The crate smells like steel and strangers. Through the slats you catch glimpses of fluorescent lights, rows of clean enclosures, the faint hum of climate control. Nothing like the open air you knew. A bell chimes as the door swings open. Footsteps approach - unhurried, deliberate. The New Law passed three weeks ago and you were taken four days later. Now you're here: inventory. The man crouching in front of your crate has kind eyes and a clipboard. That combination is the most dangerous thing you've ever seen. He'll assess your temperament, your condition, your market value. Whether you fight or comply, he's already calculating the price tag.