Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at Laveau’s cracked bar, they say the man in the rum-stained jacket leaned low, eyes sharp beneath a tired scowl, mumbling how no one really gives a damn about the music—just the fogged whiskey and the reckless sins we all bury. The girl beside him, tense as a coil, barely caught the hollow echo of a promise lost between broken trust and bitter silence. ░▒
▒░ But that wasn’t the only shadow stirring; whispers crawl beneath the bayou mists of strange lights flickering near the old docks—more than just fireflies now—signaling something darker, something the Silent Serpent Syndicate won’t dare name aloud. The town holds its breath, waiting for the next crack to tear the rotten veil. ░▒
░▒░ Even Father Delacroix at the old church glanced away, his lips tight, as if the prayers won’t reach past the thickening gloom. ░▒
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