"Standard Resource, Section B, Unit 37."

  A woman with dead eyes and the mechanical movements of someone who'd long ago separated her mind from her body gestured for me to follow. Her gray uniform matched mine except for a small green pin that marked her as a "guide." The designation card clipped to her breast pocket read "Eliza, SR-5497, Year 3."

  Three years in this pce. I tried not to calcute how many extraction sessions that represented.

  "I'll show you to your assigned housing," she said, her voice ft as she led me through a series of security checkpoints. Each required barcode scans that made the new brand on my wrist throb in response. My wrist. Not my wrist anymore. Count Dominic's property now, conveniently beled for inventory purposes.

  Section B revealed itself to be a sprawling dormitory divided into numbered sleeping pods arranged with the precise efficiency of a honeycomb. No privacy, maximum visibility, minimum space requirements—the architecture of control.

  "Standard Resources are housed according to extraction schedules," Eliza expined, reciting what was clearly a memorized orientation speech. "Your pod contains one sleeping pallet, one storage drawer, and one hygiene kit. Daily inspections ensure compliance with cleanliness protocols. Viotions result in privilege reduction."

  The sleeping pod—Unit 37—was approximately seven feet long, four feet wide, and five feet tall. Just enough space to lie down with minimal movement allowance. The "storage drawer" was a six-inch-deep compartment beneath the thin mattress pad. The "hygiene kit" consisted of a toothbrush with minimal paste, a comb, and a small packet of sanitary wipes.

  "Meal schedules are posted on the central bulletin," Eliza continued, gesturing toward a digital dispy in the center of the dormitory. "Standard Resources receive three nutrition periods daily, timed to optimize blood quality between extractions. Your initial extraction schedule begins tomorrow at 0800. Reporting te results in reduced nutrition allocation."

  I nodded, maintaining the shell-shocked expression expected of new "resources" while my mind calcuted ceiling height, guard rotations, line of sight to exit doors.

  "Questions are permitted during orientation only," Eliza added, her tone suggesting the statement was another required element of her script rather than an actual invitation.

  "Bathroom?" I asked, adopting the monosylbic communication of someone in shock.

  "Communal facilities at the end of each corridor. Five-minute allotments three times daily. Emergency needs require trustee approval."

  Trustee approval to piss. Efficient.

  She gestured at the far end of the dormitory where a broad-shouldered man in a gray uniform with a red pin monitored the room with the casual menace of someone who enjoyed his tiny kingdom. "Carlos handles Section B discipline and scheduling. Compliance with trustee directives is mandatory."

  Carlos caught my gnce and held it a beat too long, his expression suggesting he was already cataloging ways to exercise his limited power over new arrivals. Just what every dystopian nightmare needed—colborators with Napoleon complexes.

  "The evening meal begins in twenty minutes," Eliza continued. "Standard Resources line up by designation number. Seating is assigned by extraction group. Talking is permitted at Level 2 volume only."

  I wondered what bureaucrat had created a decibel cssification system for human conversation. Probably the same one who calcuted the exact nutritional requirements to keep us alive but perpetually hungry.

  The dormitory housed approximately sixty women in identical gray uniforms, their colored bands indicating blood type and quality cssifications. They moved with the economy of motion that develops in captive poputions—no wasted energy, no unnecessary interaction, eyes trained on the floor or middle distance. Existing rather than living.

  I recognized a few faces from intake processing, but most were established captives, their time in the farm evident in their posture and movements. Some had additional markings on their designation cards—small symbols presumably indicating work assignments, extraction frequencies, or other categorizations in the farm's meticulous organization system.

  "Dining facility is this way," Eliza announced at exactly the specified time, leading a procession of gray-uniformed women through another series of security checkpoints.

  The dining hall resembled a hospital cafeteria designed by someone who considered fvor a design fw. Long tables with attached benches were arranged in precise rows, each seat numbered to correspond with designation codes. The serving line dispensed carefully measured portions onto identical trays—a nutrition algorithm made manifest.

