_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5">Dominic's departure was as abrupt as his arrival—no ceremony, no formal dismissal. One moment he was delivering final instructions to Administrator Wilson, the next he was simply gone, the double doors closing silently behind him. The distinctive sound of the security system reengaging echoed through the presentation hall.

  The tension in the room released in gradual waves. First came the subtle shift in staff posture, then the almost audible collective exhale from the captives. Breathing patterns returned to normal as Maya stepped forward, clipboard in hand, her professional demeanor reasserting itself now that the immediate fear had subsided.

  "Resume normal operations!" she called out, voice steady. "Selected specimens to preparation area three. Maintenance team to presentation floor. All departments submit inspection response reports by end of shift."

  Not being chosen for vampire happy meals feels like winning the world's most depressing lottery. "Congratutions! You're still cattle, but not premium beef!" Hunters don't get training for this particur fvor of relief-shame cocktail.

  Sera watched as the three Premium selections were led to a separate processing area. Their expressions told different stories—one showed naked terror, another bnk resignation, while the third maintained a carefully neutral face that suggested prior selection experience. The special preparation protocols were already being implemented: additional medical screening, more thorough blood testing, and specialized equipment being readied.

  As they passed near her section, Sera overheard the medical staff's rehearsed speech to the selections.

  "You have been designated for Premium feeding protocols. Enhanced nutritional supplements will be administered. Your extraction schedule will be modified for optimal yield. Resistance will result in immediate sedation. This is considered a privileged position."

  They're talking about "privileged position" like it's a promotion, not being selected as someone's favorite juice box. Those three won't st long—the veterans say Premium designations burn out quickly. Something about "optimal yield" destroying their systems. Charming.

  Premium feeding tags were affixed to their uniforms as a staff member collected and logged their updated cssifications. They were being recategorized—their identities, their schedules, their entire purpose in the facility—all neatly documented and filed away as they transitioned from standard resources to premium nutrition sources.

  Throughout the hall, the facility snapped back to normal operations with remarkable efficiency. Cleaning crews immediately began sanitizing the presentation area, erasing all evidence of the inspection. Department heads huddled with Maya for a post-inspection briefing while staff discussed results in hushed, relieved tones. The bed of the sickly specimen who had been removed for "processing" was already being stripped and reassigned, his existence acknowledged only in updated inventory records.

  "The Count seemed particurly focused on blood quality metrics this month," one department head said to another as they passed Sera's group being led back to standard quarters. "The new extraction quotas are going to require adjustment to feeding schedules. Ensure your teams implement the changes immediately."

  Sera's hunter training engaged automatically, cataloging everything she observed. Dominic's movement patterns, attention triggers, the security vulnerabilities revealed during moments of disruption—all filed away in her mental database. She identified potentially exploitable staff members, assessed tactical weaknesses in the security protocols, evaluated Dominic himself as a potential opponent.

  Twenty-seven seconds between security check-ins. North corridor camera has a blind spot near the maintenance access. Dominic focuses on blood metrics above all else—potential exploitation angle there. And his security detail—well-trained but predictable positioning. Cataloging everything like a good little hunter. As if I'll ever get to report any of this.

  The uncomfortable realization that her hunter background had provided less psychological protection than expected lingered beneath her analytical assessment. The genuine fear she'd experienced standing before Dominic had been real, visceral, and impossible to fully suppress. Her hunter training had prepared her to fight vampires, not to stand helplessly before them as inventory.

  When her group reached the Standard Resource section, Sera seized a brief moment of privacy in a restroom stall. Three deep breaths—the only acknowledgment of trauma she permitted herself. The first for fear, the second for rage, the third for focus. Hunter discipline reasserted itself as she deliberately compartmentalized her emotional response, mentally reinforcing her cover identity while maintaining connection to her true self.

  Pull it together, Harrison. Command taught us compartmentalization for a reason. File the emotions, save the intel. You're not a hunter right now—you're Standard Resource #347-B with "unremarkable blood panels" and that's exactly how you stay alive.

  When she emerged, she noticed subtle changes in how other captives interacted with her. Having survived her first inspection seemed to grant her a marginal increase in status among the Standard Resources.

  "First inspection is the worst," the gaunt veteran captive commented quietly when they were assigned to the same work detail that afternoon. "You did good, keeping invisible."

  Even Eliza, her assigned guide, seemed to regard her differently, sharing insider knowledge now that Sera had proven herself.

  "You did good," Eliza told her as they prepared for evening meal. "First time's always the worst—well, unless you get picked. Then the first time's your only time. Count never keeps his personal feeders long. Something about getting bored with the fvor." She attempted a smile. "See? Already making jokes. You'll adapt."

  Adapt. That's what they all say. Like this is some corporate restructuring, not systematic dehumanization with a side of exsanguination. But she's not wrong—adaptation is survival. Just not the kind of adaptation she thinks I'm doing.

  Evening meal in the Standard Resource dining hall provided unexpected intelligence opportunities. Conversations about the inspection flowed more freely now that the immediate danger had passed. Staff members at a nearby table discussed the Count's unusual interest in blood quality metrics while a newly processed captive shared rumors of increased vampire territorial disputes.

  "The Count has requested detailed reports on blood quality variations between sectors," a medical technician said, unaware that Sera could hear him clearly. "Something about anomalies in the eastern quadrant samples. And did you hear about the quarantine at Lord Maxwell's territory? Some kind of contamination in their stock."

  Sera filed away this information while maintaining her carefully crafted expression of dull resignation. Each piece of intelligence potentially represented a vulnerability, a pattern, or a future opportunity—if she survived long enough to use it.

  Night lockdown procedures began with enhanced security measures, likely a standard protocol following inspections. As she y in her assigned pod, Sera processed everything she had learned. The vampires' structured hierarchy, the blood farm's operational vulnerabilities, the Count's specific interests and patterns—all potential weapons in the right circumstances.

  Her final thought before sleep cimed her was a simple, chilling realization: Dominic Ashcroft was far more dangerous than any vampire she'd encountered before. Not because of his strength or position, but because of what she'd glimpsed behind his eyes. Those weren't just the eyes of a predator—they were calcuting, assessing, intelligent. The worst kind of monster: one with a brain.

  Seven days in, and I've learned the Count's feeding preferences before his weaknesses. Command would be so disappointed with my intelligence gathering priorities. Though surviving long enough to report anything feels like a win at this point. Welcome to the resistance, Sera Harrison style—now with bonus psychological trauma and mandatory neck exposure.

  As the lights dimmed to facility night levels, she closed her eyes and began the hunter meditation techniques that would prepare her body for the next day's challenges. Whatever came, she would be ready—or at least as ready as anyone could be in this blood-soaked new world order.