Clarification. Capitalism is Ruthless.

Truth costs money to prove. Justice isn't free, and innocence demands a receipt.

"…I'll buy a cam. Hand cam's all I need, right?"

I'm broke, so pay up. Then I'll get the cam and clear this up. Hand cam only, of course.

My hands, trembling with injustice just moments ago, froze the instant collection crossed my mind.

The chat froze for a second, then flooded with question marks and laughter.

My heart had been pounding, cold sweat beading—just moments ago. But the word collection sparked something in my brain. Adrenaline and dopamine surged through me like a drug.

Capitalism cures fear. Collection wipes out all anxiety.

Sit in your room, play some games. Wiggle the mouse, run your mouth. Dozens pile in to trash you. But you can turn that trash into cash?

"You're right, I gotta prove I'm not hacking. But this is my first stream, and all I've got is a mic I bought from the logistics loading dock."

"How much for the cam? Uh…"

I paused. Never streamed before—how would I know gear prices? Fired up a browser, searched streaming webcams. Even screenshared the search to prove no price rigging.

"430,000 won—nah, pass. 300,000… 290,000… 240,000… These are too damn expensive?"

30,000 won. Sure, I saw those too. But… remember this 29,000-won mic? Noise creeps in, dragging it around makes it rumble, every on-off click gets picked up. Sound quality sucks.

Some said the crap audio added mystique, but whatever. Point is, if you're buying a cam to prove no hacks with a hand cam, might as well get a decent one. Blurry mysticism won't cut it.

"This 50,000-won one. Perfect—set it up to show my hands, mouse, keyboard, all clear."

Not that shameless to demand 100k. Settled on 50k compromise. Time to collect.

"Alright, 50,000 won. Everyone calling me a hacker—chip in what you can. Hit 50k, I order it live, set up hand cam, prove it right away."

"Scam? …I'll stream for life and live well. If we don't hit 50k, just admit I'm clean, yeah?"

8 years of grunt work taught me: Never lose the mind game. Take the initiative, or you're hauling shit all day. Same in streaming. No intention of losing to viewers.

…Trying to explain already feels like defeat.

Nah, this was righteous collection. Exception.

Did my shameless hustle work?

A flashy effect exploded center-screen.

"…Uhk."

Breath caught. Talk big, but I didn't expect real money. Figured zero or pocket change, fizzle out.

Halfway there from the jump.

Logistics: 10 hours dumping boxes off rails or clawing trailers—mid-100ks. Muscles screaming, dust-caked, old-timer bullying. Hard-earned blood money.

…Though this hub, I was top earner.

But now. Sit in room, "Hehe, gimme money." Bam—25k.

This… is streaming? Capitalism? Streamer life?

I slammed the desk in excitement. Adrenaline surged again. Johnson's Baby loss? Melted before this sweet financial fix.

"Homeprotector! 25k, thank ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠you!"

Donations kept rolling.

I gripped the stand mic with both hands, voice grave and solemn.

"Every won donated today goes straight to the hand cam. Perfect setup incoming. Tomorrow, 7 PM. Check with your own eyes if I'm hacking or not."

"Have a good night, everyone. Good work!"

Clicked end without hesitation. Better than lingering—cool and manly.

"Kyaaah!"

Confirmed off, dove onto bed screaming. Rolled around, pounded the pillow.

"Insane!"

…Wait. Am I insane? Kyaaah? Rolling on bed? Pummeling pillow?

Dream? …Body dominating mind?

Upper-class man Lee Jinsu wouldn't screech or roll. Even streaming voice was off—tenser, different.

Streaming nerves excuse that, but this…

Shadowboxing? Nah, pillow-smashing. Female hormones messing with emotions? Body reshaping mind bit by bit?

Fine. Made money—kyaaah's nothing. Fretting over it seems petty, unmanly.

Self-absolved, grabbed phone.

Order the webcam.

Fired up Rocket Delivery—dawn shipping, capitalism's bloom, Korea logistics triumph. Some poor soul's night-shift blood and sweat in this box.

Reverently opened door, hauled it in. Ripped open—solid webcam and stand appeared.

Clamped stand to desk edge. Aimed lens at hands. Plugged USB, added video device to stream software.

Flash—black screen lit up with my mouse pad.

Monitor showed my hand gripping mouse. I snorted.

White. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Ghostly pale, like bone broth. Slender long fingers, no calluses, smooth. Nails neat without effort. Hand cream ad material.

…They won't deny it's mine, right?

Wiggled mouse around. Typed on keyboard. All captured perfectly. Setup flawless.