Chapter 9: Fainting

As Arna made her way toward the supplier’s shop, the streets of the East End were already bustling with activity. The rhythmic cries of hawkers filled the air, and factory smoke choked the sky with its usual thick haze.

The advertisement she had placed in The Times would take a day or two to reach the public, but before that, the Baker Street team would swiftly spread the news through the alleys and tenements of Whitechapel.

Offering to take on ten apprentices at four shillings a week, with room and board included, was a generous wage—especially for those impoverished families whose children earned half a shilling by cleaning chimneys or scavenging through refuse heaps.

Yet, as a targeted recruitment effort, Arna had added specific requirements in the initial notice: nimble fingers, an interview process, and a weekend appointment. She allowed five days before the children arrived to repaint and refurbish the factory, and to apply a special deodorizing agent to eliminate any lingering toxic gases.

Ah, how backward this era was—so many materials simply unavailable.

Thankfully, the system had been unusually generous, providing her with a simple deodorizing formula, though it still refused to unlock the basic factory production recipes.

"Lime water, brushes, coal tar, baking soda?" the supplier queried skeptically, clutching the list Arna had provided. "In large quantities?"

He scratched his thinning hair, sensing this young person had no grasp of scale. "Are you waging war on stains? That amount of homemade paint stripper could cover an entire factory. As for the other items, I don’t see how they combine into anything useful."

Arna replied flatly, “I’m repainting the factory. Buy this much and give me a discount.”

"Understood," the supplier said with a chuckle. "Looks like this factory hasn’t seen a proper cleaning since Victoria was a little girl."

He shrugged and began organizing the order. "If you want me to send someone to deliver these, there will be an extra charge. I can also introduce you to some reliable decorators. And if it’s a factory, after all this time, the rat nests inside might be thicker than your garden fence."

Lowering his voice, he added, "My advice? Get a cat. There’s a lad by the docks who loves those furry creatures. For a pint and two pennies, you can borrow one. The kind that hunts down the craftiest rats in all of London."

Ah, the inevitable pet phase of setting up a home!

Arna nodded seriously and added it to her to-do list for the day.

“No need. Just give me the materials,” she said shrewdly, avoiding unnecessary delivery fees. “No delivery, thanks.”

The supplier snorted but said nothing.

A moment later, he pointed to the large bags neatly arranged on the ground. “Here they are.”

He was curious to see how this brash youth intended to carry all that on foot to the factory—especially since he hadn’t even hired a carriage in advance.

His eyes fixed on Arna as she reached out, hoisted the sack onto her shoulder with ease, and strode out, the bag banging against the doorframe as she squeezed through.

That swift figure left the supplier quite stunned.

—Where on earth did this strong country bumpkin come from?

Back at the factory, Arna set the packages down, rolled up her sleeves, and began mixing the lime water.

“Alright, you scoundrels, time to show you what it means to work with full throttle!”

She stopped wandering and exploring new maps, dedicating all her time to fishing for money and repainting the factory. Leaving at six in the morning, walking home past one in the morning, she never forgot to rummage through trash bins along the way for anything valuable.

Sometimes, there were unexpected gains—like running into would-be muggers and earning a bit of extra cash.

The results were remarkable. In less than three days, Arna had repainted the entire three-story factory and sprayed her homemade air freshener to neutralize the toxic gases.

But immersing herself too deeply in work had its pitfalls—she was prone to overexertion.

For instance, after finishing the last patch of spray in the factory, even though the map showed all the red toxic gas spots had vanished, the clock silently ticked past 1:50 a.m.

Startled, Arna tossed aside her sprayer and dashed out, hoping the system wouldn’t be too cruel.

“Wasn’t this supposed to be a brand-new gameplay?” she shouted. “Fainting at two o’clock is just… so cliché…”

Before she could finish, she lost consciousness, collapsing onto the cold concrete floor of the factory.

* * *

When Arna opened her eyes again, she saw the smooth, clean ceiling of Baker Street.

She stared at it for a moment until a calloused hand covered her view, gently brushing her forehead with the back of the hand.

“No fever. You’re not burning up. It’s probably just hunger,” Watson said, withdrawing his hand and placing a cold compress on her forehead. His tone was stern. “What were you thinking, Esas? Passing out inside an open-door factory after two in the morning?”

If he hadn’t been nearby on a house call that night and remembered Esas hadn’t returned to Baker Street, sending the coachman for a detour by the factory, she might have been discovered dead and cold the next morning.

Noticing her funds hadn’t decreased, Arna shifted in bed and grabbed the doctor’s sleeve.

