Sera stared at the ceiling of her "premium accommodation," counting the hairline cracks in the pster. Twenty-three. She'd named them all—mostly after weapons she missed. Beretta. Crossbow. Silver-edged hunting knife. The little things that make life worth living.

  Three weeks into her new status as Count Dominic Ashcroft's exclusive blood bag, her arm trembled as she raised it to shield her eyes from the morning light filtering through the narrow window. The movement sent a wave of dizziness crashing through her skull.

  "Just another day in paradise," she murmured to the empty room. "Where the accommodations are five-star and the room service is to die for. Literally."

  The irony wasn't lost on her. After years hunting vampires, she'd become the equivalent of a vintage wine celr. Except bottles didn't feel the extraction.

  She pushed herself to a sitting position, pausing as bck spots danced across her vision. The premium quarters were objectively better than standard resource housing—private bathroom, actual bed with a mattress, window. But these "luxuries" felt like mockery when paired with the twice-weekly feedings that were systematically killing her.

  Her reflection in the small metal mirror above the sink was a stranger—hollow-cheeked, skin ashen, dark smudges beneath her eyes like bruises. Her colrbones protruded sharply beneath the red-banded uniform that marked her as exclusive property.

  "Looking good, Harrison," she told her reflection with bitter humor. "Really bringing back that heroin chic look. Very retro."

  The sound of the door unlocking interrupted her self-assessment. Dr. Harlow entered, tablet in hand, accompanied by the usual security escort. The doctor's professionally neutral expression slipped momentarily when she saw Sera—a flicker of concern quickly masked.

  "Resource E-4172, I'm here for your pre-feeding assessment," she announced, voice clinical despite the worried gnces she kept shooting at Sera's trembling hands.

  "Sure thing, Doc. Gotta make sure the vintage is properly aged before serving." Sera extended her arm for the blood pressure cuff, not missing how the doctor winced at the prominent veins visible beneath her paper-thin skin.

  Dr. Harlow's fingers were cool against her wrist as she took Sera's pulse manually, confirming the digital reading. "Your resting heart rate is elevated again. Blood pressure remains below optimal parameters."

  "Sorry to disappoint. I'll try to circute more efficiently next time."

  The doctor ignored the sarcasm, moving through the examination with practiced efficiency—temperature, pupil reactivity, skin esticity. Each test added another frown line to her forehead.

  "Blood cell regeneration remains compromised despite supplemental protocols," she noted, scanning through previous readings on her tablet. "Hemoglobin levels critical."

  Sera ughed, a dry sound without humor. "Turns out humans need blood too. Who knew?"

  Dr. Harlow's eyes darted to the security guard, then back to her tablet. She lowered her voice. "I'm recommending a reduced extraction volume and extended recovery period."

  "I'm sure the Count will take that under advisement," Sera replied, knowing full well that medical recommendations carried little weight against vampire hunger, especially when that hunger had developed into what was essentially an addiction to her specific blood chemistry.

  Dr. Harlow continued speaking in technical terms that meant little to anyone without medical training, but Sera understood the subtext perfectly: her body was failing. The supplemental nutrition—protein concentrates that tasted like sweetened chalk and vitamin cocktails that burned going down—couldn't compensate for the volume of blood being taken.

  "Your nutrient absorption has decreased by twelve percent since st assessment," the doctor concluded, typing rapidly. "I'm adjusting your supplement formu."

  "Maybe add some fvor while you're at it," Sera suggested. "Chocote? Strawberry? A hint of impending mortality?"

  The doctor's fingers paused over the tablet. For a moment, the professional mask slipped entirely, revealing raw concern beneath.

  "This isn't sustainable," she said quietly, eyes meeting Sera's directly for the first time.

  Sera held her gaze. "Nothing is, Doc."

  After the doctor left, Sera returned to her bed, wrapping herself in the thin bnket that did nothing to touch the bone-deep cold that had become her constant companion. The chill wasn't just physical—it was her body prioritizing vital functions as it slowly shut down non-essential systems.

  Time blurred as she drifted between consciousness and a foggy half-sleep. Her hunter training had prepared her for many things—torture, capture, even execution—but not this gradual, industrial draining. Not becoming a resource.

  The memory of Commander Vex's voice surfaced, a training session from years ago: If captured, gather intelligence. Every moment alive is an opportunity. There is no such thing as a hopeless position.

  "Bet you never factored in becoming a vampire's favorite cocktail, Vex," she whispered to the empty room.

  Sera had always imagined dying in combat—quick, violent, purpose-driven. Not this slow fade, measured in milliliters and declining health metrics.

  She'd calcuted her remaining survival time based on current extraction rates—two months at most before her organs began shutting down. Less if the Count increased feeding frequency, which seemed likely given his growing dependency on her blood.

  The cold seemed to intensify as afternoon waned into evening. Sera pulled the bnket tighter, her body shivering uncontrolbly. Hunter training whispered through her mind—techniques for managing blood loss, for maintaining core temperature with minimal resources. But those were designed for acute situations, not this chronic depletion.

  "Ironic," she murmured, watching her breath form faint clouds in the chill air. "Survive a decade hunting the deadliest predators on the pnet only to die in a temperature-controlled room with clean sheets."

  Darkness fell, the room illuminated only by the faint security light near the door. The silence was heavy, broken only by the hum of climate control systems and distant sounds of the blood farm's night operations.

  In this darkness, memories surfaced unbidden—running through summer fields before the outbreak, her father teaching her to track deer, joining her first hunter cell, the weight of her first specialized weapon. The mental discipline that had sustained her through years of high-stakes operations began to fracture, strategic pnning giving way to raw survival instinct.

  A tear slid down her cheek, surprising her. She couldn't remember the st time she'd cried. Probably not since those first terrible days after the outbreak, when her world colpsed around her.

  More tears followed, silent and unstoppable. Sera didn't bother wiping them away—no one to see her weakness in the darkness, no tactical disadvantage to acknowledge that she was afraid. Not of death itself, but of dying without completion. Without vengeance. Without purpose.

  "This isn't how it ends," she whispered fiercely, even as her body shook with cold and exhaustion. "This isn't my ending."

  But the reality of her failing body contradicted her determination. Tomorrow was another feeding day. The Count would drink, and more of her life would drain away into his veins. The medical staff would note declining parameters in clinical nguage that stripped all humanity from the process.

  As midnight approached, Sera found herself doing something she hadn't done since her earliest days as a hunter—reciting the final testament. It was an old tradition, a way of cataloging one's weapons, missions, and kills as a record and remembrance.

  "I am Sera Harrison," she whispered into the darkness. "Hunter cssification: Elite. Tactical specialist. Ten years active. Twenty-six successful missions. Forty-three confirmed kills."

  The recitation continued, a litany of weapons mastered, operations completed, comrades lost. Halfway through, the words caught in her throat. What was the point? There was no one to hear, no one to remember. Her team had betrayed her. The resistance would list her as missing, presumed dead. The only record of her existence would be a resource ID number in a vampire's feeding log.

  Exhaustion pulled at her consciousness. As she drifted toward uneasy sleep, a final thought surfaced—bitter, defiant humor that was purely, uniquely Sera.

  "Maybe my blood will give him indigestion," she murmured. "Dying with a purpose after all.