_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5" style="border:0px solid">The processing center smelled like disinfectant and fear.

  Sera kept her head down as the guards herded them through sterile corridors. Fifteen captives, fresh meat for the grinder. She'd studied floor pns of facilities like this, memorized standard youts, mapped extraction points. Never thought she'd see one from the inside without a weapon in her hand and an exit strategy.

  Tactical assessment: totally screwed.

  "Move along, livestock," barked the guard, prodding the teenage boy in front of her when he stumbled. The kid couldn't be more than sixteen, hollow-cheeked and terrified. Fresh pick-up from some failed settlement, probably. Sera cataloged his features—dark hair, scar above his eyebrow, potential asset if he survived long enough.

  They emerged into a holding area where twenty-odd humans sat on benches against bnk walls. Most wore the same beige processing gowns they'd been issued after decontamination. The room reeked of institutional efficiency—bright lights, sanitized surfaces, nowhere to hide.

  Standard vampire territory protocol—make the sheep believe they're going to a sughterhouse with excellent healthcare.

  The guards positioned them against the far wall before retreating to the doorway. Sera remained standing while others slumped to the floor, exhaustion overriding dignity. Always know the exits. One main door, secured. Ventition ducts too small for escape. Cameras in each corner. No blind spots.

  Amateur mistakes got hunters killed.

  Except your team didn't make amateur mistakes, did they?

  The thought sliced through her concentration. Marcus hadn't screwed up the extraction route. He'd known exactly what he was doing when he ordered the team to leave her behind.

  A woman approached from the main doorway, her footsteps precise and measured. Human, not vampire. She wore a crisp white uniform with a small insignia on the breast pocket—some kind of supervisor. Late thirties, athletic build maintained despite limited resources, eyes that had witnessed too much and stopped caring. The efficient posture of someone who'd survived by becoming part of the machine.

  "Attention, new acquisitions." Her voice carried the practiced cadence of someone who'd delivered this speech hundreds of times. "I'm Supervisor Maya. Welcome to the Eastern Valley Blood Production Facility."

  Sera almost ughed. Blood Production Facility. At least they weren't sugarcoating it here like in some territories. She'd infiltrated enough blood farms to recognize the different approaches. Count Ashcroft ran an operation known for its brutal efficiency—no pretense, just cold productivity.

  "You are now the property of Count Dominic Ashcroft," Maya continued, surveying them with clinical detachment. "Your cooperation is irrelevant. Your comfort is irrelevant. Your only value is your blood and your ability to produce it consistently."

  Sera studied Maya's face, seeking weaknesses, pressure points, exploitable traits. The woman had the particur hardness of someone who'd built walls to survive, who'd convinced herself this was just a job. Sera had seen her type before in other facilities—usually former medical staff or military, people with organizational skills valuable enough to elevate them just above livestock status.

  "Each of you has passed initial screening," Maya expined, consulting her tablet. "You're scheduled for full examination tomorrow, which will determine your extraction schedule and potential breeding value. Until then, you'll remain in temporary housing. Water will be provided."

  Maya paused, her expression hardening further. "A word of advice. The Count demands optimal production. Those who resist extraction don't live long enough to regret it. Those who attempt escape are processed immediately for maximum yield. There are no second chances in Count Ashcroft's territory."

  The threat hung in the air, delivered with the cold efficiency of someone stating facts rather than making threats. Sera felt a chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. She'd studied Count Ashcroft's territory—his farms were infamous within the resistance. Cssified as "maximum extraction" operations—the polite term for farms where humans were drained to the edge of survival with brutal regurity.

  Sera felt genuine fear beneath her tactical calcutions. One mistake, one slip revealing her hunter training, and she'd face immediate processing. Hunters were particurly prized for their blood quality—the years of training and conditioning created a distinctive fvor vampires considered a delicacy. The thought of ending up like Maya someday—hollowed out, a tool keeping the machine running—terrified her almost as much as immediate extraction.

  Focus on the mission. Survive. Observe. Escape.

  Maya assigned them temporary sleeping spaces with the cold efficiency of someone distributing inventory. Sera was directed to a small alcove containing four narrow cots. Her new roommates included a woman clutching a child of about seven—the family she'd noticed during processing—and a heavyset older man with silver hair.

  The child whimpered as her mother tried to soothe her with whispered reassurances that were as much for herself as for the girl. Sera kept her distance, watching them from the corner of her eye. Attachment was dangerous. Tactical complication. Getting emotional about other captives would compromise her focus.

  But the mother's attempts to comfort her daughter hit Sera with unexpected force. Her own mother had made those same promises years ago. Before watching her parents die while protecting evacuation routes during their community's fall. Before losing her brother two weeks ter to a vampire attack.

  The older man settled onto his cot with a grunt, his movements deliberate and careful. Unlike the others, his eyes didn't dart anxiously around the room—they scanned methodically, assessing, evaluating. His gaze paused briefly on Sera, and she immediately looked away, adopting the hunched posture of a frightened civilian.

  But not before she caught something in his expression. Recognition? Not of her specifically, but of what she was. Hunter knew hunter.

  She pointedly ignored him while arranging her meager allocated bedding. Around them, other processed captives were settling into their assigned spaces—three people with the telltale physical markers of resistance fighters (calloused hands, specific scarring patterns, the particur alertness in their eyes), whom she carefully avoided acknowledging.

  The rest were standard civilians—newly-captured survivors from what sounded like an overrun settlement based on their whispered conversations. Typical haul for a territory expansion operation.

  When the overhead lights dimmed to indicate sleep period, Sera y rigidly on her cot, maintaining awareness while feigning rest. Through slitted eyelids, she observed the older man—Jacob, she'd heard Maya call him during allocation—shifting on his cot.

  In the artificial twilight, his hand moved in what appeared to be an adjustment of his bnket. But Sera recognized the gesture from resistance communication protocols—three fingers spyed, then folded sequentially from pinky to index. Friend in hostile territory.

  She waited several minutes before responding with the countersign—scratching her colrbone in a specific pattern while appearing to simply adjust her gown. The man's expression didn't change, but a nearly imperceptible nod confirmed the connection.

  A potential ally. The thought brought little comfort. After Marcus's betrayal, trust seemed like a tactical vulnerability she couldn't afford. Jacob might be resistance, or he might be a pnt, a test. Blood farms sometimes used infiltrators to identify hunters and resistance members hiding among captives.

  Still, having a second set of eyes would improve her situational awareness. Temporary, conditional alliance at best.

  As the room settled into uneasy quiet punctuated by soft sobs and whispered conversations, Sera found herself slipping into memory despite her training. The careful pnning of her team's extraction route. The growing sense that something wasn't right about Marcus's st-minute changes to the pn.

  "Too much vampire activity along the eastern corridor," he'd said. "We'll use the service tunnel instead."

  She'd questioned it—the service tunnel had fewer exit points, creating a potential bottleneck—but ultimately deferred to his on-site assessment. Ten years fighting together had built trust. Or so she'd believed.

  Tomorrow she'd begin mapping this facility, identifying potential escape routes, establishing a cover identity that wouldn't draw attention. Standard hunter protocols for capture scenarios.

  But as exhaustion dragged her toward sleep, Sera confronted the reality that for the first time in ten years, she was truly alone. No team, no resistance network, no extraction pn.

  Just her, in the belly of the beast she'd spent a decade fighting, with no weapon except her wits and a single potential ally she couldn't trust.

  Tactical assessment: totally screwed.

  As darkness cimed her, Sera's st thought was grimly ironic. After all those years hunting vampires, she was about to discover what it felt like to be prey.