The 'That Finger' Illustrator Gets a Taste of True Justice - Part 2
(Illustrator and Cosplayer Kim Hayan)
Kim Hayan was an illustrator.
During her school days, she was a member of the so-called "fat, mustachioed brigade," spending her days scribbling drawings in a corner of the classroom.
The boys always despised her, and the girls always ignored her.
Both boys and girls bullied her.
However, Hayan believed that only the boys were the ones bullying her.
The boys' overt bullying was plain to see, but the girls' "underhanded" bullying went unnoticed.
Or rather, she caught glimpses of it here and there but desperately tried to ignore it.
Because the "unnis" on female-dominated online communities always said that, no matter what, those Hannam bastards were the root of all evil.
"Anyway, those Hannam bastards are the problem."
But what Hayan overlooked was that the bullying from the boys and the girls, which she vaguely assumed were separate, was actually one and the same.
Half of the harassment from the boys was actually instigated by the girls, who secretly egged on their sweet simps to torment Hayan.
Hayan's brain capacity was so abysmally low that she couldn't even perceive the sheer toxicity and malice of her fellow women.
Or perhaps she simply wanted to ignore it.
Only Hayan knew the truth deep down, but to her, either way:
"It's all the fault of those Hannam bastards."
That was her absolute truth.
Though she was on the dumber side, she fortunately had a decent hand for drawing. She entered the cartooning department of a third-rate university and officially embarked on the path of an illustrator.
It was at university that Hayan met her spiritual mentors and gurus: the "unnis."
These "unnis" were subtly pulling each other up, rooting themselves in the industry, and spreading feminism across the entire field like a plague.
Riding the coattails of these unnis, Hayan miraculously broke into the game illustration industry. Just like them, she began operating as a guerrilla fighter for feminist ideology.
The method Hayan chose to promote her feminist ideology was active sabotage.
Specifically, "subtly slipping 'That Finger' into her drawings."
That very finger gesture—pinching the thumb and index finger to mock the tiny penises of Hannam bastards and express a desire to snip them off.
To call it "active sabotage" was incredibly petty, pathetic, and childish, but to Hayan, it felt like a deeply solemn and heroic crusade.
Although she encountered many real-world men working in the game industry, Hayan's ideology remained unshakable, and her attitude was unyielding.
"Anyway, Hannams are the bad guys."
This ideology—though it was nothing more than a crude, incoherent scrap of hatred—was embedded in Hayan's mind like an immutable gospel.
And so, Hayan slipped "That Finger" into countless illustrations.
As she scribbled that utterly repulsive gesture, Hayan envisioned herself not as a petty vandal, but as a loyal knight defending feminism, a noble vanguard, and a deeply devoted partisan.
But partisans are always caught eventually.
Around the time she had lost track of how many drawings she had tainted with "That Finger," a sharp-eyed gamer spotted the gesture in one of her illustrations.
The gaming community erupted.
The ripples spread far and wide.
Massive protests and boycotts broke out.
Hayan's personal information was leaked, and she was dragged through the mud across the internet.
It wasn't just the gamers who were in an uproar.
This was the global era.
An era where high-quality games were pouring out not only from the Republic of Korea but also from overseas.
One wrong move, and they would fall behind foreign game companies.
In this industry, "falling behind for even a second" meant permanent extinction.
Permanent extinction meant the end of their livelihood.
Gripped by the fear of imminent bankruptcy, the industry declared a "firm, immediate, and ruthless response" against Hayan and her clique.
The gamers cheered.
Gamers hoped that by rooting out these so-called "feminists"—the industry's fifth column and backstabbers—they could secure long-term health for the entire gaming landscape.
But their expectations were brutally betrayed.
The mainstream establishment fiercely shielded them.
In politics, the "sweet" male feminists, regardless of party lines, stepped up to condemn the gamers instead.
All sorts of obscure, sketchy civic groups suddenly began releasing joint statements out of nowhere.
In response, one journalist openly vented his frustration on his personal social media:
Of course, he knew they were just trying to jump on the bandwagon, but either way, this situation brought nothing but immense frustration to everyone except the actual culprits.
That wasn't all.
D-list celebrities, entertainers, and influencers whom no one had ever heard of came forward to defend Hayan and her gang.
Even industry insiders who were directly or indirectly involved joined in, leaving gamers utterly dumbfounded.
"I had no idea there were this many of them!"
Or:
"I had no idea the industry was this rotten!"
...was the general sentiment among gamers.
The feminists had seized control of the very backbone of the industry.
As a result, the gamers gave up in despair.
With the situation spiraling out of control, even the game companies waved the white flag, giving Hayan's gang nothing but a slap on the wrist.
This "Finger Incident," which shook the very foundations of an entire industry, ended anticlimactically, leaving everyone with the bitter lesson: "There is not a single soul left to trust."
Triumphant, Hayan bragged on social media, calling it "a splendid achievement symbolizing the heroic victory of modern feminism and the struggle for women's rights."
While it was a victory for Hayan, it was a devastating defeat for the game companies that had hired her and her clique.
In particular, the game companies that outsourced work to Hayan were mostly small, struggling indie studios.
The major corporations could weather the blow with their accumulated capital.