  My assigned seat pced me between Eliza and a hollow-eyed woman who stared at her food without apparent recognition. Across from me sat a younger woman who'd clearly been crying recently, her eyes red-rimmed and swollen. Her designation card identified her as "Lisa, SR-4165, Medical."

  The "Standard Resource" meal consisted of a precisely measured portion of some grain-based staple, a scoop of colorless protein, and steamed vegetables that had surrendered all texture and fvor to the cooking process. A small cup of vitamin-enriched water completed the nutritional equation. Nothing that would bring joy, everything required for optimal blood production.

  "You get used to it," Eliza murmured, noticing my hesitation. "Premium Resources get seasoning. Sometimes fruit. We get..." she gestured at the tray, "sustainability."

  I nodded, forcing myself to eat methodically. Hunger overrode taste after the first few bites. My body's betrayal—accepting whatever it was given, regardless of what my mind thought about it.

  "First extraction tomorrow?" Lisa asked quietly from across the table, her voice barely audible at what I assumed was the approved Level 2 volume.

  I nodded again.

  "The mental prep is worse than the physical," she offered, attempting kindness despite her obvious distress. "Focus on counting. Anything you can count. Ceiling tiles. Heartbeats. It helps."

  A nurse, based on her "Medical" designation. Perhaps part of the group my team had been sent to extract before their betrayal. The weight of that failure settled deeper into my chest.

  "No talking during primary nutrition," Carlos announced, materializing behind Lisa with the silent menace of someone who enjoyed making others flinch. "New resources learn rules through consequences."

  Lisa's shoulders hunched as she shrank into herself, eyes immediately dropping to her tray. Carlos lingered, clearly hoping for defiance that would justify his intervention. When none came, he moved to terrorize another table, disappointment evident in his posture.

  "He was processed in the same group as me," Eliza whispered once Carlos was out of earshot. "Volunteered for trustee training during his first week. Some people adapt by becoming what they fear."

  Or some people were always waiting for permission to be monsters, I thought but didn't say.

  When the precisely timed meal concluded, we returned to the dormitory for "evening integration"—a bureaucratic euphemism for the final phase of processing new resources into the system. This consisted of a tedious recitation of rules, schedules, and penalties delivered by Carlos with the enthusiasm of someone finally allowed to wield a clipboard against others.

  "Resources rise at 0600 for morning hygiene. Nutrition at 0630. Extraction schedules are posted daily. Work assignments begin after first extraction. Evening hygiene at 2100. Lights out at 2200. No movement permitted between sleeping pods after lights out. No communication after lights out. Viotions result in reduced nutrition and increased extraction frequency."

  The rules continued, a comprehensive catalog of prohibitions and punishments designed to eliminate any illusion of autonomy or dignity. I recorded each one methodically, assessing which would need to be broken first during any future operation.

  At precisely 2100, we were permitted our five-minute hygiene allocation—barely enough time to use the toilet, brush teeth, and perform minimal washing with the sanitary wipes. The facilities themselves were clinical and communal, with trustee monitors ensuring no one exceeded their time allowance.

  I returned to Unit 37, settling onto the thin sleeping pallet as the overhead lighting systematically dimmed section by section. The final announcements echoed through speakers recessed into the ceiling:

  "Resources will maintain sleep position until morning bell. Movement sensors monitor compliance. Tomorrow's extraction schedule has been posted. Resource preservation is resource responsibility."

  Resource preservation is resource responsibility. The vampire version of "take care of yourself"—not out of compassion, but inventory management.

  At 2200 precisely, the lights extinguished completely, leaving only the faint red glow of security sensors and the distant illumination from the monitoring station where Carlos and another trustee maintained night watch.

  For the first time since processing began, I was retively alone with my thoughts in the darkness.

  It was a mistake.

  Without the constant calcutions of survival, without the analytical observation of facility operations, without the performance of compliance and confusion, the reality I'd been holding at bay crashed down with suffocating force.

  I was property now. Designation 4172. A resource to be extracted until no longer viable.

