Methodology for Becoming a Vtuber (1)
“What do you mean by that, Chae-eun?”
At my question, she leaned forward as if she had been waiting for it.
“Of course I don’t mean we should fully return to acting. Our ultimate goal has always been to become Vtubers, after all.”
“Right. For a second I thought you’d turned traitor.”
“But there’s one very real, very decisive problem standing in the way of starting as Vtubers.”
Chae-eun wore a serious expression as she rubbed her thumb and forefinger together.
“Money.”
“…Why do we need money?”
“You clearly don’t know how this works. To debut as a proper Vtuber, full-body motion-tracking equipment is mandatory. Add in the cost of commissioning a high-quality avatar and you’re looking at at least ten million won, even if you cut every corner.”
“....”
Only then did I finally understand what Chae-eun was getting at.
Phew.
I’d thought she was about to say that gaining more acting experience would somehow improve our skills as Vtubers.
Who in the world becomes an actress for a reason like that?
Ha ha.
“We could save some money by hunting for secondhand gear and compromising on the avatar, but it would still cost a fortune. Far more than any high-school allowance could ever cover.”
“…You don’t even save your allowance in the first place.”
“….”
An awkward silence settled over the café table.
Kim Chae-eun’s lips twitched as she quietly looked away. I had probably hit her with the facts a little too hard.
She soon pretended she hadn’t heard me and carried on with a shameless cough.
“A-anyway! Going back to acting is just a means to get the equipment. We’re not talking about becoming full-time actresses. We just need to land a few supporting roles in dramas or plays, rake in a lump sum, and move on. With our child-actress portfolios, someone’s bound to give us a chance, right?”
“…When you put it that way, it does sound plausible.”
I rested my chin on my hand and studied her.
“But hold on. Never mind me—what about you? Weren’t you aiming for the big corporate Vtuber audition? If you pass that, the company provides the equipment and avatar, doesn’t it?”
Chae-eun clicked her tongue and wagged her finger at me like I was hopelessly naïve.
“Tsk tsk, Seo Da-young. Your market research is lacking. A total newbie with zero broadcasting experience has zero chance of landing a major corporate audition on the first try. We need to spend a few months streaming independently first—build up some on-air sense and a portfolio of experience.”
“R-really…?”
I gave an ambiguous nod at her confident, sparkling-eyed explanation.
Still, I wasn’t entirely convinced that being a beginner automatically meant rejection…
Having never even considered corporate Vtuber auditions in either my past or present life, I couldn’t tell whether she was stating industry truth or simply voicing her own assumptions.
“Uh… Okay, got it. So, have you already decided which audition we’re going for?”
“Of course. Did you think I’d bring this up without a plan?”
Chae-eun reached into her bag and pulled out a crumpled, well-folded sheet of paper that looked nothing like the cool beauty she projected. She spread it flat on the table with a decisive thwack.
“There are two options.”
“…Two? That’s unusually prepared of you.”
“Unusually…?”
Chae-eun’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“Never mind. Forget I said anything.”
Whoops.
“Ahem. Let’s take a look at the options one by one.”
At my urging, Chae-eun cleared her throat and tapped the first sheet.
“The first option is a theater audition at a small playhouse in Jongno.”
“Jongno…? A small theater…? A play…?”
“Since it’s a small-theater production, it’s low-pressure for people like us with no recent experience. And because casts rotate per performance in theater, we could research the same role together and apply as double-casting if we’re lucky.”
“Hmm…”
The more I listened, the more sense it made. There was no better practice ground for dusting off our long-neglected acting skills than a real stage.
“Also, I happened to hear a rumor that Actor Namgung Hyun is involved with this audition.”
“Actor Namgung Hyun?”
At the familiar name, my eyes widened involuntarily.
Namgung Hyun.
The veteran who had played the father of young Yoo Ji-hye in Blood Garden—the only drama I had ever appeared in, and the dazzling launch of my child-acting career ten years ago.
He had looked after Chae-eun and me a great deal back then.
If someone we knew was participating in the audition or production…
It could definitely work in our favor.
While I was mentally tallying the unexpected connection, Chae-eun slid the second sheet toward me.
“And the other option is the COOKI audition.”
“COOKI? The second-largest domestic platform backed by a major conglomerate? Isn’t that jumping straight into the deep end?”
I couldn’t help raising my voice at the sudden appearance of a corporate giant.
Back when we filmed Blood Garden ten years ago, South Korea didn’t even have a proper OTT market. IPTV—the predecessor to modern streaming—was little more than a second-string service that rebroadcast terrestrial dramas.
But after Blood Garden became an unprecedented global hit, Netflix cemented its mythic status as the world’s leading OTT, forcing the domestic market into a violent upheaval.
Countless domestic and foreign media giants had since entered a brutal fight for market share.
And among them, COOKI sat firmly in second place right behind Netflix, a platform under one of the nation’s largest conglomerates.
“Even if the goal is just to raise money, a COOKI audition? They line up established actors from the planning stage onward.”
Chae-eun waved a dismissive hand.
“Oh please, if it were a major drama audition I would’ve brought that instead. This is COOKI’s brand-new ‘New Talent Development Short-Drama Project.’”
