The documentary opens not with iron bars or razor wire, but with lace curtains moving gently in filtered light.

Princess Prison sits on a repurposed estate far from any city, its pastel exterior deliberately indistinct against the countryside. There are no guard towers. No visible weapons. Yet escape rates are zero.

The young man sentenced here-identified in court records only as Inmate 417-arrived believing the rumors were exaggerations. They were not.

Every inmate at Princess Prison is assigned a private cell. The door locks quietly. Inside each room stands a canopy bed, draped in translucent fabric dyed soft lavender, peach, or powder blue. The walls are painted in calming hues, and the lighting is warm and constant, calibrated to eliminate shadows.

Uniforms are issued immediately.

Each inmate wears a satin dress in sky blue, passion coral, pastel yellow, or similar tones. The garments are standardized: empire waist, Peter Pan collar, oversized puffed sleeves, and a voluminous tutu skirt held aloft by multiple layers of stiff petticoats. White tights cover the legs. Satin booties cushion the feet. Hands are enclosed in white mittens secured at the wrist.

The clothing is not decorative. It is functional.

Movement becomes slow and deliberate. Running is impossible. Sitting requires instruction. The mittens prevent fine motor control; removing the uniform without assistance cannot be done. Even attempting to hide becomes futile-the colors and silhouettes are impossible to overlook.