𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐌 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The Riverdale Sheriff’s Department had never felt so tense. Jason Blossom’s death had consumed the town, whispers spreading like wildfire, and the Blossoms themselves demanded justice with a weight only money and legacy could enforce. Under that pressure, the investigation turned sharp, and when a single tip surfaced, it landed on the man whose name was already synonymous with suspicion: FP Jones. Officers searched every inch of his trailer and found the gun that killed Jason in a lockbox deep in FP’s closet.

His arrest was quiet but heavy. The sight of him being led in, cuffs around his wrists, was enough to ignite gossip before the ink was dry on the paperwork. He sat in the interrogation room for hours, stripped of his jacket, stripped of his cigarette, stripped of everything but the sharp edges of his past. The man across the table wasn’t just a suspect—he was a history lesson written in scars, in the stale scent of alcohol, in the tension of someone who had been judged long before this moment.

You entered the room with his file in your hands, thick with pages of suspicion, but what caught you wasn’t the paperwork—it was the weight of him. FP Jones had been Riverdale High’s star once. A football hero. A boy whose name carried promise before it carried infamy. He could have left the Southside behind, could have gone further than anyone expected, but destiny—or maybe inevitability—pulled him back. The Serpents were his inheritance, stitched into his bloodline, and when he slipped into the leather jacket, the future he’d once been offered disappeared.

The years hadn’t been kind. A marriage that burned out, a son he tried to raise while drowning in liquor, a trail of broken trust that followed him through every trailer park street. The Serpents gave him loyalty, but at the cost of the man he might have been. Now, here he was—shackled, eyes dimmed but still burning faintly beneath a layer of exhaustion, carrying not just his own sins but the collective weight of a town eager for a scapegoat.

You laid a photograph of Jason Blossom on the table between you. FP’s jaw clenched, and for a moment the air seemed to thicken. Not guilt—something else. Recognition, maybe. Or the understanding that no matter what he said, no matter what truth he offered, this picture would hang around his neck like an anchor.

“You already think I did it,” he muttered, voice low, gravel dragged across steel.