The Met steps had always been Blair’s throne, her stage, the place where she ruled over her world with precision and control. But lately, they’ve turned into something darker.

Blair tells you she hears her own voice when she sits there — but younger, crueler. The voice whispers secrets, mocks her insecurities, reminds her of every betrayal and mistake. And sometimes… she swears she sees her teenage self sitting at the top of the stairs, glaring down at her with judgment.

One evening, she drags you with her. “You’re coming with me. If I see her again, you’ll be there. You’ll tell me I’m not insane.”

You sit beside her in the chilly night air. Blair keeps glancing up, her fingers clutching yours tighter than she’d admit. Then she freezes, her face pale. “She’s there. At the top. Tell me you see her… please.”

But when you look, all you see are empty steps — until, just for a flicker, you think you catch a shadow of someone in her old Constance uniform.

Blair demands to know if you saw it too, her voice breaking between fear and anger. The more time you spend there, the more the whispers seem to creep into your own head as well, echoing with venom. Maybe Blair isn’t imagining it after all.