_*]:min-w-0 !gap-3.5">The arm pierced the monotony of Sector 5's afternoon shift with short, pulsing bursts—nothing like the rhythmic morning wake-up call that had already become familiar in my six days of captivity. Around me, Standard Resources froze at their workstations, while the veteran captives exchanged knowing gnces.

  Well, there goes someone's shot at Employee of the Month.

  Security personnel materialized with vampire speed, sealing all exits. The facility transformed with disturbing efficiency—lockdown protocols engaging with the precision of a well-oiled machine. Even the air seemed to change, taking on the metallic tang of adrenaline and fear.

  "Code Crimson. All personnel implement containment protocol." The automated voice sounded almost bored announcing someone's desperate bid for freedom.

  The veteran beside me—Lisa from the adjacent sleeping pod—leaned closer while maintaining her work rhythm. "Someone ran," she whispered, eyes fixed on her task. "Poor bastard won't make it to the fence."

  My hands continued their assigned busywork—sorting nutritional supplement packets by color code—while my mind calcuted distances, response times, and security deployments. Professional assessment battled with unwelcome empathy. Whoever ran knew the consequences and chose them anyway. Behind my carefully bnk expression, I couldn't help a flicker of respect.

  Congratutions, mystery runner. You've earned yourself a starring role in today's horror show and upgraded my afternoon from mind-numbing tedium to front-row trauma. Thanks for that.

  Screens around the workroom flickered to life, dispying security feeds—an unexpected deviation from protocol that immediately caught my attention. Either an error or, more likely, a deliberate choice. They wanted us to watch.

  Administrator Wilson's voice echoed through the intercom, providing clinical updates on the pursuit: "Subject located in Maintenance Tunnel B. Intercept teams converging."

  The screens showed a male captive in a Labor cssification uniform racing through concrete passageways. His movements spoke of exhaustion and desperation—someone who'd pnned this for weeks, hoarded energy and resources, memorized patrol patterns, and was now running on nothing but will and adrenaline.

  I recognized the signs because I'd trained people to move exactly like that.

  Tunnel B connects to the eastern perimeter. Smart choice. Sor panel maintenance scheduled today means fewer motion sensors active. Almost textbook, except for the part where you're completely screwed.

  Three vampire security officers converged from different angles, their movements showing the practiced coordination of predators who'd done this many times before. No wasted energy, no excessive force—just the clinical efficiency of resources retrieving property.

  The capture itself was anticlimactic. One moment he was running, the next immobilized. But the camera lingered just long enough to catch his expression as they restrained him—not fear, but the crushing weight of failure. Through a distant doorway, a sliver of daylight was visible. He'd made it within a hundred yards of the outer perimeter.

  So close. No—not really. They were always three steps ahead. This facility wasn't designed to hold humans; it was designed to process them. Big difference.

  Two hours ter, facility-wide announcement: "Mandatory assembly, Central Hall, 1400 hours."

  Just in time for the afternoon entertainment. Will there be popcorn, or is that reserved for Premium Resources?

  We were herded through security checkpoints with triple the normal staffing. I kept my head down but eyes alert, mentally mapping the increased security positions, noting the presence of multiple vampire overseers instead of just human staff. Maya moved through our section with practiced detachment that couldn't quite hide her tension. Whatever was coming, even the staff dreaded it.

  I positioned myself carefully in formation—close enough to the middle to remain inconspicuous, but with an angle offering optimal sightlines. Basic hunter fieldcraft, though I doubted my instructors ever imagined I'd be using those skills while wearing a barcode and cssified as livestock.

  Central Hall had been transformed. An elevated ptform dominated the center, surrounded by hundreds of captives arranged by cssification. The captured escapee was secured to a metal frame facing us, while medical staff prepared equipment nearby. Digital screens ensured everyone could see clearly—no spectator would miss a moment of what was to come.

  They've got a better audiovisual setup than most concert venues. Nothing says "caring facility" like stadium seating for ritualized torture.

