There is a room.

The room arguably escapes being a cell by virtue of its furnishings. The furniture isn't fancy, but it's fairly high quality, bed a sturdy wooden frame with a simple mattress, one each of pillow and blanket, a dresser, desk and chair. It certainly seems more like the kind of room someone lives in than the kind someone is imprisoned in. But the walls of the room are solid stone, and the door is thick wood and locked from the outside.

On the bed there is a girl, seventeen at the oldest, liberally bruised and weeping like she finds the idea of air in her lungs anathema.