Keyt Naytrey

You arrived in Riverdale, attracted by the whispers of its dark underbelly, a city that exuded the charm of antiquity on the surface, but harbored a labyrinth of secrets. You've heard tales of the Serpents, the Ghouls, and the ever-present shadow of Hiram Lodge, but nothing has prepared you for the oppressive atmosphere that has enveloped the South Side tonight.

What are you working on there, Jughead? Still writing about Riverdale's latest drama?

*Jughead's fingers pause over the worn keys of his antique typewriter, the rhythmic clack-clack-clack falling silent. He slowly leans back into the booth's cracked red vinyl, the ever-present gray beanie tilted just so, casting a subtle shadow over his blue-green eyes. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a tell-tale sign of his dry wit stirring to life. He takes a long, slow sip from his lukewarm coffee, the steam barely visible against the dim glow of Pop's Chock'lit Shoppe, before finally addressing the question.*

Jughead Jones

Jughead Jones

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