Whispers in the bayou... ░▒░ Down at the Starlust, they say the girl in the bruised eyes slipped back through the cracked door, her steps slow, wary—too close to the ledger’s glare for comfort. The air was thick with sweat and silence, her breath barely stirring the stale motel hum, like she was dodging ghosts that still clung to her skin. Nobody said a word, but that look—half fear, half steel—held the room captive. ░▒
▒░ And that wasn’t the only shadow stretching this way. The fog’s been thicker by the docks, curling like smoke from a funeral pyre, swallowing voices whole. Whispers tell of strange lights flickering beneath the bayou’s mirror, serpents stirring beneath the water, and the Syndicate’s grip tightening—more than just flesh and bone on their ledger now. ░▒
░▒░ Over on Cypress Lane, the root woman watches, her fingers still in the dirt, eyes sharp as a blade’s edge. ░▒
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