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.
