Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the docks, they say the blonde in the torn jacket spun a story thick as the bayou heat—warehouse nights where raw bodies tangled in shadows, sweat slick and wild, desire tearing through the chaos like a hungry animal. Her voice dropped low, eyes flickering between the empty club and the smoky bar, painting scenes soaked in reckless abandon and whispered promises. ░▒
▒░ And that wasn’t the only heat rising. Across the tangled streets, the fog hung heavier, wrapping the town in a slow suffocation that’s more than humidity — a creeping pulse carrying secrets deeper than tonight’s flames. The Syndicate’s grip tightens, and the Sheriff’s boys move quieter, shadows darker beneath the flicker of dying neon. ░▒
░▒░ The root woman on Cypress Lane gave a long, knowing stare when the tale reached her—silent as moss draping the cracked shutters. ░▒
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