I Do What I'm Told Pretty Well (1)

I tilted my head, unable to understand what the boss had just said.

“What do you mean by ‘big hit’?”

“Oh, you know, the Find Rain thing. You came in so well-prepared that I really think this is going to blow up.”

I nodded, relieved. I’d been worried that standing next to the naturally gifted first-gen members would create a black hole of awkwardness and make the whole game too easy. But if the boss herself was calling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it a big hit, it meant I hadn’t completely ruined the vibe.

Anyway, that meant my practice had passed the test, right? It was my first time using my voice on stream, so I’d prepared like my life depended on it. My mood instantly lifted, and I couldn’t stop the corners of my mouth from twitching upward.

“Hehe. Since I get to play with you, boss, I’ll do my best.”

I tried to brush it off casually because I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it. But the truth was, Cheon Do-hee had frozen solid the moment she heard Jia’s perfect impression of her.

“This kid… she’s got more talent than I thought.”

Who was Cheon Do-hee, exactly? Before she hired Jia, the girl had basically been a part-timer scraping by on living expenses while spending her free time watching VTuber streams and committing various acts of petty villainy. Yet the moment Do-hee made her a manager as punishment, Jia had done the job shockingly well. When she was brought into the company proper, she finished every single task assigned to her with terrifying efficiency.

In other words, she wasn’t the type to proactively seek things out on her own, but whatever she was told to do, she executed flawlessly. She was the kind of person who truly shone once she found a good superior.

That was why, after much deliberation, Do-hee had given her the hardest job in the entire company. Can you handle this too? And Jia had handled ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it without breaking a sweat. Just looking at how the first-gen members now treated her like an indispensable part of the team was proof of how seriously she took her responsibilities.

But that effort had always stayed within normal, human limits. Do-hee had assumed there were certain areas—things that required raw “talent”—that even Jia couldn’t conquer. Things like broadcasting, variety shows, singing, and vocal impressions.

So during dinner that evening, Do-hee asked her directly.

“Jia, have you been doing vocal impressions for a long time?”

“No. This was my first time.”

“First time?”

“Yes. If you hadn’t told me to join the content, I wouldn’t have prepared at all.”

First time? Vocal impressions required sharp observational skills, the ability to analyze and replicate what you observed, and the sheer audacity to perform it without a hint of hesitation. Yet Jia had perfectly copied Rain’s unique Korean-American accent, her cadence, and even the exact way she had a little fit on stream. Aside from the natural difference in vocal tone, it had gone beyond imitation—it was practically cloning.

This kind of impression can’t be achieved through effort alone.

Jia had simply revealed a talent she’d been hiding all this time. She hadn’t done it because no one had told her to. But the moment she was given the order, she could do it. In a way, she was a textbook example of a reclusive genius.

“Did you prepare a song too?”

“Since it’s Rain, I prepared a rap. I’m just hoping the viewers don’t ask for it.”

“You even prepared that?”

“Of course. When you told me to prepare for the content, you said the guest might ask me to sing, so I should get ready. That’s what you said.”

“Ah… right. Yeah.”

Just then their ordered tendon arrived. Jia immediately piled half shrimp tempura and half vegetable tempura onto the perfectly crispy rice and stuffed an enormous bite into her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠mouth. Her mouth opened about the same as before, but her smaller jaw meant it took her much longer to chew. She found it inconvenient, but to the person sitting across from her, it was unbearably cute.

She’s trying so hard with that tiny mouth.

Do-hee imagined what Jia would look like singing.

…Come to think of it, I have zero data on that.

Do-hee already knew Jia’s voice was clean. Most people didn’t notice because Jia deliberately let her sentences trail off to fix her old toxic way of speaking, but when she was comfortable, her voice was simply adorable. It wasn’t forced, it was easy on the ears, and her stamina was excellent. How to describe it… a cute voice with clear highs and lows that never got old?

Yet during company dinners, even when they went to karaoke, Jia had never once grabbed the mic. She’d just sat there happily shaking a tambourine. The fact that this same girl had practiced singing—rap, no less—made Do-hee unbearably curious.

“Want me to check if your singing is any good?”

“No thank you.”