“Short-drama project?”
“Yeah. It’s a short-form anthology drama, only two episodes long. Even though it’s a huge platform, the short-drama lineup is still in its experimental early stages. They’re currently casting two lead roles for teenage high-school girls. Our age and conditions match perfectly.”
“…Still, the pay should be generous since it’s a conglomerate, right?”
“Obviously. They’re pouring serious investment into the short-drama market as a late entrant, so the pay is no joke. Filming is only three days during break. One appearance could cover the full cost of the motion-tracking gear—secondhand, of course, but still.”
“Three days…?”
I swallowed hard. Chae-eun jerked her chin at me.
“So, which one do you think is better—the play or the short drama?”
I stared at the two sheets, lost in thought.
The first option: the Jongno small-theater play.
Actor Namgung Hyun, who had doted on me as a child, would be there. And nothing revived rusty acting instincts quite like stage performance.
But theater meant being tied to the venue every weekend for months, and the pay at a small house was tiny. It would take forever to save enough for the equipment.
The second option: COOKI’s short-drama project.
The platform itself was famous, but I had never heard of this particular project succeeding in my previous life.
It was probably one of the countless experimental attempts by a large corporation that quietly faded away. It wouldn’t help build acting recognition or fame in the slightest.
Yet that was precisely the point! For us—who had no intention of continuing as actresses long-term—it was actually the perfect advantage!
The overwhelming efficiency of “only three days of filming” while balancing school and Vtuber prep. The incomparably higher appearance fee compared to a small-theater play.
Most importantly…
The fact that we wouldn’t become too famous.
Excessive success could come back to bite us later when we debuted as streamers, so staying under the radar was actually a plus.
There was no better side gig for securing funds.
It was practically tailor-made for me and Kim Chae-eun.
Having made up my mind, I curled the corner of my mouth and tapped the second sheet with my finger.
“…The second one. Let’s go for the short-drama leads.”
At the same moment, in a conference room inside a large talent agency in Seoul’s Cheongdam-dong.
Gang Si-woo, who had been intently reading the script for his next film, lifted his head and looked across the table.
Seated opposite him was the main PD from COOKI, sweating nervously and fidgeting with his fingers.
“PD-nim. No matter how long you sit there, nothing will change. I already told you last time—I don’t have room in my schedule before the film’s crank-in.”
“I know, I know! I’m well aware of how high your asking price is these days, and how packed your commercial and film schedules are.”
The PD leaned forward pleadingly, teacup still in hand.
“But this short-drama project is a major new initiative that COOKI is investing in aggressively. We need it to wash away the criticism that our short-drama lineup is weak compared to our platform’s reputation and to close the gap with Netflix… We absolutely need a ‘face’ to open the door.”
Urgency colored the PD’s voice.
Gang Si-woo.
The boy who had delivered a memorable performance as the child version of Min Do-hyun in Blood Garden ten years ago.
While Da-young and Chae-eun left the entertainment industry to live ordinary lives, Si-woo and Yoon Ha-eun remained, steadily building their careers.
Now, a decade later, the two were hailed as “the twin stars born from Blood Garden” and stood at the very top of Korea’s teen-star scene.
Naturally, COOKI was desperate to attach Si-woo’s name to their new short-drama project.
The moment the three syllables “Gang Si-woo”—Korea’s hottest teen star—appeared on screen for even a few seconds as a cameo, the resulting media coverage and online buzz would be on an entirely different level.
“I understand how seriously COOKI is taking this new venture. But right now my schedule is already full with just the film shoot…”
“Honestly, I’m not doing this without shame. But I heard that your family elders have already dropped a hint to your agency’s CEO about lending a hand to this COOKI project…”
“….”
Si-woo’s eyes narrowed at those words.
His maternal family was distantly connected to the Taesung Group, the chaebol that owned COOKI.
He wasn’t close enough to call himself a “third-generation chaebol,” but the relationship was awkward enough that he couldn’t simply skip family events.
It seemed the Taesung Group’s affiliate COOKI had applied subtle pressure through his maternal relatives all the way to his agency CEO.
Ignoring it completely would draw unwanted attention from the extended family, yet accepting would only add more hassle to an already brutal schedule.
He had no idea how things had come to this, but with both family elders and the agency CEO involved, flatly refusing was no longer an option.
Si-woo closed the script with a tired sigh.
“…Haa.”
“S-Si-woo-ssi?”
“…I’ll think about it. On the condition that it doesn’t interfere with my schedule at all.”
“Oh, of course! Absolutely! We’ll schedule everything around your availability!”
Color instantly returned to the PD’s face. While outwardly bowing repeatedly in gratitude, he was cheering inwardly.
Yes! He said he’d consider it, but that’s basically acceptance! If Korea’s top teen star Gang Si-woo shows his face for even a few seconds, this short-drama project is guaranteed success before it even starts!
Wearing a triumphant expression, the PD left the agency.
One choice made in a franchise café in front of a Seoul high school.
And another choice made at this very moment inside a large agency in Gangnam.
No one yet knew what kind of storm these two decisions would unleash upon the entertainment industry.