[Past] The Snake Eyes 3

"759… 758… 757… Is he still staring at you, sis?"

The white-haired girl's voice drifted, soft and monotone, a faint ripple in the sterile silence of the cuboid room. She lay flat on her cot, her silver-white hair fanned across the thin pillow, her silver irises locked on the blank ceiling. The room was a familiar prison—white walls, white floor, white ceiling, all gleaming under the harsh LEDs that buzzed faintly overhead.

No windows broke the monotony, no warmth seeped through the blast-proof glass doors that sealed them in. The air was cool, almost frigid, carrying a faint antiseptic tang that clung to everything.

"I don't know, I don't wanna know," her black-haired twin replied, her tone equally flat, her own dark locks spilling over her pillow. She mirrored her sister's pose, staring upward, her black reptilian eyes tracing invisible lines in the void. "You just keep counting."

"Ain't his creepy gaze giving you chills?" The white-haired girl's voice dipped, a hint of mischief threading through her boredom.

"Ooh, now I get it. It was him all along." The black-haired girl's lips twitched, barely a smirk. "All this while, I thought the chills were from the air conditioning."

"Umm… Excuse me, girls," a boy's voice cut in, sharp with irritation, "can't you see me here cleaning your room?"

He stood near the glass doors, a wiry figure in an oversized white jumpsuit, its sleeves and ankles rolled up to fit his thirteen-year-old frame. His dark-brown hair stuck out in tufts, his hands gripping a broom and dustpan piled with translucent skin flakes and scales—white and black, shed from the sisters like autumn leaves.

He thrust the dustpan toward them, a silent demand for attention, but their eyes didn't flicker from the ceiling. Scales drifted down with every breath they took, a slow, relentless shedding that dusted the floor like macabre confetti.

"755… 754… Do you hear his voice, sis?" the white-haired girl resumed, her counting unbroken, her tone dry as bone.

"Yes, I can hear him," her twin answered, a faint edge creeping in.

"Are you thinking what I am?"

"Yes, his voice is annoying. Tell him to shut up."

"It'd be rude to say it to his face," the white-haired girl mused, scratching her cheek. A white scale fluttered to the floor, joining the growing pile. "Why don't you say it?"

The boy froze mid-sweep, his broom stilled against the cold tiles. A vein pulsed at his temple, his jaw clenching so hard his teeth ground audibly. He'd been here thirty minutes—thirty minutes of their relentless chatter, their scales, their indifference—and it snapped something inside him.

"SHUT UP, YOU TWO!"

His yell exploded, bouncing off the walls, his voice raw and ragged. He whipped his head from the floor to the sisters, eyes blazing. "That's enough! What do you think you are, my mom? Talking shit like I'll just take it? I'm getting paid to clean this room, not to listen to your bullshit yammering!"

Silence crashed in, heavy and thick, blanketing the room like a sudden frost. The sisters didn't flinch, their gazes still pinned to the ceiling, but the boy's chest heaved, his outburst ringing in his ears. He blinked, stunned by his own ferocity, a flush of pride warming his face.

He'd done it—stood up to them, shut their mouths like a hero facing down bullies. A smug smile tugged at his lips as he bent back to his broom, sweeping with renewed vigor.

"753… 752… 751… 750…"

The white-haired girl picked up her count, her voice a lazy drawl, as if nothing had happened. The boy's smile faltered, but he kept sweeping, determined to savor his victory.

"Hey, sis, is he angry?" she asked, tilting her head slightly, though her eyes stayed fixed upward.

"Who knows? I don't wanna see his face," the black-haired girl replied, her tone dismissive.

"But he just yelled at us. He's rude."

"Never mind him. Maybe he scored low on a test, that's why he's frustrated."

"I think his stomach's upset."

"Or he broke up with his girlfriend."

"You got it backward," the white-haired girl said, a faint giggle escaping. "His girlfriend dumped him."

"Because he's a good-for-nothing creep with no redeeming qualities?"

"I CAN HEAR YOU BITCHES!" The boy's voice erupted again, just as fierce, his broom clattering to the floor as he spun toward them. "Cut your crap!"

*Yawn*  "Hey, sis…" The white-haired girl stretched, her jaw cracking wide, her scales glinting as she shifted.

"Yes?"

"Tell him the next time he yells, it'll be his last."

"Why wait? Let's get it over with. I don't like this new guy anyway."

A shiver raced down the boy's spine, cold and sharp, his hands tightening on the broom. Thirty minutes on this job—thirty measly minutes—and the truth hit him like a brick. The pay was too good, too easy, because no one else wanted it. These girls weren't just odd; they were dangerous, and he'd stumbled into their web.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled, his voice small, barely a whisper. He ducked his head and swept in silence, the scales rasping against the tiles, his pride crumbling with each stroke.

The counting stopped. The sisters lay still, their breathing soft, their presence a quiet weight in the room. The boy worked on, gathering the shed scales—white and black, brittle and strange—into neat piles, his movements timid, his heart thudding against his ribs.

"Excuse me, would you mind moving a little?" he asked, his tone fragile, barely above a breath. He'd learned fast—he was at their mercy here, a mouse in a cage with two unpredictable cats.

"No," the black-haired girl said, her voice flat, the first time she'd deigned to answer him directly.

He froze, dustpan hovering. "…"