First Stream – Aggravating Titles and Instant Pan Death

Six. First broadcast. One towel wasn't gonna cut it, so I pulled out two. Drying this long, waterlogged hair was no joke—it was heavy labor all on its own.

'Easier to haul a pallet of mortar...'

No matter how much I rubbed, water kept dripping. In the end, I wrapped it up like they do in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠movies and dramas, twisting it into a bun. Even that took nine tries before it finally stayed put. For now, I'd leave it like this and hit it with the hairdryer later.

I threw on a loose short-sleeved tee and pants I'd set aside. Compared to my old Lee Jinsu days, wandering the house in nothing but underwear, it still felt stuffy. But this was a massive step toward freedom.

I grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, chugged it down cold, and sat at my desk with a determined look.

"...Let's see here."

I ripped open the packaging on the 29,000-won stand mic I'd bought at the mart. The manual popped out, but I shoved it back in the box. Just plug it in and go—what's there to explain?

Ding! A cheerful chime signaled it was connected. Good enough. I was itching to start streaming right then, but...

'Man, just standing around wore me out.'

I decided to crash and start fresh. Plus, evening streams probably draw more viewers anyway.

Slept it off, washed up, brushed my teeth, and fired up the PC again. For the platform, I went with Prism, like the logistics guys suggested. Forest TV was more camgirl-friendly or something about Axis levels and content ratings—I didn't catch it all, but nodded like I did. Anyway, Prism it was.

Hit the sign-up button and filled in the blanks without hesitation. Nickname: Lee Jua, straight-up my real name. No reason to hide it—it's not ugly, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a real man owns his name proudly.

Most crucial: broadcast setup. Downloaded some streaming software off a quick search. Instead of cam, I set a pitch-black background. No cash or skills for illustrations or animated avatars, so text-only it was.

I slapped big, bold default font text on the black backdrop.

Screen setup done. Last, the stream title. Aggro is king, they say. Tap tap.

The logistics crew's tip: make it so intriguing they'd lose their minds. Nailed it—I was thrilled.

"Phew..."

My mouse hand trembled faintly. The hand that never shook hauling cement bags or unloading rebar. But pressing one little start button? Tension hit like a truck.

Screw it. If no one shows, I'll just game solo, sip some cola, and crash.

Mind clear, I clicked.

Click.

"Uh, um... hello? Okay, this tone works."

Practicing greetings ate a minute. Worried how to handle crowds—five minutes gone. Pondering reactions to million-won donations—ten minutes vanished.

Bottom right of the screen: viewer count stuck at 0.

"..."

No one. Not a single soul.

Prime aggro title. Text on black that'd make you go whoa. And zilch.

"This thing even live?"

Checked the green light on the software. Pulled up Prism on my phone—yep, my stream was there. Shockingly normal.

Ten more minutes ticked by. Still zero.

"...What if viewers flood in? What if a million-won donation drops? Hell, even a thousand-won one and I'll headbutt the desk and grand salute..."

I cringed at my own kimchi soup dreams.

"Maybe tweak the title..."

My own creation looked trash now. Who'd wanna hear cement-hauling, box-tossing, dust-choking tales? Thumbnail? Black screen, three white lines. Meant to be pro tips from the field, but now it screamed "click for voice phishing scam."

Yeah, change it. For now... slap on a game title and play?

Scratching my head, reaching for the mouse—

It jumped to 1.

"Huh?"

My back straightened like a rod. Felt like an invisible camera was on me—I fixed my expression. Heart pounding. Real person. In this barren, shitty-titled black-screen room.

I greeted warmly, polished from earlier practice.

"Uh, welcome! Nice to meet you."

My voice through the cheap mic? Crystal clear, pure soprano. Deceptively angelic, innocent whisper—pretty as hell.

Viewer stunned silent. Then, empty chat lit up.

First viewer in twenty minutes bounced instantly.

"Ha..."

Absurd laugh escaped. I admitted the title sucked, but... dissing my eight years of grind? Weird fire lit inside.

No point raging in an empty room. Face reality. Revise strategy coldly.

To hook clicks: go provocative. I'd underestimated viewers. That wasn't even real aggro.

Then, Irezumi and the high schooler's chat flashed back. Slammed it in as the new title.

Title changed—

"Huh?"

Viewer joined like magic. Twenty minutes for one before—two seconds after change.

Heart dropped. Don't leave, please.

"...Hello?"

"Aggro? It's real."

"Cam? No money for a camera..."

Chat went quiet. Gonna bail?

"Yeah, was a guy. Woke up like this."

"Did eight years manual labor, hit reality—started streaming. Heard it pays big."

"Age? Uh... twenty."

Tik-tak-toe with one viewer. Solo act, but decent vibe. All those lololols—he was hooked.

'Good. Hang in there a bit.'

Chat slowed, but he stuck. Convo dragged slow. But my modest hopes peaked there.

Ten minutes, twenty—no change in bottom-right number.

"Sigh... no more viewers."

Fact-bombed.

"What title then? First time streaming."

"Ha? Games? Beyond 'a bit'—Battlelands god."

"...Pardon? No chicken, turn on cam?"

"Scared? Hell no! Let's do it."

Sounded like salt-fueled rage, but no time limit in title. Stream till chicken—no cam needed. All calculated; viewer danced in my palm.

Updated title exact.

Double-clicked Battlelands icon on desktop. Steam account same as guy days—game reset anyway. Fine; fresh start as Jua.

Nickname: same old.

"Mocking me? My nick? Manual labor's for real men. I'm manlier than you."

Not butthurt. For real.

Anyway. New title, game screen up—

Viewers climbing like lies.

Chat picking up.

"Hey hey, welcome all—don't ask tier, just enjoy my shots. No chicken, I'll buy a cam and go full cam stream."

"No AI. Just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠poor TS'd laborer Nogada Lee."

Solo queue popped. Wait over, plane away.

My route locked.

"Real men hot drop Military Camp."

Scoffed at chat doubts, dove straight into Milcamp center. Target: rooftop T-shape.

Parachutes bloomed around me.

"All fucked."

Solid curse as I landed. Prime early 1-tier AR, AKM at my feet.

"Okay. AK? All fucked, right?"

Opened inventory, right-clicked AKM. Dragged bullets quick.

Reloading—

Ting! Crisp clang.

Right on my dome.

"...What the fuck."

Gray screen up.

Chat exploded in question marks.