Anger sat in the inn, watching Hendrick hurry in, hand a small parcel to the innkeeper, then turn and leave.

  Inside the parcel was a suit, a top hat, a few sheets of letterhead paper bearing the name Harrington Textile Co., and a counterfeit company seal.

  Shedding his constable's greatcoat for the suit, he hired a singleseat carriage from the innkeeper.

  Anger gave the driver only one direction: "West. The textile mill district."

  The carriage jolted over the cobblestones. Anger closed his eyes. Long before the carriage stopped, the air already grew thick with the distinctive scent of countless looms.

  "Harrington Textile Co., Northern Division." Anger repeated the identity to himself and knocked on the wooden door.

  The door opened a crack, revealing the face of a young apprentice, a few freckles dotting his cheeks.

  "Yes?"

  "Axel. I need to see your supervisor." Anger lifted his briefcase so the apprentice could see the company emblem. "It's regarding a collaboration on specialized fabric care. We've heard the finest hands for handling noble households' garments are here."

  The apprentice hesitated. "Wait a moment." The door closed.

  When it opened again, a man in his early forties stood there.

  "Cedric. Hopewash Laundry supervisor." The man extended his hand directly. "You said Harrington, Northern Division?"

  "Indeed." Anger grasped the offered hand.

  "Who gave you this address?"

  Anger's expression remained unchanged. "Trade whispers. A Lady's maid mentioned it at a tea party – that Venetian lace gown nearly ruined, and you saved it."

  Cedric stared at him. A couple of seconds later, a smile broke out.

  "We did handle Her Ladyship's garments. Please, come in to discuss further."

  Following Cedric inside, Anger finally opened his briefcase fully. Inside were fabric samples, each with a small sewn tag.

  On top was a letter on Harrington letterhead detailing the "problem with Lady Rossetti's gown" – a real case provided by Lord Rossetti concerning an antique gown ruined by an unknown grease stain.

  "Our Northern labs have had a recent breakthrough." Anger pulled out a sample of deep crimson velvet. "We've developed a compound solvent, particularly effective against certain stubborn organic stains. Hearing your establishment is the premier venue for handling noble households' garments, I took the liberty of coming. Hoping for a potential collaboration."

  He watched Cedric's face. "And to see your current processes, see if our techniques could integrate or... optimize certain steps."

  "Our records show stains containing oils from rare Southern flora. Devilishly hard to shift. And the animal blood, the mineral powders... ghastly business, really," Anger added quickly. "Traditional soaps can't break that oil down, just drive it deeper into the fibres. But we found if you use a lowtemperature steam pretreatment followed by an enzyme solution at a specific pH—"

  "You know chemistry?" Cedric looked up.

  "Enough. At Harrington, every field representative needs the basic principles. Otherwise, how do we explain our value to clients?" Anger offered a smile of measured confidence, not arrogance. "Might we see your workflow? Truthfully, I'm more curious how the Fog City's top workshop handles those... challenging deliveries. Northern stains are mostly from the natural environment."

  He lowered his voice. "I've heard some garments arrive with stains that simply have no place in any civilized drawing room."

  The corner of Cedric's mouth twitched. What was this fellow implying?

  He remembered last week's batch of sheets from the Viscount's estate. Those dark red stains that wouldn't budge. The order from above was to burn them. Just get new ones.

  "We have confidentiality agreements," Cedric said, rolling the edge of the velvet sample between his fingers. "Client privacy is paramount."

  "Of course, of course." Anger nodded, retrieving a small vial of amber liquid from his case. "This is a trial sample of our solvent. You're welcome to keep it for testing. No obligations. Just a gesture of goodwill."

  He placed the vial on the letterhead and slid it forward. "But since I'm here, might I at least see the general layout of the work areas? Purely from a process optimization view. Are the pretreatment and deepstain zones separate? Is the steam boiler pressure control stable? The hardware dictates how far any collaboration could go."

  Cedric stared at the vial. His hand started towards it, then stopped midway, diverting to rub the back of his neck.

  "Actually," he began, then paused, glancing towards the door. "The laundry is... relocating soon. New premises near the Eastern docks. More space, newer equipment. Here..."

  He looked around. "Truth be told, some processes are... If you really want to see, now might be the best time. Before the move, everything's a bit in disarray. Nothing too secret not to see, I suppose."

  ******

  Anger’s opportunity had arrived.

  “That would be splendid,” he said, closing his suitcase. “Lead the way.”

