Blue Truth

Twenty-nine years old this year. Occupation: job seeker.

A man named An Sang-tae opened his eyes once again.

The clock read two in the afternoon. Far too late for a job seeker to be rising, but that sort of thing no longer mattered to him.

He ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠had been a job seeker and a full-time home security guard for four years now.

In other words: he was unemployed.

In a dark room sealed behind blackout curtains, Sang-tae blinked the sleep from his eyes, scratched his calf, and sat down in front of his computer.

The distinctive whir of an aging fan filled the room. Moments later the screen flickered to life, becoming the sole source of light in the darkness.

As recently as two years ago he had still gone out for the occasional part-time job. Not anymore. Everything had become too bothersome, too dull.

Even so, a new daily routine had taken root of late.

Writing posts on a community board. More precisely: being an active, dedicated member of a place called the Abyss Gallery.

That was why he sat down at the computer the moment he woke. He needed to check the popular posts that had gone up while he slept, and read the replies under his own threads as well.

It was the internet, but he led a busy life in his own way. To him, this counted as going outside. If you were communicating with the world through a screen, how could that not be an outdoor activity?

His mother would have despaired if she ever heard that logic. Her only son wasn't looking for work — he was cooped up in his room all day writing strange posts.

Sang-tae had noticed the way she looked at him lately, so he had deliberately inverted his sleep schedule to minimize contact. He slept while she was awake and at work, and got up to be active while she slept.

Whether she had figured out his strategy or not, she seemed to be avoiding him on her end too. The rare times they crossed paths were unbearably awkward.

Just finish this one important thing. Once this is done, I'll look for jobs and send out résumés…

Sang-tae knew perfectly well that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his current lifestyle was wrong.

But this harsh internet world needed him right now.

So he had no choice but to play along. There was no one else who could perform this sacred duty.

It's about saving a person, after all.

Protecting one woman.

That was the weighty mission Sang-tae currently carried in the community.

No one would acknowledge it. There was no reward, no compensation. But it had to be done.

Like a Dark Knight, standing in the lowest, darkest place to guard the one who shone brightest of all.

The moment he logged into the community, Sang-tae clenched his fist as if renewing a vow.

Watch me, Kayak. I'm protecting the Abyss Gallery — and you.

And with that, he began methodically replying to every overnight post that rubbed him the wrong way.

Needless to say, Sang-tae was one of the gallery's most well-liked fixed-ID regulars — and, due to a recent shortage of manpower, he had also ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠been appointed as a moderator.

He handed down punishments to anyone bold enough to insult Kayak, the gallery's very foundation, and doled out lighter sanctions to the ones who slandered him personally.

In what universe is Kayak ugly?

Sang-tae believed with absolute certainty that Kayak was either the same person as Camilla-girl or possessed looks on that level.

Others in the gallery shared that belief — but they made up only about half.

The other half insisted it was impossible and routinely smeared anyone who believed Kayak was Camilla-girl as delusional freaks.

It was an attack from the factions that had always disliked Kayak. The sudden face controversy had given them the perfect opening to jump in and manipulate public opinion.

Beyond that, Sang-tae also rushed to scrub sexual harassment and vicious insults posted through VPNs — anything that would make a person wince — just in case Kayak ever saw them.

Personal likes and dislikes were inevitable. But there was something else Sang-tae couldn't understand.

People who didn't purely hate Kayak yet still harbored doubts. People who claimed to be her fans and still said, this doesn't seem right.

Why question something so obvious? Their reactions simply didn't make sense to him.

And yet, in another corner of his mind, he felt a sense of fulfillment.

As a moderator — and as a pioneer — he was standing on slightly higher ground, enlightening the ignorant masses.

Several hours passed that way.

The sun was already sinking low. Sang-tae wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead after fending off successive raids from other communities — and then:

Kayak's stream — which no one had expected to go live — had turned on.

It was a completely random timing, with no real title to speak of.

Even though it wasn't her usual streaming hour, people flooded into her broadcast almost immediately.

— Viewers: 11,200.

An unprecedented number.

Not even during the height of her tournament run had she drawn this many.

But it was not a good sign. It meant every community that had heard the news had come to raid her stream.

The regulars who had always watched Kayak's streams fought back fiercely.

But the usual tactic of spamming single consonants to bury the bad messages was impossible. The raiders' firepower was just as overwhelming.

As a result, the chat became pure chaos. A rare sight in Kayak's room, which had always been relatively well-managed despite its solid viewer count.

The chat scrolled so fast it was nearly impossible to parse, and the messages that did flash by were mostly snide digs at Kayak.

A collective monologue. Those chats carried no meaning at all. Just snickering — throwing rocks at a frog for fun.

What was strange was the complete lack of moderation.

Neither the manager stationed in the room nor Kayak herself, the owner of the stream, showed any ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠reaction.

The broadcast screen remained pitch black, as if she had stepped away, and no one seemed to care how fast the chat was flying.

Raiding trolls, as a rule, don't think particularly deeply. They just swarm in a herd and throw rocks, and throwing rocks in the middle of that herd is the entire point.

When Kayak showed no response, they got even more excited. More people kept pouring in through the communities, the viewer count kept climbing, and they needled her through donations as well.

And then it happened. Something finally registered on a broadcast that had so far produced neither image nor sound.

The rustle of fabric. The sound of someone settling in front of a live microphone.

As the room's owner returned, both camps reacted violently. The trolls hurled rocks even harder, while the fans typed frantically, terrified she might get hurt.

The chat heaved at a speed the eye could barely follow, and the viewer count broke fifteen thousand — when the broadcast screen finally changed.

Something flashed into shape, as if emerging from darkness into light.

It wasn't the usual game screen or desktop wallpaper.

The bewildered viewers soon realized it was a camera feed. This was the kind of full-frame output that appeared whenever Kayak used her occasional hand-cam.

The camera filled the entire broadcast, showing the interior of someone's room.

An empty computer chair. A single bed behind it. Curtains with a cute pattern. Clean wallpaper…

The already blistering chat accelerated even further. For a moment the sheer volume of messages caused the chat to freeze, then dump everything at once.

And then — just as the crowd that had come demanding she turn on the cam, demanding to see her face, was holding its breath in anticipation —

A rustling sound, and a figure suddenly appeared.

A woman wriggling out from under the desk. She rose smoothly and settled into the chair — a woman with pure white hair and blue eyes.

She frowned and leaned her face close to the camera.

"Is it working…? Can you see me right now?"

She waved her hands this way and that, checking whether the feed was transmitting properly, testing the camera's functions.

At that, the chat — which had briefly lost its rhythm — began spitting out messages at the same speed as before. Maybe even faster.

The woman seated before the camera looked just like Camilla.