Building Rapport with Throat Lozenges
People seem to think streamers are shut-in hikikomori who've never once set foot in the real world of social interaction.
And honestly? That's a pretty sharp insight.
To even develop an interest in internet broadcasting, you have to pour an enormous amount of time into the internet. That inevitably means cutting back on the time you invest in reality — which means giving up on the most trivial part of life: socializing.
But I'm different.
Unlike the usual silver-spoon parents, my family was thoroughly ordinary, and even if I'd wanted to hole up at home, I needed a certain amount of money to make it work.
So there's no part-time job I haven't done. PC bang attendant, café barista, even beer boy. There probably aren't many people who worked harder through their early twenties than I did.
Anyway.
If there's one piece of wisdom I picked up from all that part-time work, it's this: on your first day, always bring throat lozenges or caffeine gum. In the extreme environment of a part-time job, even something as small as a piece of candy can build real rapport — and it makes a perfect opener for small talk.
Which is why, today, I came prepared with a little lemon-flavored throat lozenge tucked into the pocket of my suit.
I'd planned to strike up a conversation with whoever sat next to me while waiting for my interview turn, but…
"Haa… What do I do? What do I do? The questions… What were the expected questions again?"
The girl sitting next to me was shaking so hard I couldn't even get a word in. At first I genuinely thought there was an earthquake.
"I absolutely cannot fail here…. I have to pass. I have to. Get it together, Hayeon…."
The woman with the soft brown bob was raking her hands through her hair like she was trying to tear it out. Judging by her makeup, she'd clearly gone to a salon — and if she was going to mess her hair up this badly, she might as well have shown up half-ready. That said, her face alone was devastatingly pretty. Considering that a woman's looks are about forty percent hair, her bare face must have been the kind that makes people gasp out loud.
"Excuse me."
At this rate, she's going to go bald.
I tapped the shoulder of the woman called Hayeon sitting next to me.
"Y-yes! What is it?"
"You seem really nervous. That kind of energy will tank even the things you'd normally nail. Here — have a throat lozenge and try to calm down."
"A throat lozenge? Out of nowhere?"
"If we both get the job, we'll be coworkers."
That was exactly why I'd bothered packing the lozenges in the first place. She might end up as a future colleague — better to get on good terms early and open up every possible avenue of help down the line. Buying a future possibility with a single throat lozenge? There was no more rational transaction than that. And even if she didn't make it, giving someone a lozenge wasn't going to kill me.
"Uh… coworkers?"
"Yes. Take it already. My arm's about to fall off."
"Ah… yes! I'll take it! Thank you!"
Hayeon said, plucking the lozenge with soft, pliant fingers. The way she carried that cheap little candy to her mouth like it was some sacred relic was so endearing that the corner of my mouth twitched up before I could stop it.
"How is it? Good, right?"
"Yes! It's delicious! Is it lemon?"
"Yep, lemon. When you're nervous, the sourness snaps you right out of it."
"Ah…."
At my words, Hayeon stared down at her own hands with a dazed expression.
"Th-the shaking stopped!"
"Right? From now on, carry an emergency throat lozenge with you. Trust me, they really work."
"Yes! I definitely will! Emergency… throat lozenge… stock…."
Okay, you don't need to write a memo about it.
The enthusiasm was nice, but… how to put it. She was the textbook type with zero work sense. If I'd met Lee Hayeon on a part-time shift, she would have given me a serious headache.
"Add one more note while you're at it. Proposer: Namgung Joohee."
"Proposer Namgung Joohee… ah, is that your name?"
But streaming is different. In the internet broadcasting industry, even a total lack of work sense can become a charm point. And from where I was sitting, Lee Hayeon's airheaded cluelessness looked like it would trigger every protective instinct men have. Coming from eyes that belonged to a man until two weeks ago, that assessment was probably solid.
"Yes. Remember it well, okay?"
So it wouldn't hurt to get on her good side early. I thought as much and put on my best business smile.
"Yes! I'll definitely remember! Oh, and for reference, I'm Lee Hayeon! Born as the eldest daughter of one son and two daughters to a strict father and a warm mother…."
"……."
Or maybe not so solid after all.
"Haa…."
Gemma — Shin Jiye — rubbed her eyelids from her seat among the interviewers.
"Team Leader, we stayed up all night on the paperwork and carefully filtered the applicants, didn't we?"
"We did."
"Then why are they this… haa, never mind."
Shin Jiye cut herself off before she said something that could become a problem. But her meaning came through loud and clear to Team Leader Yang Shinhye.
