Let's Blow Some Money! 1) How Much for an SNS Star to Spread Her Legs?
Until this wretched body draws its last breath and closes its eyes for good, there is one thing I absolutely have to do.
My life's goal is more women—but somewhere along the way, an extra burden got tacked on as a side quest.
₩100,003,360,727,040,171
"How the hell does this money just keep growing…?"
I checked my total assets on the app for the first time in a while. The goal was simple: actually spend some of this cash properly.
Between interest and successful investments, my fortune was multiplying in reverse. Even after building Fantasia on the island, indulging in every luxury service imaginable, and subtracting all the maintenance costs, I still had money left over. Nine-tenths of it hadn't even hit the market yet. My descendants could live comfortably through the fifty-third generation without a hitch—but even so, I needed to burn through some of it or I'd never feel satisfied.
At least then the economy would get a little boost, and I wouldn't die with any regrets.
I'd originally planned to buy gifts for my future wives, but Se-ah noona had only been drowning in debt at the time—she never had any real greed. Even when I told her I'd give her an allowance and she could play however she wanted, she went right back to work and lived each day diligently. That work ethic of hers said everything.
Ha-neul was the same—no ambition beyond drinking money. Our relationship was progressing nicely, so next date I'd spoil her properly.
Anyway, digression aside—what I wanted wasn't picking up petty bar tabs. I wanted a real, scorching money flex.
I was wringing my brain like sesame oil for a fun idea at my Korean house when one app caught my eye.
The popular SNS app: Puckstagram.
I'd used it before to mess with Se-ah's fiancé. Looking through it now, there were plenty of photos that made my mouth water. Most of the girls posted borderline shots flaunting their bodies and fishing for pocket money, but the ones with big followings treated it like a full-time job—and the content was overflowing. Unless someone uploaded an actual sex photo or got buried in reports, posts almost never got deleted. Most of the women were deliberately pushing the envelope to snag male attention.
Rumor had it the app even facilitated prostitution under the table. Used right, it could be a pretty sweet playground.
Obviously not for scouting wife candidates—just pure entertainment.
So let's pose an interesting question.
If actual prostitution is being arranged on here… how much would it take for a girl with a massive following to fuck?
There was one woman who'd been catching my eye for days.
Over five million followers. Every photo came with a service shot and an ad plastered on it—the classic Puckstagram star model. She also had exactly the glamorous looks I went for.
"Name's… Song Na-young, huh."
Handle: Song♡
Her birthday was listed right out in the open. Same age as me—actually a little younger if you counted the months. Twenty-three years old with five million followers was impressive, but one look at her face and it made perfect sense.
Glamour.
Not quite Ha-neul's level, but a pair of massive milk-filled jugs and that coveted porcelain-white honey skin seized your attention instantly. An arrogant, haughty face looking down at the camera in swimsuits and lingerie no girl her age should be able to pull off—a mature woman far beyond her years.
One shot strutting the streets draped in expensive designer brands. One shot fresh out of a luxury hotel shower, wet hair clinging to her. One shot holding an ad product dead to camera. That kind of vibe.
A pretty, chic, wealthy city girl living her best life.
The consistently haughty expression across every photo reeked of narcissism, but with a face and body like that, it somehow became persuasive. All that arrogance got a free pass.
Well, technology moves absurdly fast these days. All of it could be fabricated. Still, I decided to believe. Five million followers, plus candid street shots with a mask on—she'd been retouched, sure, but not fabricated. At the very least, those bouncing jugs had to be real.
Otherwise I'd report her.
"Heh heh… so how much should I offer? ♬"
The prospect of a proper money drop after so long had me rubbing my hands together like a merchant. Buzzing with the new experience, I calculated a reasonable sum—something she'd actually listen to.
I'd never done real prostitution, so I had no idea about the going rates. From an average guy's perspective, I just threw out a number that might catch her interest.
"Two hundred million… no, three hundred million? Hmm… let's go with two hundred so it doesn't look too flashy!"
I fired off a DM immediately.
Two hours after sending. No reply.
"Ah, crap… forgot the credibility again."
Belatedly, I attached a photo from before—the one of me on a sports car in Se-ah noona's parking garage, money case flung wide open—and sent it again.
