"Standard Resource 4172, report to Reassignment."

  The announcement crackled through the dormitory speakers as Sera finished the tasteless morning nutrition packet. Day five of captivity brought an unexpected twist—boratory assistance duty. The facility's needs apparently outweighed the standard rotation.

  Laboratory duty? Apparently I've been promoted from "future blood bag" to "b assistant to Dr. Frankenstein." Career advancement in the apocalypse is so unexpected. Still beats extraction duty, though the bar for improvement here is literally underground.

  The research wing occupied a separate section connected to the main extraction facility. Security protocols exceeded even the extraction wing's standards—retinal scans, multiple checkpoints, and armed guards with focused attention uncommon in other areas. Sera memorized each checkpoint's procedure while maintaining her carefully crafted mask of dull compliance.

  "Standard Resource 4172, assigned to Laboratory Support," she murmured at each verification point, eyes appropriately downcast, posture suggesting neither resistance nor intelligence.

  Dr. Harding met her at the final checkpoint—a tall, gaunt man with wire-rimmed gsses and the intense focus of someone who had forgotten his research subjects were human. His white b coat bore the burgundy trim of senior staff, and he surveyed Sera with clinical detachment.

  "This one's blood panels show scientific aptitude potential," he remarked to his assistant, as if Sera weren't present. "Basic assistance only. No direct interaction with priority subjects."

  Scientific aptitude potential. Fantastic. They've actually developed a metric for figuring out which blood bags can hold test tubes without breaking them. What's next, a PhD program for particurly promising psma donors?

  The boratory's yout matched no hunter intelligence reports Sera had studied during training. This was new—or at least, undocumented by any hunter who'd managed to report back. The realization sent a cold shiver down her spine. If Command had no knowledge of this facility, her team's betrayal was even more significant. They'd abandoned her in completely unmapped territory.

  Dr. Harding's tour revealed a facility dedicated to what he euphemistically called "blood optimization"—research aimed at improving extraction efficiency, blood quality, and vampire feeding experience. The extensive blood sample storage facility housed thousands of categorized specimens in climate-controlled units. Multiple testing stations analyzed blood composition under various conditions.

  "Your primary duties will include sample transport, basic equipment sterilization, and observation documentation," Dr. Harding instructed, handing her a clipboard. "Record exactly what you observe, nothing more. Interpretation is not your function."

  The first boratory section contained documentation that turned Sera's stomach—"tasting notes" describing blood samples like fine wines, complete with terminology like "bouquet," "finish," and "undertones." Researchers discussed blood qualities with the precision of sommeliers, referencing "fear-enhanced fvor profiles" and "adrenaline-infused richness."

  They've created a wine-tasting guide for vampire cannibalism. "Notes of terror with hints of despair, pairs well with absolute power and complete ck of humanity. Best consumed while wearing formal evening wear and discussing opera." Cssy.

  As she transported samples between testing stations, Sera observed the development of artificial enhancement compounds designed to improve blood "fvor" and effect. The clinical discussions about human blood as a consumer product rather than vital fluid struck a deeper horror than any battlefield violence she'd witnessed.

  The enhancement procedures section revealed rows of test subjects receiving experimental treatments. Chemical cocktails designed to improve blood regeneration rates dripped into veins of expressionless captives. Researchers monitored and documented responses with detached fascination, cataloging side effects as merely "production variables."

  "Batch C-17 shows promising regeneration acceleration, though liver values indicate potential system failure within 14-21 days," noted one researcher to another, adjusting an IV drip. "Acceptable loss rate considering yield improvement."

  "Agreed," replied his colleague. "Document for production implementation with standard repcement scheduling adjustment."

  People. They were talking about people—humans whose lives were being deliberately shortened for slightly improved blood production. Sera's training almost failed her then, the urge to attack rising like bile in her throat. Only years of discipline kept her face bnk as she meticulously documented flow rates on her assigned clipboard.

  Remember why you're here, Harrison. Observe. Record. Survive. These bastards will pay eventually, but not if you get yourself killed over one particurly awful conversation among thousands. Count to ten in dead nguages. I'll start with Latin...

