Under the dim glow of flickering neon, a muted chaos unfolded at one of Laveau’s lesser-known watering holes, where shadows clung to the cracked glass resting on the bar’s worn corner like silent witnesses. A spilled drink, its amber liquid swirling slowly, mirrored the crimson stains that marked the night’s violence. The patrons—a mix of battered locals and strangers with eyes too sharp to be innocent—moved with cautious detachment, as hushed murmurs mixed with the distant song of cicadas. The cold steel of a concealed blade caught the faint bar light in a flash before the scene stilled, save for the low hum of the bayou night.