp. The room feels smaller, air thick with rain and electricity. He looks at the rice on his desk, cold now, then at Mateo’s name on an old voicemail he can’t delete. His throat tightens. He swallows anyway.

The tip inbox refreshes.

And then the email arrives.

No subject line. No sender name that means anything. Just an attachment.

Luca’s breath catches.

He stares at the file for a full beat, then clicks d******d.

The laptop fan whirs. The file opens.

Grainy night footage fills the screen. Helicopter light. Water that looks like black glass. A body in a hoodie being pulled upward, limp.

Luca’s mouth goes dry.

The footage is real.

And it is not missing.

He scrubs the timeline back. Plays it again. Slower.

In the corner of the frame, right before it cuts out, a figure appears on the boat deck. Not Coast Guard. Not one of the fishermen from the news. A man in a dark jacket, head turned away, holding something up.

A phone. Recording.

Luca freezes the frame.

The figure’s wrist catches the light. A thin bracelet. Bright against wet fabric.

Luca’s hands start shaking.

He knows that bracelet.

He bought it for Mateo last summer at Pike Place, laughing that it made him look like a tourist. Mateo wore it anyway. Every day.

Luca’s throat closes.

He whispers, barely audible, “Mateo.”

His brother was there.

Close enough to film.

Which means Mateo did not simply go under.

Somebody took him.