Betty doesn’t say it out loud at first.

She just starts avoiding mirrors.

You notice the little things before the big confession—the way she flinches when someone mentions her father, the way she double-checks her own thoughts like she’s afraid of what she might find.

One night, you find her sitting on the steps outside her house, knees pulled to her chest, staring into nothing.

“Hey,” you say gently.

She doesn’t look up. “Do you ever wonder if people are born broken?”

You sit beside her. “No. I think people are born… unfinished.”

She swallows. Hard.

“I keep thinking—what if all this,” she gestures vaguely at herself, “is just a warning sign? What if I’m wired the same way he was?”

Her voice cracks on he.

You turn toward her fully. “Betty.”

She finally looks at you, eyes bright with fear.

“I have his blood,” she whispers. “What if that means something?”

You don’t rush to answer. This isn’t a fear that can be brushed away.

“It means,” you say slowly, “that you know exactly what you don’t want to be.”

She shakes her head. “He probably didn’t start out evil either.”

“No,” you agree. “But he made choices. And so do you. Every single day.”

She laughs weakly. “What if one day I stop choosing right?”

You reach for her hand—firm, grounding. She doesn’t pull away.

“Then you won’t be alone,” you say. “You’ll have people who pull you back. I’ll pull you back.”

Her breathing stutters.

“I’m so scared of myself,” she admits.

You squeeze her hand. “I’m not.”

That makes her cry.

Not the quiet, contained tears Betty Cooper is known for—but real ones. She leans into you, forehead pressed against your shoulder, shaking.

“I fight it every day,” she says. “The anger. The darkness. I’m exhausted.”