Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at Laveau’s edge, the sharp-faced woman with clenched jaws fought a war behind dark eyes—pride souring every word as she lashed at the pale shadow in her grip, bruised lips parting with bitter desire and spite. When the other slipped up with a foreign slur, the tension snapped tight as bayou vines, heat thick as sweat in the humid air. ░▒
▒░ But the fog wasn’t just thick with anger. Over near the docks, whispers swirl of strange cargo and shadows moving beyond watch—silent deals under lantern light, the Syndicate tightening its coils on all sides, while restless spirits seem to murmur beneath the cypress, hinting at darker patterns weaving through the night. ░▒
░▒░ The man in the white suit caught the flicker of that storm in his eyes last night, silent and unreadable. They say he’s weighing his next move—waiting on a sign that might come from the shadows or the Ledger’s cold pages. ░▒
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