  The stress response studies section proved even more horrific. Isotion chambers equipped with monitoring equipment measured blood chemistry changes during fear states. Researchers deliberately induced panic, terror, and despair to test effects on blood composition. Dr. Harding's clinical notes referenced "optimal stress thresholds for quality enhancement" with the excitement of a true believer in scientific progress.

  "Resource 4172, delivery to Stress Response, Chamber 3," instructed a b technician, handing her a sealed container. "Wait for acknowledgment before returning."

  Chamber 3 contained a young woman strapped to a specially designed chair, electrodes attached to various points on her body. The researcher monitoring her barely gnced at Sera while accepting the delivery. Through the observation window, Sera could see other chambers where captives experienced different forms of induced terror—some psychological, some physical, all meticulously monitored for blood chemistry changes.

  There's a special pce in hell for people who turn torture into a science experiment. If there's any justice in the universe, these researchers will spend eternity as b rats themselves. Note to self: if I ever get out, this facility burns first.

  During sample delivery to a different section, Sera glimpsed a locked area marked "Project Longevity." The elevated security and hushed tones of researchers near the sealed doors suggested something beyond standard optimization research. She caught whispered references to "compatible donors" and "sustained viability" before a guard's sharp gnce forced her to move along.

  The separate ward for "single-use resources" broke through even her hardened defenses. These captives—designated for terminal experiments—existed solely to provide maximum data before death. Their faces haunted her: hollow-eyed, hopeless, aware of their impending fate yet too broken to resist. They bore identification numbers but no names, their humanity completely erased from the scientific process.

  "Efficiency calcutions indicate these subjects provide maximum value through comprehensive data collection rather than sustained extraction," expined Dr. Harding during her orientation walk-through. "The biological waste management system ensures complete resource utilization."

  The clinical euphemism for execution and corpse disposal nearly broke her carefully constructed facade. In that moment, Sera Harrison—hardened hunter with twelve confirmed vampire kills—felt something dangerously close to despair. The scientific methodology made this facility more horrific than any vampire she'd faced in combat. This wasn't mindless predation—it was calcuted, documented, and continually optimized exploitation.

  The central data management center proved the facility's true heart—a comprehensive system tracking every captive from acquisition through final processing. Digital records contained all research findings, extraction data, and enhancement protocols. The predictive algorithms calcuting optimal extraction schedules represented intelligence of immeasurable value to hunter resistance, if she could ever find a way to extract it.

  The holy grail of hunter intelligence, and I'm standing right next to it with no way to communicate to Command. If they knew I was here... but they don't. Nobody's coming. Marcus made sure of that. File it away, Harrison. Memorize everything. Survive long enough to make it matter.

  As her shift ended, Dr. Harding reviewed her documentation with perfunctory approval. "Acceptable performance, 4172. Return tomorrow, same time. Maintain hygiene protocols to prevent sample contamination."

  Back in the dormitory section, Standard Resource 4172 prepared for night lockdown with appropriate compliance. But behind her carefully bnk expression, Sera Harrison methodically cataloged security protocols, research priorities, and potential weaknesses. Dr. Harding's access card. The predictable guard rotation at checkpoint three. The ventition access point near the sample storage room.

  Most captives broke under the psychological weight of the blood farm's horrors. Sera's training provided marginal protection, but something else sustained her now—a cold, clinical rage that matched the facility's own scientific precision. Her team's betrayal had left her for dead in this nightmare, but she refused to disappear without consequences.

  Sweet dreams, 4172. Remember to look appropriately vacant and traumatized tomorrow. Not that it requires much acting at this point. The best covers contain elements of truth—and the truth is, I am traumatized. But trauma plus training equals something these vampires and their pet scientists haven't accounted for. Something even Marcus didn't anticipate when he left me here to die.

  As the facility lights dimmed to night mode, Sera closed her eyes and began mentally drafting the most comprehensive intelligence report of her career—one she had no immediate way to deliver, but would preserve with perfect recall until opportunity arrived. Count Dominic Ashcroft's scientific research facility would not remain undocumented forever.