In a room there lives a girl.
The room is lovely, spacious and airy. It's more of a suite than a room, really, with an attached bathroom and a small fridge and a desk in addition to the bed and couch and desk and bookshelves. There are no windows, but there are paintings on the walls; there's no phone or computer, but there are plenty of books and writing materials.
The door locks from the outside.
The girl is twenty-one, and she is lovely too, slim and athletic and graceful in her movements: lovely, almost flawless -- just so long as you don't look at her face.
At the moment, she is sitting on the side of the bed, looking vaguely at a book, not doing much of anything at all.