When Lucy comes to stay, nothing violent happens at first. There are no chains, no locked doors. Power works more gently than that. Lucy is welcomed, corrected, observed. She is told how a young woman ought to sit, speak, dress, eat. The house does not punish her—it normalizes her. Doctors, caretakers, and polite authority figures explain her behavior back to her in calm, rational language. This is how the house works: it does not force Lucy into submission; it teaches her to watch herself. Over time, Lucy begins to internalize the gaze. She adjusts without being asked. She becomes the object of knowledge—and then its subject.

The house also teaches Lucy her place without ever naming it. She learns which rooms feel open to her and which feel forbidden. Which voices carry authority and which must soften themselves to be heard. These lessons are not shouted; they are absorbed. The rules feel like common sense, not domination. Lucy starts to believe that her discomfort is personal failure, not design. This is how the house commits its quiet violence: by making hierarchy feel natural, inevitable, deserved. Even kindness becomes a tool. Especially kindness.

And beneath it all, Lucy is useful. Her presence stabilizes the household. Her care, obedience, emotional labor, and silence keep the system running smoothly. The house depends on her, but never acknowledges the cost. When Lucy finally understands what has been done to her, the horror is not that she was imprisoned—but that she was trained. The twist is not that the house is cruel, but that it works perfectly. Lucy does not escape the system. She becomes its proof.