The 5:30 AM arm sliced through Sera's fitful sleep with mechanical precision. Her eyes snapped open to the now-familiar view of her sleeping pod's gray ceiling, the small identification pte reading "Standard Resource 4172" positioned directly in her line of sight. Three days into captivity, and the facility had already programmed her to respond to a number assigned to her flesh rather than her name.

  Around her, the other occupants of dormitory section E-7 moved with the resigned efficiency of the institutionalized. Twenty identical pods arranged in perfect rows, twenty humans reduced to inventory, twenty bodies now property of Count Dominic Ashcroft's blood farm.

  Good morning, Standard Resource 4172! Rise and shine for another glorious day of serving your vampire overlords! Will today feature death, despair, or just garden-variety dehumanization? Stay tuned to find out!

  Eliza appeared at the end of her pod, her perpetually cheerful demeanor somehow more disturbing than outright cruelty. "Morning, 4172! Three minutes for hygiene, then uniform check at the door. Better hurry—Maya's doing inspections today."

  The morning protocol was rigidly structured: three minutes for basic hygiene, synchronized uniform donning, and formation by the door for roll call. Every movement monitored, every deviation noted in ever-present evaluation ledgers. Sera complied with mechanical precision, her hunter training redirected toward perfect mimicry of the docile resource they expected.

  Maya arrived precisely on schedule, clipboard in hand. "Standard Resources will be assigned to their facility zones for the day," she announced, voice clipped and efficient. "Listen for your designation and proceed to your assigned area after morning sustenance."

  The assignments rolled out in numerical blocks. When "Section E-7, designations 4165 through 4180, Extraction Wing B" was called, Sera felt a cold knot form in her stomach. She'd known this was coming, but preparation didn't diminish the reality.

  Extraction Wing. Wonderful. Nothing starts the day right like watching the systematic draining of human beings. Wonder if they have gift shop souvenirs? "My friend visited the vampire blood farm and all I got was this lousy trauma!"

  At the medical checkpoint, staff applied colored bands to their wrists—white with blue stripes indicating non-extraction day for Sera and several others. The psychological tactic was obvious: today you watch, tomorrow you bleed. The constant reminder of your pce in the food chain.

  Security checkpoints separated each facility zone. The vampire guards at Extraction Wing B performed thorough inspections, scanning IDs and conducting physical pat-downs with practiced efficiency. Sera kept her eyes down, shoulders slightly hunched, the perfect picture of beaten submission. Inside, her mind cataloged security protocols, guard positions, and potential weaknesses.

  The distinctive sterile smell mixed with metallic undertones grew stronger as they approached the extraction wing. That unique scent of disinfectant failing to completely mask the copper tang of blood—a smell Sera knew well from countless battlefields, though never in such clinical surroundings.

  The central extraction chamber spread before them—twenty reclining medical chairs arranged in rows, two rows already occupied by Standard Resources connected to extraction equipment. Medical staff in burgundy uniforms moved between stations, monitoring equipment and blood flow rates. Processing tubes ran from chairs to ceiling, transporting blood to collection facilities above. Digital dispys above each chair showed extraction volumes, rates, and individual capacity metrics.

  Looks like a hospital designed by Dracu's interior decorator. "We're going for that 'technically medical but primarily predatory' aesthetic. How do you feel about tubes that make blood flow upward? Very symbolic, very on-brand."

  The room's eerie silence was punctuated only by occasional whimpers from the extraction chairs and the mechanical hum of equipment. No conversation, no acknowledgment of suffering—just the business of blood collection proceeding with industrial efficiency.

  "4172, you'll be on cleaning and preparation," instructed a supervisor, handing Sera a burgundy smock to wear over her gray uniform. "Each chair must be sanitized, warming pads activated, and restraint systems checked between extractions. Follow Technician Parker's instructions."

  The reality of extraction was far more brutal than even hunter intelligence had documented. Captives post-extraction y pale and semi-conscious, multiple puncture wounds visible at their necks, wrists, and inner thighs. The collection volumes dispyed on monitors clearly exceeded safe medical standards, prioritizing efficiency over survival.

  Sera watched as a woman approximately her age was unhooked from the equipment, her body limp as staff transferred her to a recovery gurney. The woman's eyes were open but vacant, her skin paper-white, lips tinged blue. The extraction volume on her monitor read 1.4 liters.

  That's well over a quarter of her total blood volume. Any legitimate medical facility would be shut down for malpractice, but here it's just Tuesday. Or whatever day it is—time gets fuzzy when you're livestock.