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing to sing in front of you, boss. Practicing alone is enough.”

The content tonight was expected to draw ten thousand viewers. Was she fine with that because she wouldn’t feel their eyes on her? Or was it simply because the boss had ordered her to do it?

“What if I asked you to sing a song during a company dinner?”

“I would.”

“…Why?”

“Because you told me to.”

Honestly, she was impossible to hate. This was exactly why Do-hee ate dinner with her every single day. She was already so scrawny; Do-hee worried the girl might suddenly collapse from malnutrition.

Still, at this point even Do-hee had to wonder. Just how far did this insane loyalty go?

“At this rate, you’d even become a VTuber if I told you to.”

Jia paused mid-bite. Her busy lower jaw came to a complete stop. She quickly swallowed the half-chewed food and muttered,

“I’d do it if you told me to. But we both know you’d never say something like that, boss.”

…So she would do it?

“What are you even saying?”

“You were extremely strict when screening the first-gen members. It wouldn’t make sense to casually pick the face of the company. Plus, like you always say, unprepared VTubers shouldn’t debut.”

“Did I say that?”

“Yes. During the first-gen interviews, you shouted it loud enough for the applicant who showed up ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hungover the day before to hear.”

“Ah. I did say that. Hmm… Yeah, you’re right.”

VTubers were the type of people who could quit at any moment for mental health reasons even if you paid them. If their own will was weak, they’d never survive the constant hate and sabotage that came with streaming and last for the long run. Just like Jia said—even if she forced herself because the boss ordered it, she’d probably burn out quickly.

I should give her a bonus once she finishes this content properly.

Since she’d clearly expressed her refusal, there was no need to bother someone who already had a clear sense of duty. Unless, of course, people started an online protest demanding “Free Mazia” after she showed her face once.

It was eight o’clock that evening.

The content Find Rain, which already had five thousand people waiting before it even started, officially began with the appearance of first-gen member Aoyagi Rain.

As the chat reactions made clear, the viewers were fully expecting Rain’s wallet to get emptied tonight. Rain’s speech patterns were so distinctive that the community consensus was she’d eventually slip up if they kept talking to her. Which meant it was up to me to make this content even more fun.

“Huu… haaa……”

Inside the private streaming booth attached to the company’s Motion Studio, I took deep breaths to calm my nerves. I wasn’t nervous about appearing in front of people, but I was extremely anxious about failing to properly carry out an order from the boss.

She trusted me enough to give me something this important. Failure was not an option. Today I was going to show off every single thing I’d prepared.

I finished my meditation and focused on Rain’s commentary. It was almost time for the actors to appear.

At Rain’s signal, I slowly raised the character’s “ratudi” that had been hidden at the bottom of the screen all the way up.

In the meantime, I checked to make sure Rain’s character was moving properly on screen. It felt strangely fascinating to see her move exactly as I did. Should I call it my inner troll instinct awakening? If I said something funny right now, could I get Rain hated?

…I have to hold back.

If her fellow first-gen members did it, it would be content. But since I was staff, people might take it seriously. It might seem a bit unfair, but that was the weight that came with being part of the operations team. If you were the shadow following the stars, you must never step in front of them.

While I wrestled with my inner mischief, my turn finally arrived.

What I’d shown the boss earlier was “how Rain talks while gaming.” I had practiced the greeting she used at the start of her streams separately. With energy. Like I was slightly scratching my throat—the technique I’d learned from YouTube wasn’t perfect—but with a feeling like I was opening a refreshing path all the way from my body to my lungs!

“Oh, hell, yeah! Puddles! Dropping the rain from the sky. Here to soak the dry ground nice and cool again today!”

But practice was practice. Once it was the real thing, it wasn’t nearly as easy. The fact that my palms were drenched in sweat after the impression proved it. This was exactly why I couldn’t help but respect our talents. How did they deliver these embarrassing lines every single day without batting an eye? Being a VTuber really wasn’t easy.

…But why is it so quiet?

The real Rain, who had been unable to hold back her laughter and had been cackling the entire time B-Rain and C-Rain were introducing themselves, was now completely silent. Even the chat window, which had been laughing along and saying you could obviously tell who the real one was, had suddenly turned into nothing but: