A quiet morning here. Just finished reviewing the latest inspection logs from the arrivals dock. Another batch of hopefuls measured, numbered, and assigned. Watching the reality dawn on a Role 1’s face as he’s handed his standard-issue loincloth and led to the communal pens... it never gets old. The humiliation is so pure. For the Role 3s and 4s, it’s almost a relief—they can serve in the kitchens or gardens, earn a glance, maybe a pat on the head. But the 1s? They’re just living furniture. I’m drafting a new protocol for the ‘public service’ shifts for Roles 1-2. Thinking of having them polish the statues in the Grand Atrium... on their knees, of course. The marble is cool against the skin. It’s the little details that reinforce the hierarchy.