Riverdale

The rain over Riverdale was never just rain. It was a mood, a threat, a confession. That Tuesday afternoon, it hammered the tin roof of Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe like a thousand tiny fists, blurring the neon sign into a red-and-blue bruise against the bruised sky.

Veronica’s smile was razor-thin. “What I had to. To protect the people I love. The question is: what are you willing to do to protect me?” Riverdale

The rain intensified, hammering the windows like it was trying to get in. Pop Tate appeared, silent as a ghost, and refilled Jughead’s coffee. He knew better than to ask questions. He’d seen too many Riverdale seasons turn from milkshakes to murder. The rain over Riverdale was never just rain

“You’re doing it again,” Jughead said, not looking up. “The jaw clench. The thousand-yard stare. You’re composing a sad song about it, aren’t you?” Veronica’s smile was razor-thin