Riverdale always pretended it was clean.
The white picket fences along Main Street gleamed under the July 4th fireworks, each burst of color reflecting in the windows of houses so pristine they could hide a corpse and smile while doing it. The river shimmered with false serenity, carrying the sound of laughter and pop-rock tunes from Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe down the block. But Juan had walked the Southside long enough to know better. The town never stayed clean. It just buried its sins beneath the neon and the illusion of innocence.
He leaned against the cracked brick wall of an alley that smelled of damp concrete and burnt tires. His Southside Serpent jacket clung to him like armor, the green coil across his back catching the firework glow for a heartbeat before melting back into shadow. Fully patched. Fully feared. Fully prepared. He had earned the jacket through pain, survival, and blood—and the streets remembered it.
The night smelled wrong. Not the usual mix of exhaust, smoke, and cheap cologne. Fear. The metallic tang of adrenaline mingled with sweat and something sharper, deeper, almost like grief. The panther beneath his skin stirred. Its muscles coiled, instincts sharpening every nerve ending. Juan exhaled slowly, letting it recede. Not yet. Patience was everything.
He had been in this alley before—countless nights spent walking the Southside, watching, listening, learning. He could move through the city like a ghost. Every shadow was a path, every whisper a warning. Tonight, the warning came from the north side of town.
A sharp scream split the air.
Juan's jaw tightened. The panther flexed. Quick as thought, he slipped from shadow to shadow, his boots silent against the wet asphalt. By the time he reached the corner, he could see it: the fireworks illuminated Pop's, the smell of chocolate and grease mingling with the copper scent of blood.
Fred Andrews lay crumpled against the wall of the shop, the shooting chaotic and sudden, the town's golden father spilling red across the blacktop. People screamed. Chairs overturned. Sirens wailed in the distance, but Juan only saw the chaos and the fear. He didn't hesitate.
The panther stirred again. This time, it pressed against his spine, claws digging into muscle, a predator's precision sharpening his senses. He could feel the shooter's presence even before seeing the figure: deliberate steps, calculated aim, a cold hand wrapped around the metal barrel of a gun.
Juan didn't move. He didn't need to. The panther watched, waited, assessed. Riverdale had no idea what had just walked into their town.
By the time the sirens cut through the night properly, Juan had slipped back into shadow, eyes glowing faint gold, body tense, every sense alert. He didn't need the spotlight. He didn't need recognition. The Southside remembered his name anyway.
He exhaled softly, shoulders relaxing slightly. The streets would scream, the news would spin, and the Northside would blame his people. Again.
Let them.
The Panther inside him purred faintly, restless. He could have intervened. He could have struck. But he didn't. Not yet. Survival wasn't just about strength. It was about timing. And timing, Juan knew, was everything.
Tonight, Riverdale had bled.
And the Southside was watching