They could even turn the crisis into a positive turning point by replacing their outsourcing partners and shifting their ordering pipelines to more transparent channels.
But the small indie studios didn't have that luxury.
As their sales plummeted, their cash flow dried up instantly. Within less than two quarters, these studios fell into complete capital impairment.
The CEOs and employees of these companies wanted to call Hayan to lodge a fierce protest, but they couldn't.
"I don't want to hear the pathetic whining of obsolete otaku Hannam losers."
...was the reason Hayan had blocked all incoming calls.
Despite her sketchy portfolio and mediocre skills, these companies had trusted her based on her connections and her own boastful promises.
Naturally, that trust was brutally betrayed.
Just as Julius Caesar once gasped his final words, "Et tu, Brute?", they gasped their own dying breath: "Et tu, illustrator?"
And so, the companies that had trusted a feminist proudly saw their names listed on the bankruptcy court's public notice for asset liquidation.
Of course, Hayan remained completely silent.
"It's only natural for companies that make Hannam games objectifying women to go bankrupt."
...was her only thought.
She seemed to have completely forgotten that she was the one who had made those products for those very Hannams, feeding herself with their money.
She was, without a doubt, an utterly ungrateful, backstabbing bitch of the highest order.
In any case, thanks to the tearful protection of her feminist jihadists, Hayan managed to scrape by with a second chance at life.
However, there was one thing she overlooked.
"Why is nobody hiring me...?!"
Although the feminist jihadists had rescued her from the immediate crisis, they did not guarantee her future livelihood.
Having blacklisted herself from the industry, Hayan's career transitioned from "illustrator" to "just an unemployed slacker who's okay at drawing."
"This is all because of those Hannam bastards..."
Afflicted with anorexia and depression, Hayan spent her days starving in her room, doing nothing but sleeping.
In her brief moments of waking, she completely forgot her own actions and spent her time resenting the "sexist Hannams."
She could barely stomach her favorite foods—tteokbokki, malatang, and tanghulu.
Then, a miracle happened.
She began to lose weight.
The weight that wouldn't budge even when she took the Butterfly Pill finally began to melt away.
Within a few months, her weight plummeted, recording a miraculous drop of 10 BMI points. Hayan proudly upgraded her status from the "fat, mustachioed brigade" to just the "mustachioed brigade."
Then, one day, looking in the mirror, Hayan thought:
"Oh... I actually look pretty good?"
The thought bloomed in her mind.
From then on, Hayan slowly began to groom herself to look more feminine.
She went to a plastic surgery clinic to get stretch mark removal surgery.
She learned how to apply makeup.
She learned about beauty and styling.
Hayan had finally become a woman.
She was no longer fat, nor was she part of the mustachioed brigade.
While her feminism wasn't cured—it was an incurable disease, after all—the way men looked at her had changed, giving her a newfound sense of confidence.
But there was a critical problem.
"But how am I supposed to make a living now...?"
Her livelihood was completely cut off.
The only thing she knew how to do was draw, but nobody would hire her.
"..."
Hayan fell into deep thought.
As a feminist, she didn't want to sell her body.
But Hayan didn't know the reality.
Many feminists spread their legs to secure funds, comforting themselves with the excuse: "Enduring such contradictions is what the struggle for women's rights is all about."
Because of her previously hideous face, her position in the feminist camp had been nothing more than a "handmaiden" or "servant" serving as a meat shield. Thus, Hayan had no idea how the mainstream feminist elite actually operated.
"Maybe I should try cosplaying?"
As she pondered how to exploit her newly revealed, post-diet face, the idea of cosplaying flashed through her mind.
She had heard that cosplayers sometimes got hired as models for events and made decent money.
Plus, if she built up a following, she could work as an influencer.
Besides, even though she was a feminist, she was still an otaku at heart, and she knew exactly what otaku men liked.
It wasn't drawing, but she was confident she could pull it off.
"Yeah... let's give it a shot."
Hayan bought costumes, prop-making tools, and opened a brand-new social media account.
She began showing up at various subculture events, gradually building her reputation.
Hayan's drastically improved looks received far more praise than she had anticipated.
Occasionally, she received sexually harassing comments or messages.
In the past, she would have recoiled in disgust, muttering, "Hannam bastards are so repulsive," but now things were different.
Though it was vulgar, receiving sexual harassment—no, "sexual compliments"—for the first time in her life made her wet.
While she posted their advances on social media to mock them publicly, those very messages also became precious material for her own private pleasure.
Whenever she attended events, the lecherous gazes of the otakus scanning her body and the clicking of camera viewfinders sent shivers down her spine, leaving her crotch completely drenched.
For someone who had never once experienced the flattering "gaze rape" (visual compliments) of men, this attention was an incredibly sweet pleasure.
Eventually, someone snapped a photo of Hayan's crotch and panties, visibly soaked with her own arousal, and posted it online with the title: "Wet Cosplayer, Oh My God."
This incident prompted Hayan to make absolutely sure she packed sanitary pads and panty liners every single time she went to a cosplay event.
Paid gig offers increased, and her income as an influencer steadily grew.
As her pleasant days continued, a message arrived from an unfamiliar user.
It was Donghoon—a Young Forty male feminist who would soon become Hayan's boyfriend.