Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the docks, they say the chocolate-eyed woman in torn denim took a savage slam against the cold concrete—her jaws snapping at thin air as the brute behind her moved slow, like time thickened with pain and blood. Her breath was ragged, lips split, but those eyes—still fierce—held on through the haze of agony. ░▒
▒░ But that wasn’t all stirring beneath the bayou fog; the Bayou Brawls left bruises deeper than skin, and whispers crawl of dark relics traded like secrets—things that twist men’s minds and mark the ones who meddle. The Silent Serpent Syndicate’s grip tightens, and the murmur of ancient shadows grows louder each day. ░▒
░▒░ Father Delacroix at the old church cast a long, knowing glance toward the rising darkness, lips pressed tight—his silence a prayer, or a warning? Whatever waits in the Ledger might just tear what’s left of Port Laveau apart. ░▒
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