A New Day 5

Gino bolted into his bathroom, the tiled floor cool against his bare feet, his heart thudding with the ticking clock in his head. He had 45 minutes—45 measly minutes—to get to Headquarters, and he was already drowning in delay.

Grabbing his toothbrush from the cluttered sink, he squeezed out a hasty glob of mint paste and attacked his teeth, the bristles scraping in a frantic rhythm.

He'd swapped back into his new light blue pajamas—soft, garish things plastered with kiddish patterns of cartoon stars and clashing reds and yellows. He'd worn them briefly last night, a fleeting nod to his "new start," before the sisters and that blonde menace stripped him bare in a blur of groping hands and drunken giggles. Now, the childish print mocked his urgency, but he didn't care—pajamas were the least of his problems.

Facing the spotless mirror, he scrubbed faster, foam bubbling at his lips, his reflection showed him the face of a young man with dark brown hair and wild eyes. The bathroom door creaked, and the sisters slipped in, their nightgowns whispering against the floor—white for one, black for the other, their scales glinting faintly in the fluorescent light.

The blonde woman stayed behind, her face still mashed into the bed, a crumpled black police shirt draped over her damp, lingerie-clad backside like a flag of surrender. The stench of vodka clung to her, a ghost of last night's chaos.

The sisters flanked him, one on each side, their movements sluggish with lingering sleep. They plucked toothbrushes from the stand—a mismatched trio of neon colors—and joined his frantic brushing, their strokes lazy, their eyes half-lidded.

Gino's left hand drifted to the black-haired girl's head, rubbing gently where she'd banged it on the wardrobe earlier. Her dull expression flared to life, lips parting in a soft sigh as she leaned into his touch, savoring the soothing strokes like a cat under a sunbeam.

The mirror caught it all, beaming the scene into the white-haired girl's sharpening gaze. Sleep fled her silver eyes, replaced by a spark of rivalry. She snatched his right wrist, her grip firm, and planted his palm on her head. "Me too…" she cooed, her voice a practiced lilt of cuteness, dripping with demand.

Gino yanked his hand back to grip his brush, but she clung tighter, tugging it back to her scalp. He switched tactics, pulling his left hand free, only for the black-haired girl to clamp onto his wrist, locking it in place. Her scales brushed his skin, cool and possessive, her lips curving into a faint, triumphant smirk.

He instantly regretted rubbing her head.

"Howh whil waI WrusH?" he garbled, foam spilling down his chin, his mouth a frothy mess.

"Here, let me help you," a voice purred, low and syrupy, cutting through the chaos.

The blonde woman loomed behind him, her tall frame filling the doorway. She'd thrown on a gray bathrobe over her white lingerie, the fabric sagging open to reveal glimpses of lace and skin, but the reek of alcohol clung to her like a second skin. Each exhale thickened the air with a boozy haze, turning the bathroom into a distillery.

Her hand slid under his left arm, snaking across his chest, fingers clamping his jaw in a vise-like grip. His head locked forward, forced to face the mirror. Her right hand darted over his other shoulder, catching his toothbrush as it teetered from his mouth.

"One, two, three… One, two, three…"

She brushed in a steady rhythm, her eyes glinting in the reflection, a playful smile curling her lips. Was she serious? Mocking him? The grin made it impossible to tell, and the uncertainty gnawed at him as foam smeared across his teeth.

Gino tugged at his hands, but the sisters held fast, their grips iron. He pulled harder, desperation rising, and they countered with extreme measures—snakes slithered from their backs, white and black, coiling around his wrists like living shackles. He wasn't even rubbing their heads anymore, but they didn't care—it was a contest now, a silent war over his touch, and neither would yield.

"Stop moving," the blonde snapped, her focus fraying as his struggles jostled her. The brush veered, smearing paste across his lips, his cheeks, a minty mess painting his face.

She released his jaw, hands dropping to his waist, gripping hard to pin him in place. Gino froze, the fight draining out of him as he registered his predicament—trapped, surrounded, outmatched.

"Fwacc," he mumbled, relenting, letting her take over. He resumed stroking the sisters' heads, standing rigid, his neck stiff as he stared into the mirror.

"Good boy," she chirped, planting a quick peck on his cheek, her lips warm and wet with a faint tang of liquor. She resumed brushing, and a strange calm settled—the sisters purred under his hands, the blonde hummed her rhythm, and for a fleeting moment, everyone was content.

The second she finished, Gino seized his chance. "Now move out," he barked, shooing them with a wave of his arms. They shuffled out, reluctance in their steps, and he slammed the door shut, the lock clicking with a satisfying snap.

Silence crashed in, heavy and unnatural. No giggles, no rustling—just the thump of his own pulse in his ears, the faint drip of the faucet. He could feel their presence lingering beyond the door, ears pressed to the wood, waiting.