  As the staff wheeled the woman away, Sera moved in to clean the station. The warming pads—set precisely to optimize blood flow—were still hot to the touch. The restraint systems, cleverly disguised as "safety measures," showed marks of desperate gripping. She wiped down surfaces with clinical efficiency, her expression carefully neutral while her mind screamed.

  Through a gss partition, she could see a separate, smaller extraction room designated for Premium Resources. While still subjected to dangerous extraction levels, these "high-value assets" received individualized attention and post-extraction treatments denied to Standard Resources. Recovery supplements and medications were administered to those whose blood composition made them particurly valuable.

  "Extraordinary yield from Subject 4103," a medical technician commented to his colleague, reviewing data on a clipboard. "Rare phenotype with exceptional oxygenation patterns. Count specifically requested additional sampling."

  "Metabolism can't sustain that extraction rate," his colleague replied. "Mark for reduced schedule if we want to maintain viability beyond two weeks."

  Sera continued her assigned cleaning duties, moving methodically between stations while memorizing yout, protocols, and staff patterns. Her hunter training had prepared her for the technical aspects of infiltration, but nothing had prepared her for the emotional reality of witnessing industrialized extraction.

  Remember your training, Harrison. Compartmentalize. Observe. Survive. But holy hell, even Command didn't know it was this systematic. This isn't just feeding—it's factory farming. Humans as livestock, complete with quality control and production quotas.

  Near the end of her shift, Sera observed the most chilling procedure yet. An unmarked door at the far end of the wing opened as two Standard Resources on stretchers were wheeled through. Their monitors had been disconnected, but their stillness suggested critical depletion rather than mere unconsciousness.

  "Processing?" asked a junior staff member, clipboard ready.

  "Correct. Resource depletion, category three. Update the efficiency reports for inventory adjustment," responded the senior technician. "Repcements are prepped in intake."

  No ceremony, no acknowledgment of human lives being terminated—just paperwork and logistics. Efficiency reports updated, new captives prepared to repce the "depleted units." The clinical detachment was almost as horrifying as the act itself.

  As her shift ended, Sera found herself scrubbing blood from an extraction chair while its previous occupant—a man in his forties—was wheeled away, eyes vacant and staring at nothing. The image burned itself into her memory as she mechanically completed her task.

  Before leaving, she overheard a conversation between two supervisors discussing "escating quotas" from upper management. "The Count wants production increased by twelve percent this quarter. We're already pushing biological limits."

  Twelve percent increase. That's not sustainable extraction—that's liquidation with extra steps. They'll kill half their inventory within a month at those rates.

  Only one staff member had shown any hesitation all day—a young medical technician who had secretly adjusted an extraction rate downward when his supervisor stepped away. Sera filed the information away: Potential ally, station three, afternoon shift, ID badge reading "Ellis."

  The disorienting return to dormitory section E-7 felt almost surreal after witnessing the extraction wing's horrors. Eliza greeted her with the same cheerful efficiency as that morning, seemingly unbothered by the day's events.

  "How was extraction wing?" she asked, handing Sera her evening meal ration. "Better than being in the chairs, right?"

  Sera managed a nod, her psychological defenses working overtime to maintain her cover. "Yes. Better watching than bleeding."

  Better watching than bleeding. Add that to the list of phrases I never thought I'd say. Right up there with 'Please don't notice my exceptional blood quality' and 'I miss the days when vampires just killed you instead of turning you into a renewable resource.'

  As night lockdown procedures began, Sera y in her pod staring at the designation pte above her. Standard Resource 4172. Not Sera Harrison. Not veteran hunter with twelve confirmed vampire kills. Not daughter, friend, human being. Just inventory with an expiration date.

  Tomorrow, according to the rotation schedule, she would be in the extraction chair herself. The white band with blue stripe would be repced with red, and she would experience firsthand what she'd only witnessed today. Her training had prepared her for torture, for interrogation, even for death—but not for this systematic, industrialized draining of her humanity one drop at a time.

  As the lights dimmed, her resolve hardened beneath the fear. She would survive. She would observe. She would find weaknesses in the system. And somehow, someday, Count Dominic Ashcroft would pay for the horror she'd witnessed today—for the factory he'd built on human suffering and the empire he maintained with stolen life.

  Good night, Standard Resource 4172. Sweet dreams of revolution and revenge. Let's hope you wake up tomorrow still remembering your real name.