Count Dominic Ashcroft's private feeding chamber was a study in contrasts with the utilitarian design that defined the rest of the blood farm. While the extraction facilities prioritized efficiency and sterility, this room offered calcuted luxury—Persian rugs over polished hardwood, indirect lighting that mimicked candlelight, and temperature-controlled to the precise degree he preferred.

  The antique grandfather clock in the corner chimed six times as the feeding attendants prepared for his arrival. Unlike the clinical extraction areas elsewhere in the facility, this space was designed to enhance the experience—feeding not as medical procedure but as aristocratic indulgence.

  At precisely 6:15 PM, Dominic entered, his tailored suit perfectly pressed, ptinum signet ring catching the light. The three attendants immediately bowed, maintaining the formal protocol he insisted upon. His eyes scanned the room with practiced indifference until they nded on the reclined feeding chair where E-4172 waited.

  "Good evening, Count Ashcroft," the head attendant greeted, voice carefully moduted to the respectful tone expected. "Your exclusive resource has been prepared according to protocol."

  Dominic didn't acknowledge the greeting, instead approaching Sera with the deliberate pace of a connoisseur examining a questionable vintage. His first indication that something was amiss came from her appearance—the skin around her extraction sites had a grayish cast, and the veins visible beneath her skin appeared more prominent than during his previous feeding.

  "Has the standard preparation protocol been altered?" he asked, directing the question to the attendant while looking at Sera.

  "No, my lord. Standard rexant administered fifteen minutes prior, hydration protocols completed, and temperature regution maintained at your preferred specifications."

  Dominic circled the feeding chair, noting the tremor in Sera's hands despite the sedative effect of the rexant. Her eyes followed him—that hadn't changed—but the sharp awareness that had intrigued him seemed dulled, as if viewing him through fog.

  "Begin," he instructed, taking his position in the accompanying chair designed for optimal feeding ergonomics.

  The attendant efficiently arranged Sera's arm, preparing the traditional wrist access point Dominic preferred. Unlike the mechanical extraction procedures elsewhere in the facility, noble feeding maintained the direct connection that vampires found both pleasurable and symbolically significant.

  As Dominic's teeth broke the skin at her wrist, the first taste revealed what his visual assessment had suggested—the quality had noticeably deteriorated. What had once been an exquisite fvor profile with complexities that lingered pleasurably was now diminished, carrying underlying notes of stress hormones and mineral imbance that created an almost metallic aftertaste.

  He pulled away immediately, lips twisted in displeasure.

  "Expin," he demanded, wiping his mouth with the bck silk handkerchief an attendant promptly provided.

  The head attendant looked armed, instantly recognizing the severity of failing to meet the Count's expectations. "My lord, I'll summon Dr. Harlow immediately."

  Dominic observed Sera while they waited, noting her shallow breathing and the complete ck of the recovery response he'd observed in previous sessions. The sensory enjoyment he'd anticipated had been repced by irritation—a premium resource being mismanaged represented inefficiency, which he found both offensive and wasteful.

  Dr. Harlow arrived within minutes, tablet in hand, her professional composure barely masking her apprehension.

  "Count Ashcroft," she acknowledged with the appropriate bow. "How may I assist you?"

  "The quality is unacceptable," Dominic stated, gesturing toward Sera without looking at the doctor. "Expin the deterioration."

  Dr. Harlow gnced at Sera, then consulted her tablet, pulling up relevant data. "Resource E-4172's regenerative capacity has been significantly compromised. Current extraction volumes and frequency exceed sustainable parameters by approximately forty percent."

  The doctor swiped through several screens of medical data before continuing. "Blood cell production cannot maintain pace with scheduled extractions. The decline in quality results from incomplete cellur regeneration and accompanying metabolic stress."

  Dominic's expression remained impassive, though his fingers drummed lightly on the armrest—the only visible indication of his annoyance.

  "Show me the comparison metrics."

  Dr. Harlow handed him the tablet, dispying a chart tracking quality indicators over the three-week period he had been feeding from Sera. The downward trajectory was undeniable, with markers for hemoglobin, iron, protein levels, and oxygenation all showing steady decline.

