Three Years Ago
"These absolute maniacs are having a field day again."
A snort of laughter slipped out. They say ugly bastards light up just looking at each other — and after three years of gallery-crawling, I had to admit the saying held water.
I mouthed the usual excuse under my breath: Sure, our kids act like complete idiots, but deep down they're good people. Of course, the old master's wisdom still stood undefeated — put five humans in a room and one of them is guaranteed garbage. Every now and then someone used anonymity as a license to go full nuclear.
But every time that happened, Ju-ttak's blade of judgment came down without mercy, and so Pan-beo-gal stayed peaceful another day.
Hm? What's Pan-beo-gal, you ask?
It's shorthand for the gallery dedicated to the virtual streamers of Pangea TV — one of the two giant platforms splitting Korea's internet broadcasting scene down the middle. Among the various virtual galleries out there, it was relatively well-moderated and active enough that it became my main hangout.
"I really went all in, huh."
Checking my member info, the combined total of posts and comments over the past three years was staggering. A full-blown gallery-addict life. I'd originally signed up to gather virtual-streamer intel and promote my oshi, but camping out every time there was no live stream had turned me into this.
"…I should've put this much effort into real life."
A regret that came far too late. Universal truth, really. I let out a short sigh and slowly started tapping at the keyboard.
Still, three years of attachment means something. I should at least say goodbye before I go.
Kids, big bro's heading back to real life.
Before I go, a few golden tips for newbies still hunting for a main.
1. Filter out virtuals with health issues.
This one will drive you insane. Every little thing and they're taking a break because they're "sick." At first you'll feel bad and worry about them — but when it keeps repeating? Just give up. Think of it like athletes. No matter how talented they are, a player who keeps getting injured and warming the bench? Eventually people just call them a freeloader.
2. Filter out virtuals with mental issues.
Same energy as number one. Mentally fragile virtuals get scratched by chat, scratched by DMs, scratched by email, scratched during collabs. Getting scratched is just their daily routine. Their mental snaps at the drop of a hat, breaks are frequent, and sometimes they just snap and cause an incident. These ones also quit streaming real easy.
3. Filter out the messy-private-life virtuals.
Further explanation omitted.
4. Filter out virtuals who constantly play games off-stream.
Turning off the stream to game behind the scenes? Once or twice is fine. When it keeps happening, there's a reason. Fifty percent of the time it's a collusion cartel with male streamers. The other fifty is a boyfriend or situationship. If they're deliberately doing off-stream what they could just do on stream, there's a reason for that.
5. Filter out stubborn virtuals with oversized egos.
They're constantly locking horns with their viewers, and both the streamer and the audience just end up hurt. Cut these streams loose ASAP.
Now that's veteran-tier advice.
Hit the character limit, so I cut the post there and was about to write part two when the replies started pouring in.
"……."
The mood was ugly. Or maybe this was just their way of offering comfort. Warm words exchanged between people simply didn't suit us.
Once that thought settled in, writing a farewell post like this started to feel pathetic. Ahem. I was absolutely not sulking, for the record.
Just in case, I ambush-posted a few nuclear-grade furry nudes I'd downloaded for emergencies, then got out of the gallery. And then I deleted the app from my phone. Not just the gallery — the Pangea TV broadcasting app too.
I was never watching internet streams again.
The way I first got into internet streaming was through YouTube.
Like any other weekend, I was aimlessly flipping through videos when I stumbled across one by chance. Pathetic view count, crude production quality, and lyrics in a font so ugly it made my blood boil. On any normal day I would have hit the back button immediately.
A twist of fate, maybe?
Right then, at the most exquisite timing, my phone buzzed with a notification. A work message that didn't stop even on weekends. I was about to reply while praying my boss's M-shaped bald spot would dig even deeper —
"……."
— when the video had already started. And a deep voice cut through the lazy afternoon.
This was something. This was really something.
I forgot about replying entirely, closed my eyes, and sank into the song. So this was the kind of tone I liked? And the singing style, too.
From that day on, I became a fan of the streamer Lucy.
Funny thing. All through school, all through military service, I'd never once stanned a girl group — and yet here I was, pouring this much passion into cheering for a single streamer.
Lucy was a complete small-time streamer. Less than a hundred days of broadcasting experience. Average viewers hovering around ten. Income so thin she was working two side jobs just to get by.
Being brand new to internet streams, I didn't even know what the problem was. A cozy illustrated background, a quiet talk stream timed for when office workers got off. That stretch of time that soothed the end of an exhausting day — I genuinely loved it.
Three years from then. So much had happened.
A platform transfer, a virtual debut, forming a crew, singing competitions, major content collabs, year-end concerts, and on and on. The rookie streamer Lucy had become a full-time broadcaster, and I — someone who hadn't known the first thing about internet streaming — had become the chairman of one stream and a permanent fixture of the community.
Not the kind of track record you could proudly announce anywhere. By social convention, internet broadcasting was still a culture of the shadows. Even so, I had no regrets. Those days of meaninglessly shuttling between company and home — breaking free of that hamster wheel and living with the most passion and dedication I'd ever had.
I have something to tell you.
#Virtual #Talk #Singing #Sandbox
"I think this is as far as I go. Thank you so much for all the love you've given me. Everyone, please be happy."
"……."
I'd spent all that time affirming my life — and then my main announced she was hanging up the stream.
So what did that make of my three years burned at full blaze?
Internet broadcasting had long since become a red ocean. Dozens of people quit streaming every single day — that was the reality. Whenever it happened, I'd watch deep, thoughtful posts go up on the gallery. I just never expected to be the one living it.
"Fuck."
My insides boiled. Every emotion tangled together — starting with betrayal, then grief, rage, regret, and finally resignation.
Truthfully, I'd sensed the signs long before. Breaks growing more frequent. Low energy during streams. Plenty of fans had already given up and left over that half-hearted attitude. Being human myself, there were times I couldn't hold it in and typed sharp chat messages pointing those things out on stream.
And in that moment — the lonely smile visible through the screen. Memories of her proudly saying she'd saved up hard to commission facial tracking from a good artist came flooding back. God damn it. That expression that looked ready to cry any second was far too easy to read. So I couldn't bring myself to ask why. Why she was doing this.
A full month of just burning up inside. And what finally came back was Lucy's retirement.
"It's just internet streaming. What does it even matter."
What remained afterward was a crushing sense of emptiness. I hastily put in for leave at work. But days passed and Lucy's stream never came back on. No notices, either.
A week crawled by in pure misery. And then the last fortress I'd believed in vanished — Lucy deleted her platform account.
"……."
Three years, thrown away. That night I drank like I meant to die and made a vow. I would never watch internet streams again.
Yeah. I'd steeled myself for exactly that.
"Huh?"
The next day, when I opened my eyes, I was back three years in the past.
And not as a man — as a woman.