Three more hours. Still nothing.
"Huh? Is the amount too low?"
No bite at all, so I raised the stakes. Still no answer, so I went to class.
"Hm? She replied?"
After dropping Ha-neul off and coming home, a message was waiting.
"We're starting the shoot."
"Mm."
Even with just a slight tilt of her head, the model presence hit instantly.
Song Na-young, twenty-three. Popular model active on Puckstagram.
Her life was a full-blown drama, a roller coaster of ups and downs—except it wasn't. Song Na-young had lived a perfectly upward trajectory.
She'd had no parents looking after her since childhood, but she never once despaired. She understood perfectly well that the only inheritance they'd left her—her face—was worth serious money.
Using state subsidies, she skipped any thought of college and spent every day taking photos, building her following, and refining her looks. To her teachers she probably looked like any other clueless student dreaming of being a YouTuber, but she dug into this path like research, determined to succeed.
She endured every random guy's sexual harassment that came her way and thoroughly analyzed her market. How to snag the men who just scrolled past her photos. What it took to pry open rich older men's wallets. She studied all of it.
The method she chose: unfriendliness.
Men were truly stupid creatures. Most of the people cheering her on and supporting her were men, yet detailed, warm fan service only made them uncomfortable. What they wanted from her was a sharp, memorable character and more aggressively flesh-baring photos.
So she gave them exactly that.
When she turned adult and finally migrated to the 19+ SNS Puckstagram, she opened a fresh account, answered messages halfheartedly, and uploaded nothing but chic, haughty photos. She threw away every scrap of youthful freshness from her high school days and competed purely on sexy, arrogant, lethal charm.
She occasionally did sultry pictorials, but she flatly refused any exposed medium like broadcasts or livestreams, clinging stubbornly to her image.
That was the result. Innate beauty and a carefully cultivated image had sprouted into a magnificent flower. Honestly, her looks did most of the work and the rest was luck—perfectly analyzing a fickle market was a fool's errand—but either way, she had succeeded.
Thanks to that, she no longer had to twist her wrists taking selfies. From the moment she turned twenty, massive revenue started rolling in. She stepped into society with her head high and founded her own company. With the bare minimum staff she could squeeze cheaply for shoots, she had enough left over to travel abroad like a chaebol daughter whenever she pleased.
For the record, every person on her shoots was a woman. Not because she particularly trusted other women—she just wanted to eliminate the lecherous male gazes among the staff entirely.
"Last shot! Great work, everyone!"
"Hah."
When the plain, glasses-wearing photographer unnie called it, Na-young dropped the arrogant pose. She'd been shooting a concept of lounging on a balcony in lingerie, sipping coffee at her leisure. She threw on a robe and stood.
On her way out of the set, one of the photos popping up on the monitor snagged her attention. Her body overall looked good—it was her body, after all—but one shot bothered her.
"Wait. Unnie, my eyes came out blurry in this one."
"Ah? Oh, oh, it's fine. We're retouching and running AI on it anyway, no problem! Na-young, go rest in the break room."
"…Unnie. Look over here."
"Hm?"
Slap!
She backhanded her. Not with full emotional force—just hard enough to turn her head slightly.
"Unnie. How many times have I told you?"
"Uh, uh…?"
The photographer, glasses slightly askew and still not grasping her meaning, stood there with her mouth half open like an idiot.
"Photos need to be shot perfectly with minimal distortion. Touch them up a little if you have to, but keep the original as clean as possible. If I need this much editing, I end up looking like those ugly plastic-surgery pig bitches! There's apps now that check whether photos are faked—are you looking down on my subscribers?!"
"Ah… y-yeah, sorry…"
"Be careful from now on. Or I'll dock your pay. And delete that bad shot completely."
"Okay…"
Still fuming, Na-young brushed past and clipped the woman's shoulder on the way. Even cheap labor that couldn't understand instructions after multiple warnings made her blood boil.
Yes. Song Na-young—as you can see—her current personality could be defined as follows.
She ran roughshod over everyone, no regard for rank or age. Having barreled down an unstoppable success track as an adult, she had nothing left to fear.
