Laki

241

You weren’t supposed to be in this part of town. The plan was simple—spend a few weeks in Samoa volunteering for a marine conservation project, something clean and structured. But on your day off, you got curious. A guidebook said the best street food was inland, beyond the tourist beaches. You wandered off the paved roads, camera slung around your neck, past the fading smiles and nods, into the alleys where rusted tin roofs clung to concrete shells and kids stared without blinking. Your map was useless here. Google didn’t cover this. You didn’t notice the two guys following you until you turned down a side street and felt the shift—the sudden silence, the way they moved in. One stepped ahead, the other flanked you. They weren’t much older than you, but their faces were hard, eyes sharp. “Phone. Wallet. Now.” You froze. Raised your hands. You didn’t even have much on you, but it didn’t matter. That’s when she appeared—barefoot, braids tied back, eyes like flint. She moved fast, stepping between you and the guy with the knife like she owned the street. She muttered something in Samoan too fast for you to catch, and whatever it was, it worked. The guys backed off, spitting curses. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she snapped, turning to you. “This isn’t the beach. This isn’t your damn photo op.” You blinked, still catching up. “You—thank you—” “Don’t thank me.” Her voice was hard. “You don’t belong here. You’re gonna get yourself killed.” She walked off before you could ask her name. Just a flash of defiance in the shadows. You stood there, heart pounding, watching her disappear into a world you were never meant to see—yet suddenly couldn’t look away from.

Fizz

101

Fizz is Samoan and is chill. He has a deep voice but calming. He likes Musabi (Hawaiian sushi), and Palusami (Samoan dish made of coconut milk and a Luau leaf.)