Friday morning.
The narrow, filthy hideout was tucked behind a pub, where the air was thick with the sour stench of rotting food and the greasy smoke of candles. Fagin sat on a rickety chair, his gnarled fingers stroking a small vial as if it were a lover’s cheek. Opposite him, Oliver stood stiffly, his thin frame trembling. Perhaps from the cold, perhaps from fear—likely both.
“Now, my dear,” Fagin whispered, his voice laced with a sickly warmth, “I have a special task just for you.”
Oliver swallowed hard. He knew that tone. It was how Fagin spoke when Dodger and Charlie failed to bring back loot that satisfied him; such a tone always heralded misfortune.
“You’ve been doing well at that factory, haven’t you?” Fagin huffed, patting the boy’s cheek. “That gentleman trusts you—lets you help out in the kitchen, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, sir,” Oliver replied, looking down.
“Good boy,” Fagin’s smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “Then tomorrow, you’ll do us all a favor.”
He placed the vial on the table.
Oliver’s breath hitched for a moment, then he feigned nonchalance. “Mr. Fagin, what is this?”
“Naturally, you’d ask questions,” Fagin shook his head. “I didn’t give this to Nancy precisely because women have endless questions and inappropriate… weaknesses.”
He suddenly straightened his back. “But you, you’re different, my boy!”
As he spoke, Fagin’s fingers tapped the bottle lightly. Despite his age, his fingers remained terrifyingly nimble. “It’s just a sedative, see? For our gentleman’s nerves, to ensure he sleeps better.”
He chuckled. “Yes, after a drink. That way, we can conveniently… rearrange things.”
Oliver’s throat felt tight. It was a blatant lie, but Fagin’s piercing gaze prevented him from speaking the truth.
“But… but Nancy said she would bring an anesthetic,” his voice was dry as he gripped the bottle of poison. “Won’t they overlap?”
“No, of course not. This is… more certain,” Fagin smiled. “Careful not to spill it—it cost a fortune, truly.”
He added meaningfully, “Do this, and we’ll make sure you never want for anything again.”
Oliver’s fingers tightened around the glass.
“I—I understand,” he whispered.
Fagin clapped his hands. “What a clever boy!”
He squeezed Oliver’s shoulder firmly. “Go on, get back before the gentleman notices you’re gone. We wouldn’t want to keep him waiting, would we?”
Oliver nodded, hid the poison vial in his sleeve, and hurried out.
Fagin watched his retreating back and spat into the corner.
“Just because they have money doesn’t mean they aren’t vicious,” he muttered, recalling the well-dressed dandy who had met with Sykes last night. The man had blue eyes strikingly similar to Oliver’s. “What a fool, paying us to corrupt his own flesh and blood.”
But business was business.
***
Almost as soon as he reached the factory, Oliver made his way into the office with practiced ease and sat in the chair reserved for guests by the desk. He had a key not because Mr. Essas particularly favored him, but because he had proactively taken over the task of tidying the office.
Oliver counted the time in his head. Sure enough, at exactly nine o’clock, Mr. Essas’s carriage appeared punctually downstairs. He waited a little longer until he heard footsteps hurrying up the stairs.
“Good morning, sir,” Oliver said. “I have something to tell you.”
Arna was still chewing on a piece of bread, looking a bit dazed. “What is it?”
She reached into her backpack and pulled out a pie. “Have some of this while we talk.”
Just as she placed the pie on the desk, Oliver pulled a vial from his coat.
“Fagin called me over this morning,” he whispered. “This is… poisonous. They seem to suspect something is wrong with Nancy, so they told me to poison you. Saturday night.”
“What? Poison?” Arna was instantly intrigued. “Let me see.”
She hadn’t seen poison in this version of the game yet!
Oliver placed the bottle in her hand.
“Be careful,” he said, recalling Fagin’s words. “It’s very expensive. Maybe just one drop is enough to hurt…”
He watched in stunned horror as Arna pulled out the cork and gulped down half the bottle.
“Mr. Essas?” Oliver cried out, nearly frantic.
Not tasting poison was a major regret in gaming; now, that regret was rectified.
As it turned out, some things are better left untested.
Arna spat twice, finding it utterly foul. “Tastes terrible.”
“—That’s not the point!” Seeing Arna’s face gradually turning green, Oliver panicked. “It’s poison! I’ll go get a doctor right now!”
Poison could be thrown away, poured out, or used back on Fagin… but this was definitely not the outcome he wanted!
Arna waved him off calmly. “No need. I’m fine. I’ll be better in a bit.”
With that, she began pulling food from her backpack and eating vigorously.
As her health bar gradually recovered, her complexion returned to normal.
Oliver was speechless, staring blankly at her face, looking both terrified and bewildered.