She hadn't originally been this rotten. It was the result of immersing herself in every concept photo she uploaded to Puckstagram and brainwashing herself into the role. She'd genuinely become haughty, lethal, and a rude little shit who genuinely believed she was some chaebol daughter. Absolute disregard for others had soaked into her bones.
Bitch had become the single most fitting word for a woman consumed by her own concept.
Knock knock.
"Um… Na-young?"
"What."
This time it was her manager unnie—older, same glasses, same frumpy clothes—who entered the break room. Na-young was face-down on a luxury massage bed getting a skin treatment when the woman held out her phone.
"I-I thought I should tell you. Someone keeps sending DMs…"
"Ignore them. We already decided we never answer DMs, same as always."
"Yeah, we did, but… if I don't mention this one I feel like I'll get yelled at later…"
"Ugh, seriously—stop beating around the bush and just say it cleanly!"
At the shout, the manager's shoulders shot up. She hurriedly handed over the phone and clasped her trembling hands in front of her.
"Th-there's this weird guy who keeps DMing! He keeps saying he wants to… do that kind of thing with you."
"Ha?!"
From the hedging tone, the meaning was obvious. Pathetic men with a little money who tried to rub up against her were endless.
"…Unnie. Do I look like someone who'd do that?"
"I-I know! But he's really persistent. And the money he's offering isn't something you can just ignore… plus he sent an actual photo, so I figured you should at least check…"
"A hundred percent bullshit. You believe that? Haa… Unnie, you really need to watch out for street scammers."
"…"
Na-young exhaled hard. For a second she considered spending money to replace them with sharper staff, but keeping these inferiority complexes who were so far beneath her around wasn't an entirely bad feeling, so she let it go.
"Fine. I'll reject him myself today. After that, just block him."
"Okay…"
She took her phone and scrolled down through the mountain of DMs—then her finger stopped on a message she'd already opened.
Every single DM was pure trash. He was flexing like he could casually pull out hundreds of millions whenever he wanted.
But—
…He's actually pretty handsome?
A guy flashing a V-sign on top of a classic yellow sports car, sitting on a case stuffed full of cash. The careless photo somehow looked like a real chaebol. Looking closer, the way he'd piled the bag on the hood and planted his ass on it like he didn't care if the paint got scratched gave off a strangely genuine air of wealth.
Three hundred million plus a sports car…
Honestly, money in the hundreds of millions—not mere thousands—was tempting. A few weeks of these annoying shoots, or an ad deal, or a sponsorship jackpot, and maybe a few hundred million would pile up. If she could fleece a sucker and pocket three hundred million that easily, who wouldn't be interested?
Even so, if word got out that she'd slept with some random guy, it would feel like vandalizing the premium brand value she'd built under the name "Song Na-young."
But if a face like that actually belongs to a chaebol who treats hundreds of millions like pocket change…?
She was living freely, but she wasn't planning to stay unmarried forever like the loser glasses-women around her. If she did marry, the looks and the fortune would have to match her level. Building connections with the upper class now, treating it as advance scouting for the distant future—that wasn't a bad idea.
"Unnie. Set up a meeting."
"Wh-what?!"
"I changed my mind. Book a quiet café, go first, check his face, and if it matches, accept. Ah—and tell him instead of the sports car, I'll meet him once for five hundred million with a confidentiality guarantee. Get a proper NDA signed too."
"Is that really okay…? Normally a deal like this is dangero—"
"Don't make me repeat myself, unnie…. Just follow my orders. Make sure there's zero fallout and zero damage to my image."
"O-okay!"
One glare and the manager bolted out. As quiet settled behind her small sigh, Na-young stripped even her lingerie and began grooming herself from toes to fingertips.
Click. Click.
She cleaned up stray hairs, cuticles, fingernails, toenails—getting ready.
Five hundred million for one round.
Five hundred million was no small sum, but for this killer body that made stupid men drool, she figured five hundred was more than cheap enough. The guy at least looked upper-class and decent-faced, so she hadn't jacked the price higher. She'd never hung a price tag this shameless before, never sold herself—this was a special case.
"Things have been so boring lately… and he's got a decent face. Maybe I'll play with him a little."
She gave her gold-plated nail file a light pass, then blew the shavings away with a soft breath.