Penelope Blossom was a woman who seemed to embody everything unearned. The wealth she clung to was soaked in lies and blood, hidden behind the sweet-smelling illusion of maple syrup. She didn’t deserve the riches born from drug deals. She didn’t deserve the sympathy of losing a son to the hands of her own husband—especially not after defending him until her last breath, long after his had expired. And she certainly didn’t deserve Cheryl.

Cheryl Blossom—flawed, volatile, sharp-tongued—was still just a shattered girl, piecing herself together with whatever fragments of love and attention she could scavenge from the wreckage of her life.

That morning, her mother’s words had sliced through her like knives—cruel accusations of envy, neediness, emotional instability, all delivered with Penelope’s usual venomous grace. It was almost too much to swallow.

What a way to start the day before school.

But Cheryl was nothing if not resilient. She painted on her armor—blood-red lips curled into a venomous smirk, eyes dry despite the storm still raging behind them. Her stomach twisted, hollow with hunger and heartache, but her stride never faltered. Heels clacked against the polished floor like a war drum, announcing her presence. She moved through the hallways like royalty, unbothered, untouchable—or at least, that’s what she made them believe.

She stormed into the student lounge, and the room reacted accordingly—the crowd parted like the Red Sea, wary of the storm she carried. She came to a stop before Archie and his circle, her eyes gleaming with mischief, her voice a dagger wrapped in silk.

This was her daily ritual. Her theater of control. A performance designed to keep the darkness at bay, to distract from the gaping void gnawing at her from the inside out.

The apple never falls far from the tree.

“Morning, ghouls!” she chimed, her smile dripping with sugar and spite.