Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the docks, they say the blonde in the torn dress barely stood, blood slick on cracked concrete, her head pounding like thunder while the man clutching his own wounds lost his breath in panic. They hauled her away like a rag doll, eyes glassy, skin stained with bruises and bayou sweat. ░▒
▒░ But the real talk? Over near the Starlust, shadows whisper of the Silent Serpent’s ritual gone wrong—lights flickering in the fog, voices twisting into riddles, stirring fear that the Syndicate’s grip is slipping, and trust is bleeding out with the night. ░▒
░▒░ Father Delacroix at the old church just watches, hands quietly folded, his eyes darting toward the growing darkness. They say he knows more than he lets on—what’s really waking beneath the moss and mud? The ledger’s waiting. ░▒
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