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Welcome to Cadena — a worn-down barrier island clinging to the southern tip of Florida, where the marsh grass holds onto old stories and the salt air never quite scrubs the past clean. Back in 1792, a group of escaped enslaved people rose up against their owner, took his gold and used it to buy this very patch of land as their sanctuary. That history lives on in every warped dock plank, every locked gate in Harbor Row, every sun-bleached window facing the water. Out here, between the knotted mangroves, the peeling paint of The Cut, the perfectly trimmed hedges of Harbor Row, and the all-night bait shops that never close, people's lives tangle in ways nobody sees coming. A boat that goes missing isn't just a Coast Guard case. A small favor done at the marina can turn into a debt you can't shake. The person pouring your coffee at the island diner might be living a whole other life once they clock out. In Cadena, everybody's carrying something, everybody's got something to lose.
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