Arna reached up and touched her face, realizing blood was streaming from her nose and dripping onto the floor.
“…Small matter,” she said calmly, grabbing a nearby handkerchief to wipe herself. “Don’t worry about it. Go back downstairs.”
Oliver looked at Arna warily, then at the bottle in her hand. “Promise me you won’t drink any more.”
He didn’t want the factory owner to finish the whole bottle the moment he stepped away, did he?
“This stuff doesn’t even taste good, why would I drink more?” Arna found the question bizarre. “I’m not an idiot.”
She just wanted to taste it and accidentally swallowed too much.
Oliver remained silent for a while.
He thought to himself that while Mr. Essas didn’t think he was an idiot, no normal person would drink half a bottle of poison in one go.
***
Upon returning home, Arna specifically brought out the poison to show her roommates. She had, of course, swapped the vials; the one she would give back to Oliver was filled with honey.
“It really tastes awful,” Arna held the poison up, the viscous liquid sloshing inside. “I don’t recommend trying it.”
“What did you say?” Holmes, who had been peering through his magnifying glass, snapped his head up.
Even Watson stood up straight. His long-standing medical habits made him instinctively start questioning her, his words rapid and urgent. “Good heavens, you ingested that? Do you have any symptoms? Dry mouth? Nausea? Rapid pulse?”
“…Symptoms… does wanting to spit it out because it’s disgusting count?” Arna waved a hand. “It tastes like a pollutant for the taste buds. Sometimes it’s better to restrain one’s curiosity.”
Holmes seemed incensed by her remark. He strode over to Arna in three steps, his long fingers seizing her wrist to check her pulse, while his other hand gripped her chin, tilting it back to observe her pupils.
At such close proximity, Arna could clearly feel his breath was slightly faster than usual.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, confused. “I’m fine.”
“Of all the reckless, blundering idiots—” Holmes hissed through gritted teeth. “Damn it, it’s a miracle you aren’t twitching on the floor. And you’re complaining about the taste!”
He let go of her and stopped Watson, who was rummaging through cupboards for an emetic. “Fine, Essas is alright. Robust enough to eat a whole cow,” he said with rare sarcasm.
“The poison isn’t the point, and neither is the cow,” Arna hurried to change the subject under the doctor’s reproachful gaze. “The point is Oliver.”
She mused, “Why is it always him? Last time Fagin gave him a solo task, and now again…”
No wonder his character model was so refined. Was he an Easter egg NPC for some major quest?
“Oliver, clearly,” the name flew from Holmes’s lips like a missing puzzle piece. “They keep sending him to you. But he’s clearly no ordinary thief—too soft, unskilled.”
Relaxing slightly, he swept his coat aside and sat down, deep in thought. “How much do you know about the boy?”
“…An orphan from the country?” Arna wasn’t entirely sure. “I don’t have much of an impression. He was likely tricked into the den of thieves.”
Watson, who often worked cases with Holmes and could occasionally catch his train of thought, frowned. “You think he’s being framed? That’s why he’s being forced into this?”
He pondered, “What kind of person could an orphan possibly offend?”
“Not just framed, but carefully designed,” Holmes turned back, his eyes flashing with excitement. “Think about it, Watson. The first time he appeared, he was with two thugs mugging Essas.”
He held up one finger, then a second. “That failed. Now, for the second time, they want this poor child to poison his own benefactor, the generous factory owner. Clearly, someone wants to get a hold of this boy, to cover him in shame, and they are using Essas as a link in the chain.”
Arna sat up straight. “But why?”
The corners of Holmes’s mouth curled up.
“Most likely an inheritance,” his fingers tapped his knee. “An illegitimate child—or a contested will. However, there isn’t enough evidence to prove the connection yet, nor do we know the name of the puppeteer hiding behind the curtain.”
Thinking of this, he sighed. “It’s all speculation for now.”
Watson hesitated. “Should we warn the boy?”
Arna thought for a moment. “…Not for now?”
Recalling the plan, she would feign drunkenness tomorrow night. When Sykes appeared, Watson and Holmes would emerge from nearby crates with guns and seize Sykes, the leader.
Meanwhile, Fagin’s side would be watched by several parents of the factory workers. Mrs. Hudson would notify the coachman to inform Scotland Yard as soon as the time was right, and Nancy would look after the children who might be frightened or forced to participate.
Arna had seen how fast the police arrived in the game; there would be plenty of time before Scotland Yard arrived for them to interrogate everyone thoroughly.
Feeling her companions’ gazes, she scratched her head. “Once we catch them tomorrow, we can torture them however we…”
Under Watson’s watchful eye, she corrected herself without missing a beat, “…we can question them for details however we like.”