A Storm Is Coming

Ae-ta-mi could tell from the very font plastered across the thumbnail that this was no ordinary release.

"...What is this quality?"

In that instant, she ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠understood exactly who had produced, invested in, and distributed it. Every inch of it bore the fingerprints of JC ENM — a company seasoned by the music industry, where merch wars were a way of life. It was, frankly, moving.

"It's perfect..."

Which brought up a question. A company that stamped out official merchandise like a factory several times a month, shaking down otaku for every last coin — versus a company that could barely be bothered to release merch once a year, thereby protecting the otaku wallet. Which one inspired more bitter resentment, huh?

"Take my whole wallet, then—!"

Ae-ta-mi belonged to the latter camp.

Idol fans, sustained by concerts, fan-signing events, and an endless parade of official goods. Theater and musical fans, tearing their tickets again and again and again. And the actor fans across the way, weeping openly as they watched those other fandoms cry about being reduced to beggars every single comeback.

"Finally..."

Because actor fans had no choice but to wait, and wait, and wait — lucky to glimpse their actor in a single work a year.

"Yeo-reum's first-ever merch..."

Ae-ta-mi, the most starved-for-content of the three fandom species, clapped a hand over her mouth and scrolled down the funding page.

"This is on a completely different level from anything we've been able to buy before."

Season's greetings doled out once a year. A magazine that occasionally — very occasionally — featured a photoshoot. An interview casually revealing her 'signature perfume.' That was the entire market Ae-ta-mi had ever had access to, and now her heart was pounding like a drum.

"What is happening. Why is this value so insanely good? And isn't this literally that same kit they sell in the idol world?"

Her jaw, which had dropped at the page's production quality and merch design, refused to close. Even the contents were absurdly generous. At the unreleased selfie photocards in particular, Ae-ta-mi had to clamp both hands over her mouth.

"This is it... this is the one."

They were blurred out, but one look told her these were untouched straight-from-the-camera shots — no filtering app within a mile of them. Whoever was running this funding clearly knew exactly what they were doing.

"Honestly, even people who aren't fans would want a set of these just to own."

She checked the funding total, which was climbing by ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the second. The fact that she wasn't the only one hammering the refresh button was written right there in the numbers.

"Right. If a Blu-ray runs about forty-five dollars, you just buy it and worry later."

With a runtime far shorter than your average drama, the price tag was gentle too. Ae-ta-mi clicked the highest tier and joined the funding on the spot.

"At this rate! It'll hit one hundred percent in under a week, no question!"

Ae-ta-mi forecast the future using the mountains of big data she'd accumulated over the years. And most of the things she felt certain about — well, they almost always turned out to be right.

"THIS! This is the one, this is IT!"

Manager Ma couldn't contain her joy — she shot to her feet and swung her fist through the air. Calling this a success would have been an understatement. This was a triumph, plain and simple.

"One hundred percent in under a week!"

The Pachehi Blu-ray was sitting at number one on the entire funding site.

The thrill of shattering the old prejudice that web dramas couldn't produce Blu-rays — of carving out a brand-new market from nothing — was no joke at all.

Even the drama-otaku accounts couldn't stop talking about this release.

It wasn't a quality they'd ever have paid for on its own — but with their favorite held hostage on the disc, the otaku opened their wallets through tears, and every single one of them was singing the praises of the Pachehi funding page.

"That's right! Who did you think I was? It's Ma Su-yeon!"

It was the kind of page that stopped your scrolling thumb mid-flick even when you hadn't meant to look. She'd earned that reaction.

"The actor fandom hasn't grown into a mainstream force yet. Which means this bait has no choice but to land even harder!"

Ma Su-yeon had cherry-picked the strongest elements of idol culture and used them to brand Han Yeo-reum. And the single most useful weapon in that arsenal was merch culture itself.

"Behold — the great age of SNS."

People photograph and post their new clothes. They post the moment their food arrives. They post everywhere they go.

"Everyone's glued to their phones twenty-four hours a day."

Overseas travel was up twenty percent from the previous year, and the nation's total spending on clothing had swelled by roughly half a billion dollars.

And on top of all that, the all-important K-pop merchandise market had grown from fifty-six million dollars to seventy-five million — and it was ballooning larger by the day, by the hour, by the second.

From all of it, Manager Ma read the currents and mapped out exactly how Han Yeo-reum would ride the wave.

"It's the perfect timing!"

This was an age obsessed with consumption. An age where people wanted to buy something, anything. An age where you tapped in your password on a phone and the package arrived the very next day! And a growing market wasn't the only thing primed to swell — a celebrity was even easier to grow.

"A storm~ is coming~ rolling in~"

Humming to herself, Manager Ma scrolled down the funding page. Every ounce of soul she'd ground into this project had been worth it. Even someone who'd never been a die-hard Pachehi fan — someone who'd merely enjoyed the show — would feel the urge to buy. The scroll kept falling.

This industry could look like it ran on pure sentiment, and yet at times it was ruthlessly, almost cruelly rational. Its most powerful yardstick was always the number everyone could see.

Pachehi had hit ten million views. Its mainstream appeal had been proven. But that was only one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠step — the next step had to go further.

And so, like this. Han Yeo-reum had just sold a drama Blu-ray — a product supposedly purchased only by the most hardcore of drama otaku — to the general public, at two hundred and thirty percent of her goal.

With the InTube sphere swelling larger by the day and threatening television's very influence, MBS had already given everyone a proper taste of that danger by unceremoniously cutting a show short.

"And Yeo-reum will be the starting point of that storm."

From here on out, in earnest —

viewers were going to start bleeding away like crazy.

"Dramas? Who watches those anymore."

More and more people would choose to watch whatever interested them, whenever they wanted, over dramas chained to a fixed broadcast slot.

"Movies? Even less."

More and more people would lie in bed watching only the juiciest scenes and the ending of a film, rather than trek out to a crowded theater.

"Can't be helped~ It's only~ natural."

The money said it all. Broadcast advertising currently sat at around three billion dollars; online advertising at around two-point-seven billion.

Two figures neck and neck, with the online market about to seize several times that share before long. The online market couldn't help but become a monster.

"Because it's convenient. And it's free."

An era in which the masses had scattered to the four winds. But Manager Ma thought about it in reverse.

"If InTube stole the audience, then we just steal them right back through InTube, don't we?"

She said it as if it were nothing. Because it was simple. All you needed to know was why the masses were on InTube.

Convenient. Free.

Because nobody wanted to sink hours and money into something boring and regret it afterward.

"So you put the focus on regret — the absence ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of it."

Verification from other viewers, right there in the comments. A trendy image. The algorithm waiting one scroll down. Rock-solid acting. Even without committing to a full drama or film, the unconscious memory of having genuinely enjoyed the content Han Yeo-reum appeared in.

"Follow Han Yeo-reum and you won't regret it — how hard is it to arrive at that answer? Not hard at all."

Affection becomes money; curiosity becomes influence. World-class acting becomes a masterpiece, and the public's choice becomes the current of society itself.

"And if one person were holding all of that..."

Grasping more of it than any single soul could reasonably bear — well. We had decided to call that a tower.

And as if to prove the point all on its own, the Pachehi funding had climbed to a height that mainstream, network-drama crowdfunding would have envied.