Chapter 1: Viewers 0, Twenty-Seven

Numbers alone might make some say you're still young. Twenty-seven, viewer count zero. But those words never made it inside my room.

The desk held a single laptop, a few cups of instant ramen, and some half-scribbled notes. Wallpaper peeled in spots, and the chair creaked after too long in it. Nothing lacking, nothing worth bragging about. I'd spent two years in this space.

Highlight reels of successful streamers on the platform. The recommendation algorithm always showed the same things: laughter, chatter, trips, pretty girls... People whose lives changed after their views spiked.

'I could do that.' That's what I really thought at first. Fire up a game, buy a mic, stream every night, and someday I'd be in those videos too.

Reality was simpler. I was still scraping by. Viewer count ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠stuck at zero or one. The chat window stayed empty, and I'd ramble more when someone dipped in, then clam up when they left. But I had no specs to leave this room—no degree, no certifications, no standout resume. All that remained was my dwindling self-esteem.

While peers talked salaries, I checked subscriber counts. At an age for marriage chats, my heart raced at ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠a single viewer alert.

'Pathetic.'

Still, I couldn't quit streaming. Turning it off felt like it'd leave me with nothing.

"Today's stream... starting now."

A greeting for no one. Habit kicked in, and I hit go live. Viewers: 0. A number so familiar it felt like a summary of my life.

Today's solo content: a newbie challenge on a trendy game. I knew the genre was oversaturated with pros, but it was something.

The game launched, and luck struck—the count twitched. 0 → 1.

"Oh... hi there."

"Yeah, first time playing."

Moments later, it climbed. 1 → 3 → 5. My two-year max was 31, so I straightened up, words tumbling out.

"The controls are kinda... no, that's just how this game is."

The more I talked, the clumsier my hands got. Character snagged on walls, attacks whiffed air.

I tried laughing, but it fell flat. "Uh... still practicing."

Under five minutes, viewers fled. 5 → 4 → 3.

Ping. 2. Ping. 1. Words dried up again. Character died. Then 0. My day vanished.

Chat logs held a few meaningless lines. 'As expected.'

Famous games, newbie challenges—everyone did them. I was the overwhelmingly bad, unpopular one.

"……."

Breathing felt heavy. Chest tight—not emotion, just the stale air weighing down the empty room.

Viewers stayed at zero. No chat lingered; only game sounds echoed. Mouse in hand, I stared at the screen, then slumped in the chair.

"……Hah."

This wasn't how I wanted to live. I wanted to be something, someone remembered. But reality was viewer-zero game streams. "Today it'll happen," every other day, those words fading too.

Lips sealed in the haze, I ended the stream wordlessly. Camera off, air shifted—stage dark, silent, pointless. Now I'd just drift, algorithm's slave with dead-fish eyes.

Click, clack.

Tacky slogan and crude design next to the gallery. No normal person would glance at it. But this hopeless life had my finger moving on its own.

"……New game?"

Games these days stuff in weird meta events, gachas, transformations—anything to hook users.

Click.

The site was laughably sloppy. No name, info, terms—just a "Start Pulling" button. I figured it'd be a hack at worst, but dopamine-soaked, I snorted and clicked anyway. Deep down, I craved ditching this boring routine for a new life.

Click, flash.

"……."

Nothing changed. Assumed crash, sighed—then vision spun.

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Breath caught deep. Sitting, but balance felt off—like my center tipped forward. Electric tingles raced from fingertips, flooding my body.

"———?!"

Heart dropped. Vision blurred. From the hazy screen, a strange hand popped out, twirling.

"…Ngh."

Eyes open, first sensation: weight. Something heavy on my chest. Reaching out, my body felt wrong.

...Center shifted.

'What's this?'

Shaking my head, I sat up. Immediately, something thudded below—heavy curves, vividly real.

"…What."

Hands moved first, cupping my chest. Soft, heavy texture climbed my skin. Blood drained to my feet, goosebumps rising.

...This wasn't my body.

Not in my right mind. I scrambled to the bathroom mirror.

There stood a woman—not me. Long lashes, small pretty face. And breasts that drew eyes everywhere, impossibly huge.

"No way…"

A whisper in a woman's voice. Unbelievable. Didn't want to believe.

'What kinda dream is this? So real.' Embarrassed I'd fantasized this subconsciously.

Wishing to wake, I curled up, arms hugging tight.

Then, something floated before my eyes.

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"…What the hell is this…"

Blinked, rubbed eyes—still there. Waved hands, looked away—nope. Transparent screen hovered.

Trembling hand grasped air. 30 days. 1,000 viewers.

'What is this?'

Female... body. Screen blinked. More info layered on.

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"……Subject?"

Before words escaped, next screen.

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I stared blankly. Appearance rank S. Almost laughed. Never rated that high in life.

Screen advanced unprompted.

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Heart pounded harder. "Hey…."

Not wrong, but embarrassing. Swiped air—screen ignored.

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Breath stopped. 'Why count that?' No one tallies contacts, but masturbation at 29? Impossible zero.

"Ah, that's not true!!"

Yelled at air like denying old records. Tiny footnote appeared below.

"Ah…?!"

Compliance. Didn't sound good. Flushed, next opened.

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Spot-on, no exaggeration. "Stop…."

Mumbled, but screen pressed on.

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Read it over and over. External evaluation. Rewards. Compliance. Summed up my praise-craving life in one line.

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All low still. Relief or terror? Last screen.

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Streaming. Back to the chair, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠slow exhale. Slap, slap—cheek stings didn't wake me.

"If this is... Life Gacha."

Tried joking, throat choked. Gulped. I clicked it, but really?

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Viewer zero. Virgin solo. No experience. Suppressed desires. Screens always up now, swipe back anytime. My everything, listed like settings.

Rubbed face. "……Insane."

Nothing else came. Status folded quietly, last line lingering.

What now. Read it repeatedly. Rock-bottom life. Dogshit low point.

"Ah."

Slowly, it clicked. Me, the utter fucking loser.