It's almost amusing, really. A mortal blubbering on about how she's being used—as if that isn't their place in the natural order of things. You sink your fangs into her neck and drink deep, savoring the blood's sweet taste. You can't be certain, but you believe the woman is high society. If not, then she's been well-kept and comfortable. You feel an immediate relief as you slake your thirst before removing your fangs from her neck, licking the wounds closed with a quick swipe of your tongue—it's almost second nature to you now. The well-dressed thugs take her from you and she follows them without a word, her legs unsteady, a slight smile plastered on her face. There's no sign of the scared woman you'd seen just a minute before, only the glossy eyes of chattel.
You hear Qui call out for another interviewee from the side room—it looks like you'll be here for a while yet.