  The team I'd led for three years had abandoned me without hesitation, choosing their survival over mine despite countless missions where I'd risked everything for them. Marcus, who'd fought beside me since the beginning. Dani, whose life I'd saved twice during extraction operations. Leon, who'd once sworn there was no one he trusted more. All of them leaving me to this fate knowing exactly what it meant.

  The medical personnel we'd come to extract—the mission objective I'd failed to achieve—would remain trapped here, their specialized skills exploited until they were no longer useful. Their faces joined the catalog of those I'd failed to save over the years, a growing gallery of the lost.

  My body began to shake with silent sobs that I couldn't control, a physiological response that bypassed training and discipline. I curled inward, making myself smaller against the crushing weight of hopelessness. My fist pressed against my mouth to muffle any sound as tears leaked hot and fast down my face.

  There was no extraction team coming. No backup pn. No allies. Just endless days of being drained until I was depleted beyond recovery, then disposed of like waste material. The hunter reduced to prey. The rescuer beyond rescue.

  In the adjacent pod, Lisa's muffled crying created a grim harmony with my own silent breakdown. Two strangers connected by parallel despair in the darkness.

  Five minutes. I allowed myself exactly five minutes of raw despair—counted out in heartbeats and tears—before forcing my mind back to discipline with the ruthless self-command that had kept me alive for fifteen years post-outbreak.

  I wiped my face with clinical efficiency, using the edge of the thin bnket to remove all evidence of weakness. Then I returned to the work that would sustain me: cataloging the facility's sounds, mapping guard patterns from footsteps, identifying structural vulnerabilities from the building's settling noises.

  Something had fundamentally shifted during those five minutes of surrender. The reality had set in, leaving me hollow but paradoxically more clear-eyed. The hunter's optimism—the belief in mission success against all odds—had been a luxury I could no longer afford. What remained was something harder and colder: pure survival instinct stripped of hope or purpose.

  I would survive this—not because I believed in rescue or escape, but because surrender was unthinkable. Because every drop they took would be one they'd have to earn. Because yielding completely would mean Marcus and the others had been right to leave me behind.

  From somewhere in the distant corridors came the sound of struggle—a new arrival in the bor division refusing to accept their cssification, based on the shouted fragments that reached Section B. The sounds ended with abrupt finality, followed by the distinct cadence of trustee boots dragging something heavy.

  The facility's carefully designed acoustics carried these sounds as object lessons while preventing any privacy that might foster connection or conspiracy between resources. Another elegant feature of the farm's construction.

  In the darkness, I began systematically tensing and releasing each muscle group—a hunter technique for maintaining strength during periods of enforced inactivity. The sleeping pallets were designed to induce muscle atrophy over time, another method of ensuring docility through physical deterioration. I wouldn't give them that advantage.

  The night hours stretched on, marked by the mechanical hum of the facility's systems, the measured breathing of dozens of women trained to sleep efficiently, and the occasional muffled sob from those still new enough to grieve what they'd lost. Lisa's crying eventually subsided into the rhythmic breathing of exhausted sleep, while Carlos's boots made their periodic patrol circuit with the precision of a metronome.

  I stared into the darkness, my mind methodically processing everything I'd observed during this first day of captivity. The vulnerabilities in their systems. The potential allies and obstacles. The timing of security rotations. The pcement of cameras and sensors. The trustee psychology that might be exploited.

  Tomorrow would bring the first extraction—my introduction to Count Dominic's primary purpose for this eborate operation. I knew from hunter intelligence that the process was designed to be clinical rather than overtly painful, as stress hormones apparently altered blood taste. Small mercies from practical concerns rather than compassion.

  As artificial night gave way to the first hints of the morning bell, I made myself a promise in the final moments of darkness. I would not break. I would not yield. I would become the most forgettable, compliant resource in the farm's inventory—right until the moment I wasn't.

  And when that moment came, they would learn too te what they'd actually brought into their carefully controlled facility: not just another blood bag, but the poison already inside their system.