Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the dockside dive where the air sticks like molasses, they say the woman in the faded denim skirt didn’t shy from telling tales—a two-minute flick, lips wrapped tight around a pink toy, no shame in her voice, just that spicy edge that makes the night linger long after the bourbon’s gone. She laughed it off, shadows dancing on her skin, like she owned the heat that hums through Port Laveau’s veins. ░▒
▒░ But the fog’s thicker now, and it ain’t just her story curling through the streets. Whispers swell near the scrap yards—quiet moves, a shipment gone wrong, blood slicking the planks. The Silent Serpent’s fingers twitch in the dark, watching for snakes in their midst while flickers of strange lights flash low over the bayou, twisting secrets nobody dares name. ░▒
░▒░ One of the Sheriff’s boys caught wind of the chatter—eyes narrowing, lips tight. ░▒
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