We stepped into the first factory, a massive hall meant for cutting and spreading, and the reality hit me hard right away. This was supposed to be luxury production—high-end ready-to-wear for Herlos, where fabric cost a fortune per yard—but it looked worn down and tired.
Long automatic spreaders sat frozen, their metal arms rusted at the joints and locked over huge tables scarred with deep cuts and stains from years of use. Precision cutters flickered weakly under dusty spotlights, barely able to hold a steady line for perfect cuts, but the blades were dull and misaligned.
What the hell?! This place looks like a nightmare!
Only two technicians lingered nearby, wiping grime off the controls and testing on scraps of faded silk and pilled cashmere blends that had sat too long. Digital pattern markers gathered thick dust on cracked computer screens, templates for blazers and silk dresses frozen mid-load.
Racks sagged with limp fabric layers like forgotten ghosts, tags yellowed and curling—SS26 fine silk, high thread count. Just eight workers shuffled around, down from eighty in good days; conveyor belts were clogged with lint buildup, fabric scraps scattered everywhere like trash no one bothered to sweep.
I yanked out my notepad fast, pen scratching notes—Factory 1 - Cutting/Spreading—8 staff, 10% capacity, premium stock mouldy in spots, machines unreliable. My shirt crumpled as I squeezed under a low roller arm caked in grease, a strand of raven hair sticking to my neck in the stale air, eyes narrowing at every crack and shadow.
I took a deep breath—stale starch mixed with musty dampness and faint machine oil, far from the clean luxury smell it should have.
"How does your company even keep running like this?" I asked Hellen, who was looking out of place amid the peeling paint and flickering lights.
Hellen waved a hand over the spreading tables, her voice steady despite the mess. "It starts careful, step by step. Design team—down to three—sketches luxury pieces—blazers with strong lapels, gowns draping on the bias, dresses fitted for all types with hidden give. Drawings go digital on computers, planning cuts to waste nothing."
"What about the fabrics?"
"Fabric arrives in controlled rooms—fine wools, soft cashmere, top silks double-checked—but storage failed, some bales water-damaged." She powered up a cutter; it whined shaky, red beam jittering through test silk with rough edges that would fray on high-end dresses. "Cuts up to sixty layers if lucky now; used to be double. Pieces tagged by code, sent to sewing—if machines cooperate."
After that we headed to Factory 2—sewing and assembly, the core for luxury build, but it felt like a shadow of itself. Rows of computerized sewing machines rusted at the bases, set for fine seams like delicate French ones on chiffon or tight buttonholes on wool, but threads tangled in feeders and pedals stuck.
Only twelve sewers pieced half-done blazers, hands trembling on worn needles: inner layers puckered uneven, pockets crooked from jammed bobbins. The machines dragged slow, fabric pulling despite settings; hem preppers spat thread clumps.
"Work grouped by garment," Hellen said, voice tight. "Jackets built with soft supports for natural feel; dresses bias-joined flat. Checks every ten pieces—thread tension off, seams wider than 0.5cm from wear."
I noted fast—Sewing—12/60 stations limping, skilled hands overworked, 500+ blazers defective backlog.
Factory 3 was for embroidery and decoration, details that should scream luxury, now choked by neglect. Multi-needle machines jammed with broken threads, sequin tools clogged with old glue, laser stations scratched and foggy for lace cuts. Four workers fumbled adjustments—silk threads frayed for raised effects on eveningwear.
"Custom work here," Hellen explained. "Post-order initials on pockets, designs placed perfect. Beads hand-set under lights—but bulbs burned out half." Samples looked sad—coat crest puckered loose, silk dress crystals uneven along lines.
Decoration—25% uptime, artisans frustrated, tools failing.
Factory 4 reeked of dampness—dyeing and finishing, alchemy turned sour. Jet dyeing machines leaked faint from cracked seals—no waste water clean anymore—vats stained with old colours: navy bled murky for suits; ivories yellowed for bridal. Four chemists mopped spills, tests failing colour hold.
"Bias fabric dyes even if lucky—no run on slant, but seals break," Hellen admitted. "Steam rooms rusted, presses overheat wools past safe 180°C. Magnifiers cracked, flaws slip." Test swatches wrinkled bad. Dye/Finish: 8% runs, contamination risk high.
Factory 5 slumped final: quality control, packing, storage—luxury's gate crumbling. Humid chambers warped hangers, suits moth-nibbled despite wood; dresses mildewed in damp boxes.
Five checkers typed on glitchy computers; packing lines gummed with old tape, bags torn. Forklifts battery-dead, pallets mould-spotted—8,000 SS25 units ruined unsold. "Ships global here," Hellen sighed. "Tax-free now clogged; stock destroyed slow."
As we stepped out of the fifth factory into the harsh afternoon sun, the limo idling like a black beast on the cracked lot, I whirled on Hellen, my eyes blazing fire.
"Are you kidding me?!" I snapped, voice echoing off the chain-link fence rattling in the wind. "Your factories are in ruins! It's a graveyard, not luxury production!"
Was my gamble fruitless?! How the hell will someone work with this?!
Hellen stopped short, eyes meeting my glare without flinching. Tall alpha poise held, but a flicker of sheepish crossed her sharp features.
"I know, Ms. Leonhart," she said calm, voice steady as the limo door clicked open behind us. No excuses, just fact-facing steel.
I jabbed a finger at the squat buildings we'd escaped, notepad clutched tight like evidence, raven hair tousled wild from the factory's stale air now whipping free in ponytail ruins.
"Call me Emily! And what the hell are we selling? Luxury RTW's out—those blazers puckering like cheap thrift, gowns yellowed in damp corners. Pop-ups need product, not scrap heaps! Blacklists have choked me already; this sinks us day one."
What am I going to do now? With these machines, I don't think any luxury product will contain the word 'luxury.'
Hellen exhaled slow, gesturing me toward the limo. "Emily," she conceded, tone warming fraction alpha-to-alpha, "truth stings, but it's fixable rust—not rot. Three days. I'll call renovators—industrial specialists who've revived worse, and technicians too."
I crossed arms over my chest. "Three days? Bold. But proof—show me timelines, quotes tonight. No more surprises, Hellen; partnership means eyes open." I have emptied my account, and sold two properties for this. So, yes... I need results.
"Emily, please give me three days."
I shook my head, taking a deep breath. "No, this won't work."
"What?"
"Hellen, I am pretty sure that this won't work... unless, we do something different. Let me think, and I will give you my idea tomorrow."