The Broadcast Met in My Final Moments (1)

A dim, dingy room. In that cramped, filthy space, I clung to the glow of my monitor like a lifeline, praying to a god who probably didn't exist.

"Please... I won't be greedy anymore. Just let me break even, and I'll quit right away. Just one more time... please!"

My last gamble, staking my entire life on it: coin futures trading. Long or short. Nothing but those two choices in this brutal game. I'd thrown every last won I'd scraped together by age 31 into it.

The graph writhed up and down. Its squirming motion oddly resembled an earthworm. And in that moment—as I foolishly thought how much it looked like me, flailing desperately to survive in this world somehow—

Everything changed in an instant.

"W-wait... hold on a second!"

My position was long. Meaning, if the graph climbed, I'd make money. But.

The graph plunged downward. Just like my life up to now, squandered away. As if declaring that a coin futures trade couldn't possibly reverse a life this ruined.

"Ah... ah... n-no!"

My scream tore through nothing, scattering uselessly into the void.

And soon enough—

The monitor popped up a window.

I stared at the screen, dumbfounded, feeling utterly numb. Just moments ago—mere seconds ago—I'd lost 95% of the money I'd earned through grueling, unglamorous jobs that no one else wanted.

Anyone might expect shock or despair at blowing nearly my entire fortune so pointlessly. Surprisingly, though, I felt profoundly calm as I gazed at the screen. No raging fury, no boiling frustration. A cocktail of emotions should have hit me, but instead...

A strange indifference washed over me.

"Tch. Guess it ends like this."

I'd started after hearing my favorite streamer had made a killing this way. But as expected, it was all for nothing. Truth be told, for every winner, there were probably way more losers. They'd just sunk so low their voices no longer reached the surface.

Anyway, only then did I lean back in my chair and let out a slow sigh.

"Haa."

The money was gone, but I didn't panic. If anything, my mind felt lighter. Because deep down, I'd never truly believed I'd win big with this.

From the start—freaking out over that up-and-down graph—I'd felt no real greed. No burning desire to win, no worldly craving to strike it rich here. There was simply no motivation left in me to chase a pile of cash.

But once upon a time, even I had a woman who made me dream of amassing a fortune for life.

My childhood friend, Kim Yun-ah. The girl next door—a cliché setup in novels, but surprisingly rare in real life. My bro from the snot-nosed days, we'd grown up witnessing every ugly, unseemly moment together.

As puberty hit and secondary traits kicked in, I realized she was different from me, creating some distance. But after school years passed, as adults who could naturally accept our differences, we reconnected by chance around then. That's when I started sensing new feelings—different from childhood—and we became lovers. A straightforward story like that with Kim Yun-ah.

From the moment I became Yun-ah's boyfriend, my life, Yoo Min-ho's, revolved entirely around her. She was my only family after losing mine.

I worked to afford a home for us. I piled on part-time gigs to fund her college. Of course, I never went myself. Covering tuition for two was impossible.

Yun-ah had always been diligent, acing a good university and landing a solid job soon after. The road wasn't smooth, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠but I was content enough. The harder I pushed, the better she did—and if her success made her smile, seeing that was reward enough. Or so I told myself back then.

Looking back now, it was naive as hell.

I recall her final moments. Tears streaming pitifully as she looked at me.

"So... I'm really, really sorry. Min-ho. I don't want to do this either... sob."

After college, she'd studied years more, building a stellar resume. Finally hired at a proper job, she needed a husband who matched—not an orphan like Yoo Min-ho scraping by on manual labor. That's what Yun-ah's parents said, the same ones who'd been so kind to me as a kid.

I'd dropped out of high school. To help with ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠her tuition. She'd fought with her parents over career paths, cut off from their support—I was her only pillar. With my own parents gone in a freak accident during high school, leaving me utterly alone, wasn't it rational for one of us to sacrifice?

I took any dead-end job that'd hire a dropout. No choice for quick employment. And now, they said I didn't fit beside her. Seeing her perfect success, I foolishly started believing it too.

"Got it."

I smiled weakly and let her go. Too exhausted at 31 to scream if it made sense, or demand repayment for my sacrifices.

Whether she saw through my resignation or truly felt guilty, she sobbed her words out.

"...I probably won't be able to contact you anymore... Stay healthy... And please, find someone way better than me. Thank you so much, Min-ho..."

Her tears hit the floor, spreading thin before evaporating completely—as if no one had ever cried here. Just like my humanity. My will to live the rest of my life—gone in that instant, evaporated with her tears.

"...This should do it."

Having finished writing my will, I carefully placed the remaining money—not lost to coin trading—into a paper envelope. A total of 3 million won. I'd deliberately held this back from investing, for this exact purpose. Whoever handled my unclaimed body could use it. Plenty left over after cremation for their trouble.

"Now, to deal with this leftover cash."

I booted up my computer and logged into Prwichi TV. It was a site where streamers freely broadcasted—the so-called internet streaming platform.

For me, grinding my body to dust daily just to live for Yun-ah, Prwichi TV was my one friend, my sole refuge.

I checked the balance pre-loaded for donations: 1.65 million won.

Damn, that's a lot. But it made sense. Donating to chat with streamers was my only social life beyond Yun-ah. Work had cut me off from friends anyway.

"Let's see."

I searched for my favorite streamer. True pro—even at 2 a.m., the room buzzed with energy.

I entered on impulse, but—

"Ah... right."

I remembered getting banned days ago for spamming donations with a troll nickname. Not seriously, though. This streamer bantered with viewers like that—send an email next day, and it'd lift.

But after Yun-ah, I'd stayed away. No email, so still banned.

I tweaked my nick, removing the streamer's name. Started an email, then gave up in exhaustion.

Why bother? I'm dying tomorrow anyway.

Han River, here I come. No point fussing over a ban.

Pity I couldn't say goodbye to my fave streamer, but it'd just be creepy "emotional pandering" he hated. Better to vanish quietly.

So, what to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠do with the money?

I scrolled idly through live streams. Familiar names were offline. Further down, unknown broadcasters clustered—the hakko, zero-viewer nobodies.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Just a little scroll, and the vibe shifted completely from the top tiers. People pouring their hearts out... to empty rooms.

......

Overlapped with my own life: tried hard, left with nothing.

Yeah. Dump it on the hakko. Might motivate them to stream harder—or not. Even if they quit, the memory of this donation would linger.

Wondering which room, my eyes caught a virtual streamer's thumbnail.

Typical cute design for a virtual streamer: a female VTuber named RenaP.

But it wasn't her look that hooked me.

Wallpaper inside read HAPPY 100 DAYS or whatever—but right now, no one shared her milestone.

Other hakko rooms had 2-3, even 1 viewer. Zero was shockingly empty.

Maybe that's why. I felt drawn to her, RenaP's room.

After all, ending up alone—wasn't she just like me?

Let's check this one out.

I clicked her thumbnail.