The apartment didn't feel like a home anymore. It felt like a place she was allowed to stay in as long as she behaved.
Adrian stopped leaving the door unlocked. He said it was for her safety—people outside were cruel, the city was full of predators. Lucky believed him for a while. She wanted to. After all, he had saved her when no one else cared.
He brought her books, told her stories, made her meals. His voice was gentle, but there was a firmness in it now—a warning hidden inside the kindness. When she asked if she could go out alone, his smile faded.
"Do you not trust me?"
The question was sharp, dangerous. Lucky apologized, though she didn't know what for.
Days turned into a routine of quiet obedience. She read, cleaned, cooked when he asked her to. Sometimes, she'd catch her reflection in the window—eyes dulled, shoulders tense—and barely recognize herself.
At night, she would press her palms together and whisper to the stars she could no longer see: "I didn't come here to live like this."
But the world outside felt too far away. Every time she thought of leaving, Adrian's words echoed in her mind: They'll hurt you out there.
And maybe he was right. Maybe humans were all like this—smiling, gentle, and cruel in the same breath.
The door stayed locked. Her voice grew smaller.
Lucky began to understand that kindness can be a cage—and love, when it's claimed instead of given, can become a weapon