It's Just Karma

The first thing I did after getting home with the money from Kanchona was browse the League of Champions community boards.

I'd originally planned to just borrow some cash, but since I'd appeared on his stream today, he pressed a hundred thousand won into my hand as a thank-you. I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠told him cab fare would have been more than enough, but he insisted that given the views today's video was going to pull, this much was only fair.

Honestly, I'd been planning to ask for a cut myself — but getting a hundred thousand won for a single stream appearance left me a little choked up. I'd been thinking maybe thirty thousand. Was it really this easy to make money?

Then again, this was only possible because Kanchona was a famous streamer. I hated to admit it, but he was pretty good-looking too. And the woman beside him with her face covered — her voice was nice, so she was probably popular as well. They were celebrities, in a sense.

Everyone says they envy the money celebrities make and the lives they get to live. But when you think about the effort and the hardships behind it all — well. If you asked whether I had that kind of drive or talent, the answer was no.

If I started streaming, would people actually watch? Would they donate? Games? Sure, I knew I was better than average. Playing all day every day naturally pushed my rank up. But compared to the absolute top players, I was thoroughly mediocre. And was I pretty? If I had been, would my father have beaten me?

When he said my eyes were that punchable, even my mother hadn't been able to say they weren't.

For the briefest moment, I'd wondered if streaming might be something I could do. But looking at it objectively, there was no chance.

So I scrolled the mouse wheel ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠and browsed the League of Champions communities.

There was more talk about me than I'd expected. A user who'd been making noise about still playing just fine while every other cheater got banned had proven her innocence today — and apparently a fair number of people had been paying attention.

Even the ones whose usernames I recognized from all the abuse they'd hurled at me were now singing my praises, saying I'd just been so good at the game that people called me a hacker. I knew better. They'd simply found a new target to trash. They weren't being kind to me.

So even when they praised me, or tore into the people who'd insulted me on my behalf, it didn't particularly improve my mood. That wasn't why I'd come to watch, anyway.

I'd only opened the boards to look over the promises I could actually cash in on. In a way, that motive was far less pure than simply wanting to savor the shift in public opinion. People always look down on you for being materialistic when you do something out of greed, don't they?

But so what if my motives were impure and I wanted the money? If that bothered them, they shouldn't have made promises about giving me things in the first place.

"Oh? Noel, you're already back? Did everything go well?"

I was just about to write a post collecting on the promises made to me when the woman next door spoke up from behind me. I had no idea when she'd come in. I must have been so absorbed in the community posts that I hadn't even heard her enter — the kind of thing an internet addict would do. The thought made me oddly embarrassed, so I answered without turning around.

"Yes. It was all thanks to what you told me, Unnie. Without you, I never would have even tried."

"Oh, come on, I didn't do anything. You're the one who actually pulled it off. Well done. You worked hard."

That single compliment from her was worth more to me than a hundred posts on the community boards. There was no ulterior motive, no hidden agenda — just genuine praise. The only problem was that it had been so long since anyone had given me warm, sincere praise that it sat strangely in my chest.

Being told "good job" for taking a shower, or cleaning my room, or sorting the recycling — that had always felt like a joke. But this was someone telling me I'd done well at something I'd actually done well.

"Th-tha… Unnie, you're already off work? Why are you at my place at this hour?"

I couldn't even manage a proper thank-you. All that came out was this pathetic deflection.

"I left early because I was worried about our Noel. And look — it was worth it. Since things went well, shouldn't we celebrate together?"

You could have taken those words as barbed, but she didn't say them that way at all. She only offered me warmth. It made my throat tighten, and I sat there in silence with my mouth shut.

Maybe my quietness bothered her. She spoke again in a voice so exaggerated you could hear the theatrics in it.

"Oh, but those people who were trash-talking you — isn't it about time they paid the price?"

"Well, 'price' might be a strong word. It's just karma. They were the ones who volunteered to do things in the first place."

That was exactly what I was doing on the computer right now. Whatever they did among themselves — fighting, bickering, whatever — was none of my business. What mattered was the scraps that fell my way. I'd gone to clear my name in the first place because of promises like "I'll buy you meat," after all.

"But to collect on those, you'd have to share your address with them. And Unnie doesn't think that's a very good idea."

"Hmm…"

Coming from the same woman who'd egged me on to fleece them in the first place, it was a bit rich — but she wasn't wrong. I'd been worrying about the same thing myself.

These were people who'd freely doxxed and personally attacked others from behind the shield of internet anonymity. If my address got out to people like that, was there any guarantee they wouldn't come after me?

Right now, the personal information of the people who'd been insulting me had been dug up and turned into gossip fodder. On a basic level, they'd started it. But the ones whose info had been exposed would still hold a grudge against me.

I was the kind of person who went around saying I'd rather die than run out of money — and then couldn't even manage to die. Of course the possibility that people like that might show up at my door scared me.

Getting hit? I was used to that. After ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the way my father used to beat me, it would have been stranger not to be. But if I were exposed to violence, I'd cry and beg — that was a given. What terrified me, what I hated, was becoming that ugly, pathetic version of myself.

"Then should I just give up?"

I said it with a sigh, and she answered in a bright, easy voice.

"That'd be such a waste, though, right? I've got a better idea. Streamers get gifts from their fans all the time, don't they? Why not just ask them how they receive things without exposing their address?"

"Ah…!"

She was right. Streamers were far more famous than I was. Naturally, they had even more people with ill intentions. So when they exchanged gifts, they must have known ways to do it without revealing their address.

Honestly, when I'd parted ways with Kanchona and Celesty, I'd figured I'd never have reason to contact them again. Having to reach out so soon already felt a little awkward. But I had to do it. That was the only way I could settle my debt with the downstairs neighbor, too.