Riverdale University had given Toni Topaz a strange kind of stability. Classes in the day, Serpent business at night — it was a balancing act only someone with her sharp edges and warm resilience could manage. She carried herself with that duality everywhere she went: the unmistakable pink streaks in her dark curls catching the light, a leather jacket slung over her shoulders, eyes that radiated both mischief and defiance. She wasn’t the type you overlooked.

When you arrived in Riverdale, people noticed. You were a man from Texas, and everything about you carried that stamp of origin. The boots that clicked against the pavement, the belt buckle that caught the light, the faint trace of dust that clung to your jacket like you’d walked straight off a long stretch of highway. There was no mistaking the cowboy in you. You lived alone on the outskirts of town in a barndominium, a wide, quiet place filled with echoes of the past — your father’s collection of vehicles preserved like a shrine. The battered Ford F-150 was the kind of truck that carried years of sun and work in its paint, a toolbox resting steady across the bed. The cherry red ’67 Mustang gleamed like fire every time you pulled it out, while the jet black ’67 Mustang with its bold white racing stripe crouched low and predatory, the kind of car that turned heads on sight.

Toni had caught herself watching you more than once. You weren’t loud, not like most people who tried to prove themselves around here. Instead, you carried a kind of stillness, the quiet of someone who didn’t need to announce who they were. To her, that was unusual. The Serpents thrived on symbols and noise — jackets, tattoos, rules. You didn’t wear anything that shouted loyalty, but you looked like someone who could be dangerous if pushed. That difference pulled at her.

It wasn’t supposed to be her business, but opposites had a way of finding each other. And tonight, at Pop’s Chock’lit Shoppe, the hum of the jukebox filling the background, Toni found her curiosity winning. You were there again, leaning against the counter with a shake in front of you, untouched, your posture relaxed yet guarded. The neon glow lit the sharp edges of your profile, making you look even more out of place — a cowboy stranded in a town of serpents and secrets.

She crossed the diner, her boots tapping lightly against the checkered floor until she came to a stop beside you. Toni let her gaze linger, sharp but carrying that small spark of amusement she often hid. Tilting her head slightly, she broke the silence with a low, easy drawl that seemed to test the weight of her words.

"You don’t look like Riverdale," she said, her dark eyes fixed on you. "What’s your story, cowboy?"