They were already past the midpoint of the interviews, and the quality of candidates so far had been abysmal. Someone who froze solid and just sat there dripping tears. Someone whose warped ideology leaked out of every word and gesture. Someone who even showed up in sweatpants, flip-flops slapping against the floor. For interviews at the top MCN company in the country, the level was almost unbelievable.
"CEO, shall we bring in the next applicants?"
"Yes, send them in."
So Shin Jiye didn't hold any particular expectations for this round either. Probably about the same as everyone who'd come before. Just please don't let them be weirdos. That was about the extent of her hopes — rare for someone as thorough and meticulous as Shin Jiye, who hadn't even bothered looking at their documents.
Click.
But the moment the applicants walked in, a switch flipped in Shin Jiye's complacent brain. The first thing that caught her eye was a clean, well-fitted suit. A common enough outfit for an interview, and maybe even overkill for a VTuber audition — but after the tracksuits and flip-flops she'd just witnessed, it looked exceptionally neat and earnest.
Or rather, it almost did.
What? She's adorable…!
The sight of that girl walking in so cutely in a full suit hit Shin Jiye square in the heart. It was like watching a little niece put on a grown-up's suit and proudly declare, "I'm an adult!" Even as her heart pounded, Shin Jiye's hands flew to check the girl's documents.
Namgung Joohee — so this is Namgung Joohee!
She was the applicant who'd sent in that bold application video. The one who'd delivered a soft-spoken stream of genuinely funny lines as a sample broadcast — that Namgung Joohee, still lodged firmly in Shin Jiye's memory. And by pure coincidence, she shared a name with the sniper who'd been targeting her for the past week.
Shin Jiye's eyes lit up. A proper applicant, for the first time in ages. She might even become the first successful candidate of the Starlight Project.
"Augh… Don't be nervous, Hayeon. Don't be nervous."
The applicant who followed her in — Lee Hayeon — was a different story. Her looks were striking enough to stop anyone in their tracks, but she was wound far too tight. She was going to have to stream in front of over two thousand viewers someday, and showing this kind of nerves wouldn't earn her high marks.
That was what Shin Jiye was thinking when—
"Kelk! Kelk kelk! Aigoo, my throat."
Namgung Joohee suddenly erupted into a violent coughing fit. For someone in a crisp suit with a standout application video, the cough was strangely loud and theatrical. What on earth was she—
Ah.
Shin Jiye looked back and forth between Namgung Joohee and Lee Hayeon before she finally grasped the intent behind the cough. The moment Namgung Joohee started coughing, Lee Hayeon's trembling subsided as if it had never existed. Namgung Joohee had deliberately drawn attention to herself — for Lee Hayeon's sake.
"She's got better character than she looks, doesn't she?"
Team Leader Yang Shinhye whispered near Shin Jiye's ear. But Shin Jiye didn't agree. What she sensed from Namgung Joohee was calculation — a deliberate play to showcase that kindness. And that, more than anything, was exactly the skill a virtual streamer needed.
Not bad at all.
The dead-eyed Shin Jiye from moments ago had vanished from the interview panel, replaced by the young CEO herself. Maybe it was the shift in atmosphere, but Lee Hayeon managed to finish her interview reasonably well.
"And now, Applicant Namgung Joohee?"
"Yes. I'm Namgung Joohee, applying to Sharon Entertainment's Starlight Project."
And Namgung Joohee's interview was flawless. A steel nerve that didn't flinch even in front of the CEO. Precise diction. Steady, unwavering eye contact. She carried herself like someone who'd been presenting in front of people for a very long time.
"Applicant Namgung Joohee, you've clearly prepared quite thoroughly."
"I did the best I could."
"Heh. Good. Then one last question — it might catch you off guard a little. Is that all right?"
"Of course. A streamer should be able to handle unexpected situations."
That the youngest-looking applicant she'd seen so far could say something like that… Shin Jiye went straight for the question she'd planned for Namgung Joohee from the start.
"Joohee, there's a user named Namgung Joohee who's been sniping me recently — same name as yours. Are you aware of that?"
"Ah, yes. I'm aware. That's me."
"Then, from the perspective of that user Namgung Joohee, would you care to defend yourse— wait, what?"
"I said it's me. NamgungJoohee#KR1."
Shin Jiye blinked at the sheer absurdity of it. So the adorable girl sitting right in front of her… was NamgungJoohee#KR1, the one who'd tormented her so thoroughly?
Snap.
Shin Jiye crushed the ballpoint pen in her hand without realizing it, and Namgung Joohee — who had looked like she wouldn't flinch even if a nuclear bomb went off in front of her — audibly swallowed.
"Joohee."
"……Yes?"
"Could you stay behind for a moment after the interview? I have some additional questions."