First Stream: Frying Pan Funeral in 3 Seconds Flat

The screen flipped to black and white, kicking me out to the lobby in a mere 3 seconds. In that split-second while I was chambering a round, a frying pan smashed into the back of my head.

I stared blankly at the monitor. The AKM clutched in my hands hadn't even fired a shot.

Silence. Then the chat exploded.

A torrent of mockery and ridicule poured in. Only four viewers, but their firepower rivaled dozens.

"Hang on, isn't this total bullshit?"

"C'mon bros, think about it—landed on the roof, Ekko right in front of me, I loot and hit reload, and that's the timing some asshole pans the back of my head? This is hacks! Hacks! Fucking cheaters!"

"Argh, seriously…."

I rubbed my dry face and fiddled with the standing mic. Clink—drag—

"We'll talk mics later, bros—check the title. 'If I Don't Get Chicken' right?"

Fucking legendary stream. I clapped along, focusing intently.

"I never said one game, right? As long as I chicken before quitting."

"Not cowardly, that's the rule. One more—gonna smash skulls this time."

I stubbornly hit ready. Gotta show my skills somehow. Back in my Lee Jinsu days, Battlelands Crystal 2, 2.1 K/D with 280 damage output—I ain't crumbling like this.

Match loaded, back on the plane.

"School this time. School."

"I'm no idiot—think I'd fall for it twice? Parachute control on lock this time."

School rooftop. Scoped drop direction and player count meticulously. Controlled my chute textbook-style.

Weapon below: Pump Action Shotgun. Early-game CQC beast. Hell, the OP balance king ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠covering mid-range too.

"Okay, shotgun secured? They're all fucked."

Ka-chunk—ka-chunk—ka-chunk—ka-chunk—ka-chunk— Grabbed Level 2 armor and meds, full reload done—a briefs guy charging me.

Pistol in hand? Total runner who skipped guns.

"Where you going!" Bang!

"Cut!"

One-shot the charging briefs guy with the shotgun. Clean one-tap.

"Mmm. Yeah. That's me."

My head nodded on autopilot at that godlike physicality.

"What'd I tell ya? I'm good."

First kill loosened me up—hands and brain firing on all cylinders.

Casually looted heals and throwables off pistol guy's corpse, headed down stairs to floor 2.

School's maze-like layout? Sound play is king. Floor 1 or 2? Room or hall?

Tap, tap— Careful footsteps from the opposite classroom.

"Okay, end of 2F hall room?"

Pulled a frag from pistol guy's loot, yanked pin. One, two, three. Timed it, lobbed through window crack.

BOOM!!

"Two kills sweet? Chicken incoming?"

From ridicule to cheers after one perfect frag.

"All braincel angle calc, site-ripened physicality. Know how to stack cement bags on gombang runs? This is basic."

Viewers still at 4. Title this provocative, still no 5th.

Yeah, streaming ain't a walk in the park. In Prism with thousands of streams, standing out takes insane luck.

'But these four sticking around chatting beats talking to empty air.' Hundred times better. And damn, their typing speed's nuts—feels like bantering with a dozen.

"Okay, EMP with scopes, three smokes? Farmed for me? Total slaves? Level 4 bag?"

Cleared school 2F—no more footsteps. Others probably wiped or ran outskirts.

"School cleared. Gonna snag a car, head to zone."

Heading out to a parked car on the road—

A donation popped up.

"…Huh?"

I froze my character, staring dumbly at the screen.

Five thousand won. Peanuts really—gombang or logistics shift earns more.

But sitting in my room, playing my fave game, flapping my gums, and someone pays me? Weird rush.

"Uh… th-thanks for the 5k donation!"

My voice cracked with genuine ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠feeling without me noticing.

"This feels so weird, way different from hauling mortar for day wages. I'll cherish that 5k!"

Couldn't check closely while biking, but sub-monitor chat was cracking up.

No dances, songs, aegyo—but real talk connects, huh? Viewers seemed pleased. Hope donor is too.

"Alright, 5k punch landed—time to earn dinner!"

Viewers up by two somehow. Slow, but growing. Nailed chat, fun stream, even donation.

'…Gonna ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blow up into a mega-corp?'

Kimchi soup dreams—every Korean's weakness.

Nogada-ssi on bike headed to Military Camp. 8 survivors left. 1st out of 8 in this sprawl = chicken.

Gunfire echoing afar—three distinct weapons. At least two dying there. Others might join.

Just camp smart, snag good spot—done.

Post-school 2 kills, one bike-roadrunner aside—no more kills/assists.

Chat full of jeers at Jua's rat play. But she chill-proned, sipping energy drink.

"Bros, Battlelands essence? Survival. Yeo Po would've 100% rat too. Blind aggression in survival-victory game? Dumb."

"When did I ever diss Odin pro…? Don't spread rumors!"

Bang—!Tat-a-tat—!

While bantering prone—4 survivors left.

"Okay, three others? Best spot? All outside? All fucked?"

Held alt, gently moused—character still, scanned surroundings.

Zone to Military Base south—barren hill with sparse trees.

"Those tower fighters gotta run this way anyway? I hold, headshot comers."

"…? Title's manly Yeo Po stuff—explained that already, no excuses, just clarifying…."

"…Pardon?"

Corner timer finally caught my eye.

"…Huh?"

I stared blankly at the monitor. Got hyped over donation, yapped about mortar and labor, felt touched?

Chat detonated. Finally clocked it.

Stream missions need accept button, complete for payout. Jua's face burned.

Humiliated over 5k.

"Argh… seriously… over 5k…? Huh? Sudden back?"

Jua's voice faded. Character frozen.

Bang—!

"No! Said check back! Arghhh!"