Chapter 4: House rules
1395 Words
Morning arrived without mercy.
There were no alarms—only the soft hum of automation. Lights glowed brighter with each second, peeling back the illusion of rest, and a perfectly calm, perfectly hollow voice sliced through the silence:
📍 “Breakfast – 8:00. Wellness Check – 9:15. Confessionals – 11:30. Group Task – 13:00. Private Moments – Denied.”
It wasn’t a home anymore. It was a system—self-correcting, always watching, always one step ahead.
The women moved like dancers rehearsing choreography they hadn’t chosen. Every hallway creaked with surveillance. Mirrors blinked. Shower stalls had countdowns. Even the air felt artificial—too clean, too controlled.
The Party Girl squinted at the ceiling and muttered, “Y’all feel like we’re in a simulation?”
The Hustler gave a lazy shrug. “Simulations pay. I can play pretend.”
The Traditionalist said nothing. Her lips were moving, barely audible. She wasn’t speaking to the group—she was speaking to someone higher.
🎬 Then came the breach.
It happened during the Group Task—a cooking segment, fake and performative, meant to sell domestic harmony to viewers. Each woman had a role. Smiles were mandatory. Flirting was encouraged.
But The Church Girl broke the script. Leaning into The Widow’s ear, she whispered:
“Just act nice. The less they know, the more power we hold.”
Maybe she thought the mic was muted. Maybe she thought the cameras had turned away.
They hadn’t.
Within seconds, the lights flickered—a pulse, then a dimming. The automated voice returned, flatter than ever:
🔔 “Rule Violation: Unauthorized Communication.”
Black-clad producers emerged from nowhere. No explanation. No eye contact. No chance to say goodbye.
The Church Girl was removed.
For hours, no one saw her.
Her absence wasn’t loud—it was louder than that. The kitchen felt colder. The walls listened harder. The games now carried an invisible penalty.
The Street-Smart Lady stopped sleeping without a spoon and mint alarm against her door.
The Career Woman stopped talking altogether—eyes darting to corners, ceiling vents, reflections in faucets.
The Submissive One began writing. Small, secret pages hidden inside a makeup palette—documenting everything. Not for the world. For herself. To stay real.
The Traditionalist’s prayers grew longer, as if she believed someone upstairs was trying to compete with the voice downstairs.
Trust didn’t shatter that day.
It mutated.
When The Church Girl finally returned that night, she didn’t look like herself.
She didn’t eat. Didn’t speak. Didn’t cry.
She just stood at her mirror, brushing her hair in slow, robotic strokes. Staring not at herself, but through herself.
Something had been taken. Or maybe something had been planted.
She’d been reminded who owned her image. Her voice. Her truth.
And everyone else?
They'd been warned.
The Party Girl rushed to her.
“Where’d they take you?”
The Church Girl blinked.
The Submissive One stepped forward. “Did they hurt you?”
Silence.
The Career Woman tried the rational approach. “Was it a contract breach? Did they threaten your pay?”
Nothing.
The Widow, who rarely spoke, leaned against the fridge. “Did they show you what happens if we try to think for ourselves?”
The Church Girl looked at them all, then simply said, “It’s best we follow the rules.”
Her voice was calm. Too calm.
Morning came like a command.
There was no natural light in the house — only manufactured brightness, timed perfectly to flood the rooms at exactly 6:30 a.m. The women stirred not from rest but from routine, their bodies slowly adjusting to the strange rhythm of being watched, monitored, and managed.
The voice returned.
📢 “Good morning. Breakfast at 8:00. Wellness check at 9:15. Confessionals at 11:30. Group Task at 13:00. Private moments: denied. House Rules apply.”
The Church Girl, The Career Woman, The Hustler, The Street-Smart Lady, The Submissive One, The Widow, The Traditionalist, and The Party Girl blinked into wakefulness.
By now, they all knew: nothing in this house was theirs. Not the time, not the silence, not even their faces.
They shuffled into the kitchen. No one talked much anymore. Everything felt different since yesterday—since the breach.
The Church Girl had whispered something. Something small. Something rebellious.
And then they’d taken her.
Just like that. A warning disguised as a removal.
The house had no guards — but it didn’t need them. The entire structure obeyed someone unseen. The walls retracted, revealing a sleek glass panel. The screen lit up with static before sharpening into a figure they’d only ever heard — a neutral face paired with the voice.
A moderator? An enforcer? No one knew who or what they were.
The voice delivered the announcement like it was gospel.
📢 “You have now entered Phase Two. Visibility has increased. Autonomy has decreased. You are no longer just contestants. You are assets. Assets must follow the House Rules.”
The screen flashed, and a list began to appear, one rule at a time:
HOUSE RULES
1. No Communication Without Intention.
“Idle talk breeds resistance. Speak only when necessary. Every word counts. Every word is watched.”
The women exchanged glances. Already, they’d grown wary of whispers — now even talking felt like a risk.
2. No Questions About the Outside World.
“The past is irrelevant. The future is curated. Focus on the now.”
The Street-Smart Lady scoffed under her breath. “They mean: forget who we were.”
The Church Girl sat stiffly, staring ahead.
3. No Unauthorized Physical Contact.
“Hugs. Touches. Even handshakes are monitored. Intimacy leads to alliances. Alliances breed mutiny.”
The Submissive One clutched her own fingers, knuckles white.
4. Meals Must Be Taken as Served.
“No preferences. No diets. What is placed before you is tailored to your role.”
That explained the strange differences at the table — why the Widow always had warm soup, why the Career Woman’s plate was high in protein and bland. They were being studied.
5. Confessions Are Mandatory.
“Each woman must enter the Confession Room once per day. Speak your truth, or one will be invented for you.”
The Party Girl's jaw tightened. “So they record us, edit what they want, and package it to the outside like we’re characters in a play?”
No one answered. They didn’t know who “the outside” even was anymore.
6. Disobedience Will Be Corrected.
“Correction may take many forms. Physical removal. Emotional recalibration. Or a reminder.”
Everyone looked at the Church Girl.
She did not flinch.
7. No One Leaves Without Permission.
“There are no doors. Only phases. Exit is a privilege, not a right.”
8. The House Has Eyes.
“There is no such thing as privacy. Bathe like you’re on stage. Sleep like you’re being studied. Because you are.”
The screen dimmed for a second, then returned for one final line.
📢 “There will be no further warnings. Enjoy your stay.”
Then silence. No music. No beeps. Just the cold buzz of surveillance.
After the rules, the group stood still, waiting for instructions that never came. The room began to return to its former self — the walls folding back, the chairs sliding away as if pulled by invisible threads.
The Career Woman broke the silence.
“We’re not in a game. We’re in a project.”
The Hustler nodded. “One that’s way above our heads.”
The Party Girl rolled her eyes. “If they think I’m going to sit around and play robot, they’ve got another thing coming.”
The Traditionalist, who had been silent for days, finally spoke. “Then start by not touching anyone. Or asking stupid questions. Because now we all pay.”
The Church Girl suddenly stood and walked out. No one followed her.
They didn’t need to. Her silence screamed louder than any warning. Whatever happened to her when she was taken… it broke something. Or rewired it.
Later that night, during their “wellness hour,” they were each given tablets.
White. Identical. No labels.
📢 “For optimal cooperation. Side effects: none that concern you.”
Some swallowed. Some hesitated. But one by one, they complied.
That was the unspoken 9th rule: compliance is easier than punishment.
- Writer
