Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at Laveau’s bar, the one with heels tapping and smoke curling low, a girl with a clenched fist stormed the room—her eyes sharp, jaw tight, chasing down the blonde with the crooked smirk who dared to spill where she worked. Tension hung thick, like sweat on skin, beneath the stale breath of rivalry and bruised pride. ░▒
▒░ But that heat was just one current in the swell. Over by the Serpent’s Den, whispers of the Preacher’s sermons coil through the fog, tightening the Syndicate’s grip as shadows lengthen and old fears wake beneath the moss. The bayou breathes louder tonight—the fog thickens, and something unseen watches. ░▒
░▒░ Word is, the root woman on Cypress Lane saw it all, her knowing glance deeper than the bayou’s black water—silent, waiting. What’s coming next? Only the whispers can tell. ░▒
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