Times are in SLT.
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Times are in SLT.
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Word on the street... Yesterday in Hathian, rumor whirled like cigarette smoke in a rain-soaked alley. Word is, the pawn shop became a battleground—a heated spat outside escalated to fists and lost wallets, with some claiming the culprit was a ghostly figure in white, her accent colder than the bayou night. Meanwhile, whispers drifted from Rader Records: a focused police raid turned wild when rivals stormed in, transforming a hunt for fugitives into an all-out brawl, leaving bruised egos and bloodied knuckles. And at the Titty Twister, tension simmered amid the neon haze as dancers eyed the influx of law, wondering which side the shadows truly favor.
Whispers in the bayou... Another night slid through the rotten teeth of Laveau, and the bayou whispered secrets between the slick brick alleys. Word dripped from the marina that someone snuck illicit cargo off a battered trawler—boxes that glowed faint in the dark, guarded by men who didn’t blink at gunfire. Meanwhile, at the Barracuda, an argument between a wildcard regular and a Syndicate hardcase left a shattered glass and more than one black eye for the floor to clean up. And atop the old jazz bar’s balcony, a shadow broker met with desperate souls, peddling rumors that the Penitentiary’s silence is about to break. Watch your back—Laveau’s hungry.
Rumors on campus... Last night, the mossy stones of Columtreal University whispered with more than autumn wind. Greek row pulsed with rumors of a chainsaw-wielding figure in cosplay, turning heads and nerves alike—some say she vanished backstage, leaving only tension in her wake. In the shadowed corners of Murphy’s and Get Woke, subtle exchanges stained the air: covert deals were made beneath the guise of karaoke and caffeine, fueling suspicions that not all campus business is as innocent as homework. Meanwhile, whispers drift from the bistro to the dorms—a faculty member’s past may be darker than their lesson plans. Here, secrets root deep as the oaks.
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