At the End of the Gaze

The reason I made "competition" the main frame of the immigration screening content was simple.

Nothing else gets people this hooked.

Everyone says the same thing. They're tired of competitive society and just want to heal now. But check the numbers. Put healing content next to something stimulating and see which one thrives. Overwhelmingly, the latter wins every time. Because even if you're exhausted from competing yourself, watching someone else compete costs you nothing—and you still get that sweet dopamine hit. Call it pleasure without responsibility.

And for me, there was nothing wrong with that. One of my original goals was to elevate Lucy, and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a competitive format would let me do that naturally.

With that mindset, we moved into the second segment I'd prepared.

"Ahem, we'll skip the ideological screening for now. One of you has me a little worried, but if problems come up, we can just delete the VOD and cut ties right then."

"Hey! Don't say it like that. I'm not that dangerous. Miho's streams ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠always aim for all-ages viewing."

"Aiming for it and actually keeping it are two different things. So it's like, 'I drank, but I wasn't drunk driving'—that kind of logic?"

"...This is why sharp streamers are the worst."

"Speaking as your senior, Pangea TV is not that easy a place. Hm? These days illegal transfer students are pouring in left and right to make foreign currency, but our citizens aren't suckers who'll hire just anyone. You need a strength you can actually put forward."

"Then does Senior have a strength like that?"

"Ha! Looking your heavenly senior straight in the eyes and saying something like that? I've heard plenty about how kids these days have no manners, but experiencing it myself is making me dizzy. Looks like some real education is in order."

"You. Follow me to the rooftop. I challenge you to a duel."

The main segment of the content began.

Miho put forward dancing as her strength; Lucy, singing. I boldly declared that I would face both of them in a duel. The chat window lit up like a furnace.

Since the Zero Two dance I'd shown on Ssa-yo's stream, I hadn't danced on broadcast even once. Same with singing. No—with singing, I hadn't so much as opened my mouth. Viewers would occasionally request a song or a dance under the pretext of a Candy donation, and I always turned them down with a smooth deflection.

The reason? Simply put, two things.

First, I was conscious of the Wooga-dol audition. People show a remarkable capacity for adaptation when something is repeated. No matter how outstanding a song or a dance might be, frequent exposure inevitably dulls the reaction.

These are streaming-platform viewers who will critique even professional singers and dancers. No need to raise my exposure for nothing.

Unless you possessed truly unmatched skill, there was no reason to burn your image ahead of a full-scale competitive audition.

And second. This one was more practical—part of a premiumization strategy. If you readily answer every viewer request and show everything without restraint, scarcity drops, and competitiveness follows it down. Bang-sel and roulette were textbook examples.

Bang-sel—short for "broadcast station selfie"—was a culture that originated in female cam streams. Using the broadcast station space that existed on Pangea TV, people paid a set fee and, in return, received a photo of their favorite streamer to decorate their station with. After all, if you're human, you have the urge to collect and show off something.

I saw plenty of it before the regression. Streamers who got blinded by the money right in front of them and tanked their own value.

Eyes locked on a quick score, they sold bang-sel to every request without any limit. It would start at 1,000 Candies, demand would dry up almost immediately, the price would fall to 500, and even then it wouldn't sell. On the other hand, streamers who limited quantity and only sold bang-sel on special days saw a premium form, with extremely high unit prices. Some even ran it like an auction, sparking competition among viewers. And because so few of those bang-sels were released, scarcity stayed high and kept stoking people's collector instincts. Steady demand followed.

You could say I was taking notes from that strategy. Seo-a's singing streams or dance streams were not something you could just watch whenever you wanted. Once that image took hold, every time I actually ran that kind of content, attention would rise and viewer expectations would swell.

Hm? If that was the strategy, why was I showing it today?

This was the first collab content I had planned and executed myself. It absolutely had to succeed, and this was more than worth the investment.

"Ready?"

"Yes."

For the VRC map, we decided to use my personal map—the one I'd revealed last time on Ssa-yo's stream. Miho stepped up onto the circular stage in a black short-sleeve crop top and white high-waisted short shorts. Her legs looked longer and more stretched out, drawing every eye.

With the chat roaring, Miho's requested song began. Her pick was "Like a Cat" by AOA—a hit from ten years ago. Starting from a seated pose, Miho's languid gaze made everyone watching swallow dry. She reached a hand toward the camera, drew it back to her shoulder, then swept it diagonally down across her chest. At that sensual motion, the chat united in every kind of heart emoji and a flood of WHOAs.

The highlight, true to the song's title, was the "like a cat" section. Her hands fluttered like a cat's paws, then lightly framed the side of her face, revealing a coquettish charm. Her facial tracking wasn't the best, so she couldn't sell the full 100% of that allure—but people have atmosphere. Miho's dancing lacked precise timing, power, and technique, yet it had the kind of charm that seized your eyes and made your heart race. Call it acting? Expressiveness? Something like that. It felt as if everything around us had vanished and only Miho remained, seducing me right in front of my face.

"Hah... hah... How was it? Passable enough?"

Having finished the dance with real passion, Miho looked up at me, slightly out of breath. Credit where it was due. I tilted my head at a deliberately arrogant angle and answered.

"Yeah. You've got talent."

"Waaaah! I passed!"

"But Miho. I think you're under some kind of misunderstanding."

"Huh?"

I pushed Miho's avatar aside and stepped into the center of the stage. Then I signaled my VRC staff to queue a new track.

"You still don't know Pangea TV. Watch and learn."

A familiar intro. Familiar lyrics. And a familiar flavor. I'd deliberately dressed the avatar in a hip-looking tracksuit. Since Miho was going for a certain amount of skin, I needed to take the opposite route.

Because the outfit showed almost no skin, a pack of viewers flooded the chat with joking spam of "wholesome." Viewers are never fools. Even when it looks like they aren't, they have eyes that see everything. The flowing hand gestures, the gaze that followed them, the detailed hip work—I stole the hearts of viewers who'd been completely captivated by Miho only moments before.

And I didn't stop there.

This was why I'd told Miho she was under a misunderstanding. A trendy girl-group dance from the past? Not bad—but ultimately a lazy call. Streaming always has to run at the cutting edge of trends. She should have done her market research on what dances were actually hot on Pangea TV lately. The immediate response gap alone was this wide.

With the chat making the result crystal clear, Miho withdrew with a dejected look. I lifted my chin arrogantly and said,

"Alright. Next."

At the end of that gaze was Lucy.