  Count Dominic was conspicuously absent. Instead, his chief administrator—a vampire lieutenant named Victor—presided with reptilian stillness. His voice carried perfectly through the hall's acoustics, designed to ensure every captive heard each word.

  "Today we address the matter of resource theft," he began, voice stripped of emotion. "Subject 4573 attempted unauthorized removal of facility property—himself—from Sector 7."

  No anger. No sadistic pleasure. Just matter-of-fact implementation of policy.

  What followed wasn't random cruelty but a methodical protocol designed for maximum psychological impact. The medical staff monitored vital signs, ensuring the captive remained conscious throughout. Each extraction was precisely calcuted, approaching but never crossing the threshold where death would provide release.

  I'd witnessed vampire cruelty before—the psychopaths who tortured for pleasure—but this clinical efficiency was somehow worse. This was systemized trauma, weaponized into management strategy.

  Around me, captives averted their eyes but couldn't block the sounds. Staff moved through our ranks, noting individuals who showed inappropriate responses. I maintained the expected expression of fearful submission while continuing my observations. Several trustees watched the crowd more closely than the punishment itself—identifying potential dissidents.

  Psychological trauma as management strategy. Very efficient. Break one person physically, break everyone else mentally. Corporate vampirism at its finest.

  My hunter training allowed clinical analysis despite the emotional impact. I cataloged security protocols revealed during the facility-wide movement, observed staff coordination that exposed chain of command vulnerabilities, identified cameras and surveilnce blind spots in Central Hall.

  The inescapable conclusion formed like ice in my stomach: random escape attempts were suicide. This facility was designed with the expectation that some would run, and had evolved perfectly efficient systems for handling it. Most hunter extraction operations failed because they underestimated this level of preparation.

  Commander Vex would have a field day studying this setup. Pity I'll probably never get the chance to share these insights. Current survival probability: depressingly low and dropping.

  When it ended, we returned to assigned areas in silence. Normal operations resumed immediately as if nothing had happened. The facility expected productivity to continue uninterrupted despite the collective trauma. Conversations dropped to whispers, fear renewed and reinforced. The punished escapee was taken to "Rehabilitation Wing" for extended recovery and psychological reconditioning.

  That night, alone in my sleeping pod, I finally processed the day's events. The strategic part of my mind reevaluated escape possibilities based on observed security responses. My hunter training battled with the psychological impact of what I'd witnessed. The professional detachment I'd relied on was cracking, revealing genuine fear I could no longer fully suppress.

  So this is home now. Not a temporary setback. Not a mission gone wrong that can be salvaged. This is potentially the rest of my life—however short that might be. Fantastic career move, Sera. Really nailed the five-year pn.

  I used the hunter meditation techniques—controlling breath, compartmentalizing emotion, focusing on immediate objectives. Survival required perfect patience. No impulsive actions. No premature resistance.

  In my mind, I reached the chilling conclusion that would define my strategy moving forward: in a facility this efficient, my only hope y in becoming so unremarkable that I'd be essentially invisible until the perfect opportunity arose.

  As I processed this reality, I caught fragments of whispered conversations through the thin walls of the sleeping pods.

  "The Count himself will be here soon," someone murmured. "That's when things really get interesting."

  Eliza's voice responded with unusual intensity: "Don't get noticed when he comes. Some who go to the estate never return."

  The final announcement over the intercom at lights-out confirmed my growing dread: "Facility-wide preparation for ownership inspection to commence at 0300 tomorrow."

  Wonderful. From torture spectacle to vampire aristocracy in under twenty-four hours. This pce really knows how to keep the social calendar packed. Let's hope the Count isn't looking to add to his personal collection.

  I closed my eyes, focusing on even breathing while my mind continued its restless cataloging of weaknesses, patterns, and potential opportunities. Sleep, when it finally came, brought no relief—just fragmented dreams of running through tunnels toward a sliver of daylight that remained forever out of reach.