Riverdale stopped being normal a long time ago.

You and Betty know that better than anyone.

The first sign something’s wrong is the siren—low, warped, echoing through the fog like it doesn’t belong to this world. The second is the symbol carved into the door of the abandoned Thornhill estate.

Betty stares at it, jaw tight. “That’s not human.”

You grip the flashlight harder. “Neither is what’s inside.”

She looks at you then—not scared, not hesitant. Just determined.

“Let’s end this.”

Inside, the air feels heavy, like it’s pressing against your lungs. The walls are lined with old Blossom relics, candles burned down to nothing, whispers crawling through the silence.

Betty moves ahead of you, steady and focused, notebook tucked under her arm even now. She never leaves it behind.

“Heartbeat’s fast,” she murmurs. “But I’m okay.”

You nod. “I’ve got your back.”

A sound echoes from the staircase—something between a growl and a laugh.

The creature appears in a flash of movement, eyes glowing faintly, feeding off fear. You freeze for half a second.

Betty doesn’t.

“Don’t let it isolate us!” she shouts.

You move together like you’ve done this a hundred times—one distracts, the other circles. Betty recites the incantation she found in a stolen Black Hood file, voice shaking but unbroken.

The thing lunges.

You shove Betty out of the way, heart pounding. She stumbles, then regains her footing instantly.

“Hey!” she snaps at you. “You don’t get to be reckless—I’m the Cooper!”