  "The current nutrition and recovery protocols are insufficient to maintain premium quality at the established extraction rate," she expined, her clinical terminology a thin veneer over the simple truth: Sera was being drained faster than her body could replenish.

  "What interventions are required?" Dominic asked, his tone making it clear he expected solutions, not problems.

  "Reduced extraction volume and extended recovery periods between feedings would allow cellur regeneration to stabilize," Dr. Harlow replied. "Additionally, enhanced nutrition protocols and potential pharmaceutical intervention could accelerate recovery, though with significant resource allocation."

  Dominic considered this information with cold calcution, weighing the inconvenience of modified feeding against the potential loss of his premium resource. His decision was purely self-interested—maximum pleasure at minimum cost.

  "Implement a revised extraction schedule. Once weekly, reduced volume." He handed the tablet back to Dr. Harlow. "No additional resource allocation beyond what's necessary to restore quality."

  "Yes, Count Ashcroft," Dr. Harlow responded. "I should note that even with this reduction, complex nutritional supplementation will be—"

  "Implement the minimum effective protocols," Dominic interrupted. "I expect measurable quality improvement within two weeks."

  He stood, adjusting his cuffs with practiced precision. "Arrange an alternative resource for tonight. Something from the premium reserves, though I doubt it will be comparable."

  The disappointment of the interrupted feeding left him irritable. He'd pnned his evening around the distinctive pleasure Sera's blood provided, and now he would be forced to accept an inferior substitute. Furthermore, the reduced feeding schedule would require him to moderate his consumption—an inconvenience he found particurly galling.

  "Document the quality metrics daily," he instructed as he moved toward the door. "I expect to be notified immediately when acceptable parameters are restored."

  As he departed, he gave Sera one final gnce—not with concern for her condition but assessment of a valuable commodity temporarily compromised. The only consideration in his mind was how to maximize his pleasure without depleting his favorite blood source completely.

  After the door closed behind Count Ashcroft, Dr. Harlow immediately adjusted Sera's position to improve blood flow to her brain. The departure of the Count allowed the medical team to prioritize Sera's condition rather than his experience.

  "Hydration protocol immediately," the doctor ordered. "Start the protein infusion and prepare the iron supplement."

  Within minutes, Sera was connected to an IV delivering fluids and nutrients directly into her bloodstream. The monitoring equipment dispyed her vital signs—all suboptimal but no longer critical. Dr. Harlow reviewed the Count's orders on her tablet, silently calcuting how to maximize Sera's recovery within the minimal parameters she'd been granted.

  "Once weekly extraction at sixty percent volume," she murmured to herself, updating the protocol documentation. "Recovery duration: six days, seventeen hours."

  Over the following days, Sera's condition gradually stabilized. The reduced extraction schedule allowed her body to rebuild what had been taken, albeit slowly. The premium quarters she occupied remained unchanged—the same spartan comfort that had seemed like mockery during her decline now providing genuine recovery space.

  By the end of the second week, her body had regained some of its resilience. The constant bone-deep cold had receded, repced by occasional shivers rather than continuous tremors. The dizziness that had pgued her waking hours diminished enough for her to stand without gripping nearby surfaces for support.

  As her physical strength incrementally returned, so did her mental crity. The fog that had descended during her deterioration lifted gradually, allowing her hunter's mind to resurface from survival mode. Her dark humor returned as well, though tempered by the sobering reality of how close she had come to complete depletion.

  Four weeks after the Count's quality control intervention, Sera stood at the window of her quarters, watching raindrops trace patterns on the gss. Her reflection showed someone still too thin, still too pale, but no longer actively dying. The red band marking her as exclusive property remained, but it no longer seemed like an immediate death sentence.

  She pressed her palm against the cool gss, focusing on the sensation—the simple ability to feel something beyond pain and cold represented progress, however minimal. The rain continued falling, indifferent to the complex calculus of survival inside the blood farm walls. Inside, Sera tallied her small victories: standing without dizziness, completing a full meal, thinking beyond the next hour.

  Not healed, not safe, but alive. For a hunter, that meant opportunity still existed.