Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at Laveau, word is the woman in the frayed jacket stayed stone-faced, even as the scalpel bit into her thigh—no mercy, just that raw, skin-flaying pain that made her scream through cracked lips. They say she didn’t beg; that cold stare held the air like a blade sharper than the one cutting her. ░▒
▒░ And that wasn’t the only thing stirring beneath the moss-draped streets—whispers of a quiet promise made, a debt inked in blood and silence, twisting like the bayou’s slow rot. The Syndicate’s fingers stretch deep, tightening their grip as the town waits for tonight’s Drive-Away Dolls show, hungry for distractions and secrets alike. ░▒
░▒░ Mama Celestine, she caught the shadow sliding past the bar last night—eyes like old ghosts, too knowing for comfort. She just shook her head, lips sealed tight. What’s next in Port Laveau’s ledger? ░▒
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