PORT LAVEAU – Neighbors murmur that the bayou’s breath is a little steadier this week. Police blotters gather dust; the old brawlers at Lafitte’s mutter that fists are staying pocketed. Violence, that perennial river beneath our streets, has slowed to a trickle. At first glance, it’s enough to make even the most jaded soul offer a tip of the hat to collective restraint.

But this unnatural quiet chills more than the southern wind. In times of peace, old ghosts find new voices. Sources close to the authorities hint that this lull is not a sign of virtue but a veil—one the city’s more enterprising elements may be eager to exploit. With the rowdier sorts lying low, the shadows cast by their absence have grown long and hungry across the marina and airfield.

Enter the Watchful—Sheriff Lebeau and her special task force—who have taken the lull as both omen and opportunity. Their recent crackdown on the docks is painted as “precaution,” but whispers drift of a deeper concern: a missing crate, the kind that stirs foreign appetites and local superstitions alike. As strange cargo slips between worlds, the Syndicate steps forward, their steady hand guiding Port Laveau through the dark—by whatever means the night demands.