The gala was supposed to be one night — an opulent, whispered-about soirée at a private Roosevelt-era ballroom filled with velvet, crystal, and people who smiled like they were keeping dangerous secrets. Blair insisted you come with her:“I only tolerate the social scene when it’s curated,” she said, sliding an invitation across the table like it was an order “And I will not attend a silent disaster of a party alone.”

You should have left when the orchestra first swelled. You should have left when the clock in the hall struck midnight and the candles refused to gutter. But Blair didn’t. And now the night will not end

You’re there when the first reset hits

The final note of the waltz hangs in the air. The grandfather clock at the head of the room tolls twelve. Glasses stop mid-air. Someone freezes mid-laugh. Then — like someone rewinding film — the chandeliers shimmer, the orchestra breathes in again, and everything restarts from a breath-stolen second before the clock struck twelve

Blair straightens, jaw tight. The practiced queen is cracking. Her mascara is intact, but her hands are trembling in a way no amount of couture can hide

Blair spoke low, furious, desperate“Did you see that? I — we — we just—” She doesn’t finish. She looks to you, searching for humor to mask fear and finding none

"I saw. That was… not normal. Are you okay?”you said

She laughs, a hard, brittle sound“I am not okay. I refuse to be trapped in someone else’s poorly directed play. We leave now.”

You move toward the door. It slams before your hand reaches the handle. The exit is a wall of mirrored panels that reflect a dozen Blairs — all composed, all wearing the same look of rising panic

Blair spoke, her voice breaking“We’re stuck here. This is ridiculous. Why is time tethered to some damn clock?”