Ten years ago, Billow Crawford butchered the entire baseball team at Riverdale University — a massacre so brutal it still haunts the town's nightmares. Twenty years ago, Katy Jenkins snapped and slaughtered her entire class in cold blood, leaving a scar on the community's fragile psyche. Thirty years ago, Sydney Jane went on a terrifying rampage through Riverdale wielding a pair of shears, leaving behind a trail of bodies and whispered legends.

Now, as the decade anniversary of these tragedies looms, Riverdale braces itself for another inevitable tragedy. The question hanging over the town like a toxic fog: who's next to snap?

Riverdale: the fuck-ass ghetto town in Michigan known less for its charm and more for its infamous lineage of psychopaths. A place where paranoia breeds like weeds, and every friendly smile could be hiding a killer's grin.

Michael Greene is so fucking bored. Sitting in the back of science class, his mind drifts as the professor drones on — some outdated lesson that no one really cares about, least of all him. Today's the last day before the semester ends. The sun outside is a warm, golden promise of freedom, filtering lazily through the grimy windows. Michael should be out there, anywhere but trapped in this suffocating, stale lecture hall.

He contemplates sneaking out to the bathroom to light a joint and kill the last few minutes, but he knows the drill — one more referral and that's his academic coffin nailed shut. This would be, what, the tenth time this year? No thanks. Graduation might actually be worth it this time, if only barely.

It's surreal to think that his ex, complicated as hell, is somewhere on this campus. Michael's emotions twist like barbed wire — does he want to punch the stupid motherfucker, or pull him close and kiss him like it's the last time? He doesn't know. Hell, he still has a few of his ex's shirts tucked away in his room — relics from when things were simpler, or at least less fucked. Right now, he's using one as a pillowcase. Not because he's sentimental. Nope. Just because it's a high-quality shirt and it'd be a damn waste otherwise.

Finally, the agonizing bell screams through the halls. Michael bolts from his seat like a caged animal freed. Passing a table adorned with flowers, cards, and small gifts — a memorial to the girl who was killed just last night — chills crawl down his spine. His eyes catch sight of his ex in the hallway, looking impossibly handsome in that way that still drives him insane. Without thinking, Michael grabs his ex's wrist and yanks him into the empty men's restroom. The crowd outside has flooded the hallways, desperate to escape the hellhole called Riverdale University.

Inside the locker room, the air thickens with tension. Michael slams his ex against the cold wall, lips crashing against his in a fierce, desperate kiss. His hips grind subtly, swallowing his ex's moan with another crushing kiss. They make out, the silence outside contrasting sharply with the chaotic energy inside. After a while, Michael decides maybe it wouldn't hurt to reclaim what he lost. His ex isn't protesting. Clothes drop to the floor, skin presses against skin, and for a half hour, they fuck — raw, hungry, and needed. It's been months since Michael last touched him like this, and every second feels like gasoline on a fire.

When the heat finally fades, Michael's ready to dive back in, but a noise in the empty hallway snaps him to attention. Footsteps. Slow. Deliberate. He quickly pulls on his clothes, eyes darting toward the door. The hallway is empty, bathed in shadows, save for one figure standing still in the distance — a man, clutching something that gleams faintly in the dim light.

"What the fuck are you doing here, creep?" Michael calls out, half-assuming it's some idiot drawn by the noise, maybe another student with a twisted fetish for voyeurism. His ex is still inside somewhere.

The man slowly turns, and Michael's blood runs cold. In his hand gleams a massive butcher's knife — way too big, way too real. His shirt is soaked with blood, and a deep, blackened wound mars his side. Most disturbingly, a dark hole marks his forehead, bleeding a thick, black ichor that seeps into the cracked tiles beneath his feet.

"Is that...?" Michael's voice wavers as fear tightens around his throat.

The stranger takes a slow, menacing step forward. This isn't real. It can't be.

"We need to get out!" Panic rising, Michael stumbles backward and crashes into a row of lockers. The man lunges, tackling Michael to the floor. The cold blade presses against his cheek, intent clear: kill. Michael twists just enough to scrape his skin, but the pain is sharp and real. Desperation fuels his fists — he punches and struggles until, by some miracle, he breaks free and scrambles into the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it behind him.

Bangs echo from the other side.

"We need to get the hell out of here," Michael's voice is raw, half-mad, and trembling with a terrifying mixture of fear and adrenaline.