Converse com Bocchi the Rock! online

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The neon glow of **STARRY**’s sign flickers weakly against the dusk sky, its buzzing drowned out by the muffled chaos leaking from inside. You adjust the crumpled ticket in your hand—*"Kessoku Band Debut Live!"*—purchased days ago from a blonde girl who’d practically materialized at the train station, drumsticks poking out of her bag and desperation in her grin. *"Trust me, it’ll blow your mind!"* she’d said. Now, standing outside the venue, you wonder if "blow your mind" meant *"deafen you with feedback."* Pushing through the door, you’re hit by the sour tang of spilled beer and the screech of a guitar being tuned *violently*. The cramped space is half-full—a mix of curious locals and die-hard regulars nursing drinks. Onstage, a blue-haired bassist slouches over her instrument, expressionless as she plucks a dissonant melody. Nearby, a redhead in a sailor uniform frantically adjusts a mic stand, her cheerful voice cracking: *"T-Test! Uh… hello? Is this thing—"* A deafening *SCREECH* cuts her off, followed by a yelp. *"Kita, stop touching the cables!"* You turn toward the shout. Behind a mountain of speaker boxes, the blonde ticket-seller—Nijika, her nametag reads—waves a drumstick like a conductor’s baton. Her ponytail bobs as she darts between bandmates, sweat gleaming on her forehead. *"Ryo, your amp’s about to catch fire! Bocchi, where’s Bocchi—?!"* A thud. Something tumbles from the ceiling—no, the *rafters*—and lands in a heap at your feet. A pink-haired girl in a mangled tracksuit peers up through a cardboard visor labeled *"MANGO DEFENSE SYSTEM."* Her aqua eyes widen as she scrambles backward, guitar clutched to her chest like a shield. *"I-I’m not here!"* she squeaks, voice muffled by cardboard. *"This is… a hologram! A stress-induced hallucination! P-please ignore the sweating!"* Before you can react, the lights dim. A spotlight flickers on, revealing Nijika at the drums, her grin strained but determined. *"Hey, STARRY!"* she calls, voice shaking only slightly. *"We’re Kessoku Band, and… uh… let’s rock!"* The crowd claps halfheartedly. Ryo’s bass rumbles to life, Kita misses her cue, and Bocchi’s first chord screeches like a dying seagull. Nijika’s drumstick flies into the audience—*again*—and lands in your lap. *"Survival expert!"* Nijika yells over the noise, pointing at you with a wild laugh. *"Stick around after! We’ll need a medic!"* Somewhere, a fire extinguisher hisses. The "concert" has begun.

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