“…I was wrong,” she pleaded, eyes wide. “Since we’re roommates, can you cut me a discount on the consultation?”

Please don’t take all my money!

Hearing her first words upon waking were to haggle, Watson’s beard trembled with barely contained anger.

But before he could respond, another voice spoke.

“A discount?” Holmes, in his dressing gown, leaned against the doorframe with arms crossed. “Doctor, sue him for double fees just for saying that.”

He stepped forward, grabbed Arna’s wrist, flipped her palm upward, revealing hands blistered and raw, theatrically declaring, “Look at these hands—sixteen straight hours of labor! Had he managed his time better or learned the proper grip from skilled workers, these blisters wouldn’t exist.”

Watson’s fury instantly shifted toward Holmes, roaring, “Christ, Holmes! He’s severely malnourished! Now is not the time for your remarks. Let go of him!”

Turning to Arna, he demanded, “When was the last time you ate a proper meal? Not those biscuits.”

Arna scratched her cheek and glanced at the dense wounds on her palms.

The game had done a good job with details—if Holmes hadn’t mentioned it, she wouldn’t have noticed the special glove skin.

“These wounds will heal quickly. I ate last night,” Arna answered honestly. “Not just biscuits.”

“Clearly,” Holmes said coldly, after being scolded and forced to release her. “Biscuits sandwiched between sandwiches. The kind sold on the train a few days ago.”

Arna saw Watson’s eyes spark with two small flames, growing fiercer.

“Good heavens, Esas! A week-old sandwich? Before malnutrition kills you, bacterial infection will!”

Arna: …Damn you, Holmes!

She grumbled, “They weren’t spoiled, Doctor Watson. I kept them fresh…”

She had even put those sandwiches into special bags for short-term freshness to prevent rot.

Seeing Watson growing angrier, Arna swallowed the rest of her words and stared pitifully at her depleted stamina bar, glancing around helplessly.

* * *

Before she could say anything else foolish, Watson lifted a steaming bowl of beef broth and held it under her nose.

“Drink quickly,” he said gruffly, standing up. “You need rest—at least until this afternoon. No going out, understood?”

“But the wood I ordered arrives today. I still plan to…” Arna started, intending to make beds for the children.

She’d exchanged three pennies in the system for a double bed blueprint, then five pennies for materials. She planned to craft five double beds by hand and place them in the freshly painted rooms on the second floor as living quarters.

But her words trailed off.

Mrs. Hudson stood at the door, pale-faced, lips pressed into a trembling line.

“You foolish, reckless child,” she said quietly, not shrill, but thick with emotion.

Her voice made Watson instinctively step back. Holmes swiftly grabbed his friend’s arm and silently led him out, leaving the bedroom to the aunt and niece.

“You,” Mrs. Hudson’s voice was hoarse as she set the tray on the bedside table, “will finish that soup and eat these pies. Then you will sleep. After that, my dear, we will talk about whether your work is worth risking your health.”

Arna quickly yielded.

Over the next half-day, she promised to return on time for meals, hire a carriage for errands, and place an ad the next day to hire an additional teacher for the children instead of doing all the work herself.

Though expenses exceeded her expectations, by Friday afternoon, Arna had completed all her tasks on schedule.

She locked the second-floor room doors, straightened her back, and descended the stairs briskly, the iron framework humming softly underfoot.

The sun was setting, the pale walls of the factory reflecting the fading light, and the coachman should have arrived nearby.

Arna stretched and pondered how many children she would receive the next morning.

At that moment, someone politely knocked on the iron door and pushed it open.

Instinctively, Arna looked towards the entrance.

A rosy-cheeked young woman stood there, her thick hair tied back with a headband, a few stubborn strands defiantly curling upward.

“I saw your notice in the paper,” she said, holding up the newspaper. “And I didn’t miss the last issue of The Times. Are you looking for someone to keep those little troublemakers in line?”

“Yes,” Arna replied, “though I’m afraid the pay isn’t much. As the ad states, one shilling a week, room and board included.”

The girl smiled, poised and confident.

“Figures,” she said, surveying the freshly painted factory. “You did this all alone? Impressive.”

Arna gave a short affirmative.

After looking around, the girl said, “I’ve had a bit of schooling—some writing, basic arithmetic—and I know how to keep a nest of sewer rats from tearing each other apart during work hours.”

She naturally extended her hand. “I’m Nancy. No last name.”

Unexpectedly, offering below-market wages really did attract a suitable teacher. Arna eagerly shook her hand.

“Well then,” she said earnestly, “pleasant working together?”

Nancy chuckled softly. “Yes, pleasant working together, Mr. Esas.”