  The laundry was located in the rear section of the building, accessible only through a narrow series of corridors and a side entrance guarded by a few burly men. The moment Anger stepped inside, he was hit by a wave of heat and dampness.

  First was the scale—it was larger than he had imagined, with ceilings at least four meters high supported by steel beams, from which rows of stilldripping garments hung.

  Then there was the steam. Four enormous soapboiling vats stood in the center of the room, each over two meters in diameter. Fires roared beneath them, causing the liquids within to churn and emit a complex chemical odor.

  But what caught Anger’s attention most was the interior of one vat.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  On its inner wall, just above the liquid level, a distorted wolf’shead pattern was faintly visible—so blurred it might easily be mistaken for a lunar symbol.

  “That’s the deepstain processing area,” Cedric said, pointing toward the vat, his voice somewhat muffled by the hiss of steam. “The most stubborn garments are pretreated there. Hightemperature soap solution breaks down most organic stains. If that fails… stronger measures are required.”

  Anger followed him, stepping closer. His eyes quickly scanned the floor. Beside a pile of soiled laundry were several wooden crates. On one, a label had come half loose, revealing lettering beneath: E.I.C., followed by a string of numbers.

  E.I.C.—The East India Company!

  “Those crates over there—” Anger asked, feigning casual curiosity as he gestured.

  “Some of the fabrics awaiting processing are shipped from overseas,” Cedric said, walking over and nudging the loose label back into place with the tip of his shoe. “The nobility have a taste for exotic textiles, but transport inevitably leaves them stained with ship grime. Those are the toughest to clean.”

  “May I take a look? I’d like to understand the nature of the stains in their original state.”

  Cedric hesitated briefly, then nodded.

  “Truly troublesome,” Anger said, standing up and naturally pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe his hands. “This kind of oil has already penetrated. How do you usually handle it?”

  “First, lowtemperature steaming to expand the fibers, then boiling in strong alkaline soap solution,” Cedric replied, pointing to the vat. “But the results are limited. Sometimes the stain fades, but the fabric is ruined in the process.”

  Seeing Anger’s professional interest, Cedric grew more talkative. “To be honest, some garments are marked ‘unfit for processing’ upon arrival. We discard them outright. Occasionally, we even have a new set tailored for the client. That’s cost us quite a bit, I’ll tell you.”

  “Discard them?” Anger pressed. “But those are Nobleman garments—hardly inexpensive.”

  Cedric’s lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Some things hold value beyond the fabric itself.” He said no more and turned toward another area. “Let me show you the bleaching section.”

  Anger followed, though his gaze lingered on the vat.

  The bleaching area consisted of several concrete basins filled with large quantities of white fabrics soaking in unnaturally blue liquid.

  Workers in coarse gloves and masks stirred the contents with long poles, their movements numb and mechanical.

  “You use chlorine gas for bleaching?” Anger inquired.

  “Chlorine is too harsh—damages the fibers. We use a hypochlorite solution, with tightly controlled concentration,” Cedric explained, his pride clearly professional. “Temperature, pH, soaking time—every step follows a standard. That’s how we handle delicate textiles.”

  Anger nodded, his mind racing with analysis. Now I understand why the nobility prefer this place. Plenty of difficult bloodstains must be removed this way.

  He approached one basin, pretending to inspect the water quality, and lightly touched the edge with his fingers.

  “The process is quite professional,” he said, turning back to Cedric. “But how do you deal with stubborn odors—like residues from medicinal herbs or spices? Those scents seep into the fibers. Even bleach might not fully remove them.”

  Cedric’s eyes flickered briefly.

  “We have a dedicated fumigation chamber for that,” he said, pointing toward a heavy iron door at the back of the room. “Steam mixed with specific solvents, sealed for twelve hours. But that area involves trade secrets—offlimits to visitors.”

  trade secrets!

  “Trade secrets. Understood, understood,” Anger replied with an awkward laugh. “Every trade has its mysteries. Just as we at Harrington’s would never casually reveal our compound solvent formula.”

  After completing the tour, Anger adopted the manner of someone preparing to leave. He closed his suitcase, straightened his suit jacket, and then, as if suddenly remembering something, drew a small notebook and pencil from his inner pocket.

  “But before I go, might I ask a few technical questions? Purely out of personal curiosity. Seeing such a professional workshop, one can’t help but want to learn more.” He flipped open the notebook, pencil poised. “For instance, does residue buildup on the inner wall of that deepstain vat affect heat conduction? How often do you thoroughly clean it?”

  Cedric paused, caught off guard. “The vat wall? We usually don’t clean it. The high temperature itself keeps it clean.”

