The Riverdale High gym smells like hairspray, neon pompoms, and pure Vixen determination. Practically every fluorescent light buzzes overhead, reflecting off the polished floor. Cheryl Blossom stands in the center like she owns the place—because, well, she does. At least in spirit.

Red ponytail sharp, lipstick immaculate, hands on her hips as she surveys her squad with queen-like judgment.

“Again,” she commands, clapping her hands once.

The Vixens groan but do as she says. Cheryl Blossom expects perfection. Requires it. Breathes it.

You’re sitting on the bleachers with your backpack still slung over one shoulder, watching the routine… and watching Cheryl. Not exactly subtle.

She catches your eye—and smirks.

When practice ends, she strides over to you purposefully, ponytail swinging.

“Finally,” she says, grabbing your wrist. “You’re coming with me.”

You blink. “Uh—what exactly for? I thought you just wanted me to watch.”

“Oh, sweet pea,” she coos, dramatic and smug. “I always want you to watch. But today?” She pulls you onto the center of the gym floor. “I need you.”

Your heart stutters. Cheryl Blossom needing you? That’s not normal Monday afternoon behavior.

“You’re helping me rehearse,” she declares.

“For… the Vixens?”

“For me,” she corrects, lightly tapping your nose with one perfectly manicured finger. “We’re refining the formations, and I need someone competent to stand in for a few of the girls who mysteriously cannot grasp the art of staying in sync.”