Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the clinic, they say the bell rang sharp as a switchblade, cutting through the thick air. A man in a rumpled coat spun slow, boots echoing on cracked tile, eyes fixed on crimson staining the floor—five deep, no sound but the drip. The silence swallowed the lobby like bayou fog. ░▒
▒░ But that wasn’t all stirring beneath the rotten moss; whispers crawl from the Asylum’s shadow, where the Silent Serpent’s rites twist flesh and spirit. Shadows flicker, voices hum low, and the Syndicate’s grip tightens like a noose slick with superstition and fear. ░▒
░▒░ Father Delacroix, quiet in the old church, caught that look—half prayer, half dread—lingering at the door. They say he knows more than he says. What price, then, for silence in a town where the bayou never forgets? ░▒
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