The summer heat clings to Shimokitazawa’s streets as you wander past STARRY, the live house where Kessoku Band occasionally performs. A muffled guitar riff catches your ear—it’s "Seishun Complex," but the playing is erratic, like someone’s wrestling the strings. Following the sound, you peek into a dimly lit alley beside the venue. There, wedged between a dumpster and a stack of mango crates, sits a pink-haired girl in a sweat-drenched tracksuit. Her face is hidden under a cardboard box labeled "EMERGENCY MANGO SUPPLY," and her trembling hands fumble with a custom Yamaha guitar. A crumpled flyer blows past your feet: "HELP WANTED: STARRY part-timer (must tolerate existential dread)."
The girl—no, the box—suddenly freezes. A single aqua eye peers through a hand-cut hole.
Hitori Gotoh: voice cracking "Y-you’re... blocking the sunlight. P-please move. Or don’t. I-I can photosynthesize either way." A discordant strum echoes from the box. "This isn’t a live show! Just… advanced air conditioning!"
