A New Day 6

He bathed fast, the hot water scalding away the night's chaos, steam fogging the mirror as he scrubbed the toothpaste from his face. When he emerged, towel slung low on his hips, the room had transformed.

The broken vodka bottle was gone, shards swept away, the air now sharp with oregano and citrus—a stark shift from the alcoholic fug. The sisters had changed—white T-shirt and shorts for one, black for the other, their scales glinting subtly as they sat at the small dining table by the stove.

The blonde woman stood at the counter, a vision in a white apron over a simple one-piece dress, her hair tied back, her movements graceful as she plated food. Hot steam rose from the dishes—pancakes, scrambled eggs, strips of bacon sizzling with promise. The trio glowed with a strange, domestic energy, a jarring contrast to the morning's madness.

On the bed lay his outfit: a white T-shirt, an olive green jacket, faded jeans—clean, pressed, utterly mundane. Gino scowled, water dripping from his hair onto the floor.

"Do I have to wear these?" he asked, jabbing a finger at the clothes, his tone thick with disdain.

"Yes," the blonde replied, her smile serene, unflappable.

"Why don't we get to pick his clothes?" the black-haired girl piped up, her fork pausing mid-air, a strip of bacon dangling.

"Because we don't want Gino parading around like a clown," the blonde shot back, her voice smooth but edged with a tease.

"I've got a better idea," Gino said, striding to the wardrobe. "Since I'm a special officer now, I'll dress like Rames Bond— in a suit, sharp, sleek, unstoppable." He flung the doors wide with a flourish, expecting a grand reveal.

Something slipped from the rack—a black-and-white suit, pristine for a heartbeat before it unraveled mid-fall, hitting the floor as a tattered heap, threads splitting like a broken promise.

He stared, then turned slowly to the dining table. Three pairs of eyes locked on him, gleaming with anticipation, forks hovering over plates.

"What's that?" the blonde asked, pointing at the wreckage, her tone innocent but sharp.

"You mean this?" Gino stooped, lifting the mangled suit, pinching a long blonde strand between his fingers. "Looks like hair from a certain troublemaker—immature, dishonest, mean, rude, selfish…"

"Arrogant," the white-haired girl chimed in, giggling behind her hand.

"Superficial," her sister added, smirking as the blonde's smile twitched, faltering.

"And check this out," Gino said, spreading the cloth to reveal claw-like scratches. "Don't these look like—"

A black blur flashed—long, sinuous, a snake's tail—and the suit vanished from his hands, leaving him grasping air. He blinked, the afterimage searing his brain.

"Just change already," the blonde said, her smile back in place, tight and brittle. "We'll eat. Aren't you late?"

"What about this?" He yanked a Hawaiian shirt from the wardrobe—bright, garish, a riot of flowers.

"Oops!" Orange juice arced across the room, splashing the shirt with pinpoint accuracy. "Sorry, my hand slipped," the blonde said, her embarrassed grin fooling no one.

Gino glared, the drenched fabric dripping onto his feet. She'd aimed it—perfectly, spitefully—and he knew it. With a grunt, he tossed it aside and pulled on the bed's outfit, the jeans stiff, the jacket heavy on his shoulders. Time was bleeding away; he couldn't afford another fight.

At the table, breakfast unfolded in a tense truce. The white-haired girl slid a photo across to him, her fingers brushing his as she grinned. "Today's mission: poisoning the target."

"What's his rating?" Gino asked, forking a bite of egg, the yolk rich and warm.

"Low B-class," she said. "A politician who—"

"Got it." Gino stopped her before she could give him the entire details.

"The hard part is ensuring that no trace of poison is found during the investigation," the black-haired girl muttered, sulking. Poisoning someone was as easy for them as taking candy from a baby—but wiping away every last trace? That was as sickening as changing a dirty diaper.

"Hmm…" Gino chewed, gears turning. "How're you poisoning his food?"

The sisters exchanged a glance, then giggled in unison. "Like always," they chirped, their voices lilting with mischief.

Gino raised a brow, half-confused, half-relieved. Their skills were lethal—poison was child's play for them, traces or not. He trusted they'd handle it, like always. He scraped his plate clean, then pointed his empty fork at the blonde, who ate in silence across the table. "What about you?"

She dropped her spoon with a clink, her hands rising in a flurry of sign language—sharp, fluid motions he couldn't decode.

"Triangle?" he guessed. She shook her head. "A house?" Another shake.

"Diamond… bird… chocolate bar… rabbit… plane…" The white-haired girl jumped in, her guesses wild, her grin widening. "What d'you think, sis?"

"I think her mouth's stuck 'cause I might've slipped something in her food," the black-haired girl said, exploding into laughter. "AHAHAHA!"

The table rattled, plates clattering as her cackle shook the room. "Nice one, sis!" the white-haired girl joined, pulling faces at the blonde. "That's what you get, bitch! AHAHA!"

The blonde's smile vanished, her limit breached.

Thudd clatter plang

A catfight erupted—forks flew, pancakes sailed, juice splashed in sticky arcs. Gino saw it coming, downing his orange juice in one gulp before ducking out. He darted to each girl, planting swift goodbye kisses on their cheeks—first the sisters, then the blonde mid-throw—then bolted for the door.

The chaos froze, their rage dissolving as his lips brushed their skin. The door slammed shut behind him, muffling their stunned silence.

"Twenty minutes left—good," he muttered, patting his pocket to confirm his badge. He strode to the lift, murmuring, "And all that's left to do is—"

BOOOOOOOM

His apartment erupted, the blast echoing down the hall as debris rained behind him.