Stop the Hate-Mongering

They say streaming ruins your temper.

Any streamer or BJ with a decent amount of experience under their belt would hear that and nod along — it was something most of them could relate to, at least a little.

Back when you'd just started broadcasting, everything was pure fun. Chatting about nothing in particular, spotting yesterday's regulars in the chat again, picking up the occasional donation. In those early days, stepping into a whole new world had been endlessly exciting. But somehow, as time went on, those positive feelings diluted, and what filled the space instead was a rising disgust for people.

Why is the world like this? Why is this person so angry? These people make no sense at all—

Internet streaming, by nature, isn't bound by time or place. You can go live whenever you want and end the stream whenever you want. Space works the same way. Stream from the countryside, the capital, anywhere in the country or overseas — people from every corner of the world can pile in.

That was a strength, but it could just as easily be a weakness. A double-edged sword. The more people you drew, the higher the proportion of those ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠with warped ways of thinking — the so-called lunatics — climbed right along with it.

Internet streams especially tended to attract jobless shut-ins and online phantoms with nothing better to do, so the concentration was denser and their behavior all the more underhanded. That was why, after streaming long enough, you could look up one day and find that the passionate version of yourself from the beginning had vanished without a trace, replaced by someone grinding through the work on pure mechanical habit.

There was a reason people said broadcasters lost their original spark. The environment itself was practically designed to evaporate that first mindset.

There might have been a touch of exaggeration in all this, but the fact that your view of people changed was real. Most jobs that put you face-to-face with the public were like that — call center agents, civil servants dealing with petitioners, teachers worn down by pushy parents. It was the sorrow of the service industry. You laughed because of people, and you cried because of people. The nature of the work was such that anyone who'd been burned badly enough would swear never to take a people-facing job again.

Haryeong, a streamer on Twish, had lately fallen into a similar spiral of doubt.

Should I quit streaming?

The thought had been coming more and more often. Watching the chat flood in, watching the occasional donation pop up, her head would go blank — and all that remained was the urge to run. She'd actually ended streams mid-broadcast more than once. Afterward she'd post an apology notice with some plausible excuse about not feeling well, but still…

How had things gotten like this? It hadn't always been this way.

Haryeong had won over her audience with a pretty face, a pleasant voice, and solid game skill. The viewers who'd been drawn in by that had lifted her up, bantered back and forth with her, and made the streams genuinely fun.

That peaceful era of streaming had started to shift the moment her channel grew far bigger than expected and people began calling her the number-one female streamer on Twish.

More precisely — it started after a supernova of a streamer named Kayak appeared.

At first she hadn't thought much of it. Haryeong wasn't the type to be especially ambitious about streaming. She was glad things were going well, but whether she had a lot of viewers or a few never meant that much to her.

But as the floating audience that had swelled around Haryeong began draining away toward Kayak, the situation flipped. People started comparing her to Kayak, sniping and sneering.

Haryeong was the so-called number-one female streamer on Twish — until the real deal, Kayak, showed up and toppled her. Kayak is clearly the superior version of Haryeong, so why even watch her? Haryeong's stream is basically just a waiting room for Kayak.

Those kinds of takes circulated through the communities, and even during live streams, people started quietly needling her. Kayak would've clutched that. Kayak would've done it this way. Kayak had her cam on — this stream doesn't.

For Haryeong, it was her first real encounter with human malice and that particular brand of sliminess. She'd have preferred outright insults. This kind of petty needling was worse. If she got angry at the baiting chats, the responses came right back: Oh, she took the bait. Got her right in the sore spot, so she snapped.

Her vision went dark. When had her stream turned into this? It really hadn't been like this before.

Back when her viewer count was half of what it was now and her income ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was smaller to match, she could at least say she'd streamed happier. Now she wasn't streaming so much as serving as a half-functioning emotional dumpster. A thousand-won donation designed to scrape raw at someone's insides didn't feel welcome even when it was technically support.

Before she knew it, the entire atmosphere of the stream had flipped. Haryeong had no idea where to even start fixing it.

Long-time subscribers who treated baiting chats and donations like banter? Socially clueless weirdos who didn't know where the line was? Community people who showed up to terrorize her every time she went live?

She should have cracked down hard from the start. Early response was everything. Like cancer cells metastasizing, the stream was already riddled with disease past the point of easy treatment. Haryeong wanted to grab her old self — the one whose head had been full of flowers — by the collar and shake her senseless.

Of course, she knew there were still people who liked her and rooted for her. Amid the daily flood of bizarre emails full of sexual harassment, unsolicited stream advice, and attempts to pit her against other streamers, she could still find messages from real fans who were genuinely worried about her.

She knew that. She knew, but—

I'm so tired.

She was exhausted beyond words. She no longer believed she could stream the way she used to — talking with people, enjoying herself.

Haryeong finally made her decision.

Today. She would go live one last time and say it. She would tell them she was quitting.

Even chat that looked perfectly normal on the surface had become impossible to take at face value. Ever since she'd learned that people from communities that hated her would come into her stream wearing a kind of mask, she'd started scrutinizing every single message like someone with a full-blown paranoia disorder.

Haryeong wanted to be free as soon as possible. She wanted to cut the cord that still tied her to all of this.

"Um…"

But even after coming in determined to say she was quitting, the words wouldn't come once the stream was actually live. She'd been doing this steadily for years. It had started casually, as a hobby, but streaming had become something she could no longer simply peel out of her life. You couldn't just sever something like that in a single stroke.

While Haryeong hesitated and the usual chatter filled the chat window, something happened.

A massive donation dropped out of nowhere — under Kayak's name.

For Haryeong, who'd been seriously wrestling with whether to keep streaming at all, it was pure bewilderment.

"Kayak…?"

The viewers' reaction was ice-cold. The prevailing mood was absolute certainty that the donor couldn't actually be Kayak. On Twish, anyone could set a different name when sending a donation, after all.

Haryeong didn't really believe it was Kayak either — but on the off chance, she used her streamer privileges to check the Twish account attached to the donation.

The result was startling.

"It's really Kayak?"

The linked account had a profile picture of Camilla and a broadcast history going right up through just a couple of days ago. The person who'd sent the donation was the real Kayak.

Haryeong's mind started spinning. Why had Kayak donated in her stream? Had she been watching all along? Stop the hate-mongering? What was that supposed to mean?

Her questions were answered by Kayak's next donation.

Among the viewers, the dominant take was that Kayak was being sensitive — overreacting. From their perspective, it was fair enough. They'd been watching a stream just fine when another streamer suddenly showed up and told them out of nowhere to stop talking about her.

"…"

But for Haryeong, who'd been tormented by Kayak's name day after day, it looked completely different. The fact that Kayak had come into her stream and dropped donations like that didn't feel rude or burdensome. It felt like someone had seen straight through to her heart and was offering comfort.

Haryeong opened her mouth and said something other than what she'd originally planned.

"…Since Kayak herself is saying so, from now on I'm banning anyone who randomly brings her up out of nowhere. It's rude to her, too."

Somehow, it felt like she might be able to keep streaming a little longer.