  “But stains can carbonize, forming an insulating layer,” Anger tapped the notebook with his pencil, pretending to take notes. “Over time, that would increase fuel consumption. I noticed the fire under that vat burns stronger than the others, yet steam output seems lower. Possibly due to buildup on the walls.”

  As he spoke, he walked closer to the vat.

  “You may be right,” Cedric’s voice came from behind him. “That vat does need cleaning. We’ll address it once we relocate to the new site.”

  Anger turned, swiftly sketching a few lines in his notebook—mainly the totem and the crate numbers he had seen earlier.

  He closed the notebook and returned it to his pocket.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr. Cedric,” he said, extending a hand. “I’ll report today’s observations and sample test results to headquarters. I hope we might have the opportunity to collaborate in the future.

  ******

  His words caught in his throat.

  Steam.

  From a vat directly ahead, a massive plume of steam was rising from the churning soap mixture, gathering near the ceiling of the workshop. Just as Anger spoke, the pattern of its flow changed.

  It didn't dissipate.

  Instead, it began to coalesce just above the mouth of the vat. The steam grew denser, thicker, resembling a wad of cotton wool. It shifted from translucent to milky white, and then, finally, it resolved into the rough outline of a face.

  The face had no details, just a basic shape: an oval, with hollows for eyes. It held in the steam for a few seconds before it began to deform.

  The position of the right eye elongated, sliding down the cheek, eventually forming a new shape.A hand.

  Three fingers, composed of vapour, slowly rose to the position of the throat, then drew sideways across it.

  A slashing gesture.Anger's every hair stood on end.

  A white hallucination? No... no, that steam was absolutely real.

  "Mr. Axel?" Cedric's voice pulled him back to reality. "Are you quite alright?"

  "The steam... gets in the eyes. An occupational hazard of daily travel," Anger said, forcing his body to still its tremor. "How do your lungs withstand eight hours a day in this environment?"

  Cedric shrugged. "One gets used to it. And we rotate shifts. Ten minutes for air every two hours." His gaze lingered on Anger's face. "You're sure you're just a field representative for Harrington's?"

  The question came abruptly, but Anger was prepared.

  "What else would I be?" He spread his hands, displaying his welltailored but unremarkable suit. "Do I look like someone from the Industrial Committee? Or perhaps a Parish investigator?"

  He pulled his pocket watch from his coat, snapped it open, and glanced at it. "As a matter of fact, I should be going. Keep the samples for testing. Send any results to the address on the letterhead. But before I go..."

  He closed the watch with a click and looked up at the workers on the platform.

  "These men..."Anger lowered his voice, leaning half a step closer to Cedric. "They don't look well. Harrington's had a similar issue at our factory up north. We ended up instituting mandatory physicals and a nutritional stipend. Costs went up, but turnover plummeted. Overall efficiency actually improved."

  Cedric's mouth twitched, "We have physicals."

  "Forgive my intrusion," Anger pressed on smoothly, "but I heard a rumour about... personnel going missing at your firm recently. If it's a health issue, perhaps consider our nutritional supplement programme as a followup."

  Cedric's eyes instantly sharpened with wariness.

  "I don't know what you're implying," he said, his voice flattening. "All workers at the laundry are registered. Clock in, clock out. No one is missing."

  "Understood." Anger nodded amiably. "I've taken enough of your time then. Thank you for the assistance. Although... if you are using any particularly... potent formulations, perhaps the move to a new site is a good chance to switch to a safer process. Higher initial outlay, but worth it in the long run. Do consider Harrington's products as a priority."

  "We should head back," Cedric interrupted. His entire demeanour had shifted since the question about missing personnel, turning brisk and cold. "I have relocation matters to attend to. We'll conclude here for today."

  Anger followed him without another word.

  They retraced their steps through the steamfilled workshop, past the corridors stacked with crates, and back into the relatively clean front room. Cedric stopped at the door, his hand on the knob but not yet turning it.

  "The samples," he said, not looking back. "If the test results are unsatisfactory, I'll have the bottles returned."

  "Of course," Anger replied, standing two paces behind him. "But if they are satisfactory... perhaps we'll meet at the new site. Harrington's is quite interested in the emerging workshops near the East Docks. Lower rents, more space, and convenient for importing and exporting materials, being so close to the shipping piers."

  Cedric finally plastered that professional smile back on his face.

  "I'll consider it," he said, and pulled the door open. "Good day, Mr. Aksel."

  "Good day, Mr. Cedric."