Zenkichi watched Phoenix walk off with that unbothered poise, a hand still resting on the mic like it might wriggle out of his grasp if he let it. His head slowly tilted.

“‘Break a leg,’ huh?” he muttered to himself, blinking like he was trying to remember if that was a real phrase or just Phoenix being a cryptid again.

Then—click. His expression twisted into something sly and theatrical, his voice going gravel-smooth.

A beat.

"...you kids will see the best live concert ever."

And that’s exactly what he did. Or, well, something like it.

As the haunting piano intro of Bohemian Rhapsody filtered in from the battered karaoke machine—slightly off-key but somehow charming—Zenkichi closed his eyes and tilted his head back like he was about to be executed by musical guillotine. The mic hovered just inches from his mouth, trembling faintly in his hand.

♪♫“Is this the real life...?”♪♫
He sang it too sincerely. Like it wasn’t just a line—it was a genuine, painful question posed to the void.

♪♫Is this just fantasy...

♪♫Caught in a landslide.
No escape from reality~♪♫

By the time he hit ♪♫“open your eyes…”♪♫, Zenkichi actually did open his eyes—big and wet and just a little unhinged. He wobbled slightly as he stepped forward, letting his yukata flutter behind him like he was some war-damaged pop idol finally giving his farewell tour.

♪♫I need no sympathy
Because I'm easy come, easy go
Little high, little low
Any way the wind blows doesn't really matter to me, to me♪♫

As the song built, so did he—gesturing too wildly for someone with a sidearm still strapped to his obi. At ♪“Mamaaaa… just killed a man…”,♪♫ he pointed his finger like a gun, then immediately winced.

“Mgh—okay maybe bad lyric choice—”