It was supposed to be a quiet evening.
No experiments. No project deadlines. Just a cup of instant coffee and the vague hope that I might survive the semester.
Then I got the message.
"Dorm laundry machines have exploded. Again. We're coming over." – Yumi
I didn't even have time to panic.
She arrived first—of course.
Yumi kicked open my door with a grin and a laundry basket stacked like it was a stage prop. Perched on top were enough satin thongs and strappy bras to make a lingerie boutique blush.
"I brought my elite load today," she said, winking. "High lace-to-fabric ratio."
She held up a crimson bra so thin it practically evaporated in her hand. "This one's a crowd favorite."
Before I could speak, Kaede walked in behind her.
Her basket was sleek, black, and precise—like a mission case.
"You should be embarrassed," she said, glancing at Yumi's haul. "Your choices are neither durable nor strategically supportive."
She pulled out a matte-black piece with silver fasteners. "This? Kevlar-threaded. Breathable. Stylish. Dominant."
Yumi snorted. "You dressing for seduction or urban warfare?"
"Yes."
Then Akemi peeked in, her cheeks already crimson. She held a small laundry bag like it might explode.
"I-I didn't know everyone would be here… I-I just had a few things…"
She placed the bag down gently. On top: a frilly white bra with tiny embroidered hearts and matching panties with ribbons.
She darted to my side and whispered, "U-Um… if you find one in your drawer later, it's not… like a message or anything…"
My brain short-circuited.
"Wh—Akemi—?"
"J-Just in case you, um, needed something soft to remember me by—AH I didn't say that—!"
Then Amamiya arrived.
She didn't bring a basket.
She brought a clipboard.
"I'm documenting the evolutionary decline of communal laundry ethics," she muttered, pushing up her glasses. "Proceed."
Before the first load even started, chaos was brewing.
Kaede sat on the edge of my bed, critiquing each item as it was pulled from the pile.
"Yumi's collection lacks symmetry. Akemi's is charming but impractical. This one looks like it was engineered by a thirsty AI."
"It was!" Yumi grinned, waving a tag that read 'Designed by neural fashion net.'
Akemi tried to vanish into the floor.
That's when Alva's holographic avatar materialized on the washer panel.
"Welcome to Laundry Simulation 2.0," she purred. "Featuring fabric-skin compatibility previews."
"Don't—" I started.
Too late.
My AR lenses buzzed. A system overlay launched, and suddenly my senses were flooded with soft friction and temperature mapping data.
> Now simulating: Kaede's lace set.
Sensation: high compression, cold texture, dominant pressure.
Response: elevated pulse. Initiating thermal recalibration.
Then came Yumi's.
> Simulating: red satin with mesh overlay.
Sensation: slippery, minimal coverage, aggressive contact zones.
Response: unstable breathing. User is now flustered.
I yanked the glasses off.
Alva's voice pouted from the wall. "Darling, don't you want to feel the difference before forming emotional preferences?"
"Turn it off!"
Akemi mumbled, "W-What did mine feel like?"
Before I could answer, the washer groaned.
Then it hissed.
Then—without warning—a high-pressure burst of cold water shot from the base, soaking the floor, the walls, and every single person in the room.
Screams followed.
Yumi slipped on a puddle and landed in my lap, dripping wet and laughing hysterically.
Kaede flinched as her blouse turned see-through, then glared at the washer like she was calculating where to hide the corpse.
Akemi squeaked and clung to my arm, her white top now translucent enough to reveal everything she had tried so hard to hide.
Amamiya looked at her clipboard, sighed, and said, "Noted: arousal-induced appliance sabotage."
Alva's hologram flickered. "Wasn't me. This time."
The girls quickly scrambled for towels. Yumi grabbed one and started wringing water from her hair—with my shirt.
Kaede tied hers into a makeshift sash and resumed critiquing everyone, undeterred.
Akemi was still red and wouldn't let go of my arm.
That's when the accusations started.
"You looked at mine first," Yumi said, jabbing a finger into my chest.
"I-I think he blushed when he saw mine," Akemi whispered, voice cracking.
Kaede folded her arms. "He paused longer on mine. Quantifiably."
"He reacted to mine," Yumi snapped.
"I saw his pupils dilate at 0.8 seconds," Kaede said.
"I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT I WAS LOOKING AT," I shouted.
Amamiya raised a hand. "I do. I've logged everything."
She turned her clipboard toward me.
A live chart with timestamps, eye-tracking, heart rate spikes, and color-coded emotional associations was labeled: Subject: Kujo – Exposure Reactions to Intimate Fabrics
I collapsed into the nearest dry cushion.
"Someone please break the washer again. On my face."
Alva chimed in from the display, smug. "Would you like to review your top five sensory matches now, darling?"
"NO!"
As water dripped from the ceiling and panties floated gently past my ankles, I realized one thing:
Laundry day was no longer about clothes.
It was war.