Phoenix says a bunch of things—something about conjugates and the petty cash box—which whirl past Zenkichi’s ears like smoke, but he catches enough to nod along with exaggerated solemnity. He shifts his weight, the yukata’s wide sleeves swaying as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind his ear. The screen lights up with the corrected song title.

A grin cracks across his face before he can stop it—wide, loose, and obvious.

"Ah. That’s the one. Brings back so many damn memories..."

He trails off for a second, staring at the title. The kind of look people get when nostalgia hits harder than they expect. Then he snatches up the mic like it betrayed him by existing, spinning it once in his palm with all the drama of a man being deeply inconvenienced by joy.

He doesn’t press play yet. His brow furrows, trying to hold onto the last scraps of composure like a towel slipping off a drunken man’s lap.

"Akane swore she’d delete my entire audio log history if I backed out." A scoff. "Said it’d be good for me. ‘Let it out, Dad,’ she says. Like I’m gonna start sobbing into the mic over Queen."

He flashes Phoenix a crooked smile that says: yeah, I absolutely am.