Names
Lunari was Yu Nari.
Kim Do-yoon was Kim Do-yoon.
What the hell am I talking about?
From: Yu Nari
400,000 won
……This red pill is wild.
The transfer from Lunari had gone through, and in the process an unwanted full-name reveal had taken place.
Where did the VTuber aesthetic go? Protect the red pill. Everything I’d studied said that doxxing a red pill was taboo, yet somehow we had casually learned each other’s real names.
I hadn’t even known that the sender’s name showed up on a bank transfer. I’d never sent money to anyone before, so how was I supposed to know? The moment she said she was paying me, my heart had started hammering; I rattled off my account number, and then my own name came tumbling out of Lunari’s mouth. I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Kim Do-yoon, right? Ohhh—so your name’s Kim Do-yoon. Do-yoon… Do, Do-yoonn—ahem. Anyway, I’ll still call you Yeong-il-nim.”
Why she insisted on clinging to the carefully invented “Yeong-il” instead of either the real name or anything else remained a mystery.
“Yes, Yu Nari-nim.”
“Hup—! Oh right, mine shows up too.”
When I answered in a way that made it clear I knew her name as well, Yu Nari sounded just as startled. She must have forgotten that her own name would appear on the receipt.
“Uh… hearing the full name out loud is kinda… weird…”
“Then… valued customer…?”
“No! That’s way too cold! Just do it like always!!”
“Ah, yes ma’am.”
Yu Nari to Lunari—she really hadn’t put much thought into the nickname. I’d never said it to her face, but I’d always thought “Lunari” was kind of lame. Now that I knew her real name, though, I finally understood why she’d chosen it.
Lunari, Lunari, Lunari. Say it three times fast and your tongue starts to trip. At a glance it almost sounded like the name of a bar. What was that place again—something like Two-X-ri that I’d seen online?
“Ah, or maybe just Nari is fine? Kind of a double meaning…”
That might actually be better. Keep saying Lunari and your tongue ties itself in knots.
“Yes, Nari-nim.”
“Hnnngh…… This feels a little awkward too…”
Which beat was I even supposed to match here?
Once the shock of the name-reveal fiasco wore off, the money sitting in my account finally registered. Yu Nari was going to pay four hundred thousand won per track, but she said she couldn’t manage it all at once right now. Her channel was growing, so she asked me to treat that momentum as collateral and wait a bit, or something like that.
I’d assumed she was loaded and happily accepted the first payment, but apparently that wasn’t the case. A tiny prick of conscience needled me. The truth was I was starting to feel the pinch myself. The savings I’d scraped together from my old streaming days were finally hitting bottom; the terrifying prospect of being forced to go outside again had begun to flicker at the edges of my mind.
Four hundred thousand per song. My composition folder was stuffed with tracks. Fully finished ones numbered about thirteen; counting the unfinished pieces, there were more than thirty. Everything I’d made while locked inside this room. The reasons… boredom, gloom, pure joy—there had been all sorts, I guess. I’d never thought about it too deeply. At some point my hands had simply refused to stop. That was probably closer to the truth.
If I sold every last one of them, how much would that be? The day someone actually paid money for my music had arrived. A tingle ran through me, almost the same as the one I used to feel when viewers recognized my work.
“Yeong-il-nim! So when can I get the songs? You don’t have to give me all three if you don’t want—just send whatever you like. If it’s not enough I can prepare something else. I might get knocked out in the quarterfinals anyway.”
“Ah, I’ll send them right now. There’s a bunch, so pick whichever ones you like, Nari-nim. If none of them work I’ll dig through the unfinished ones.”
Please, let there be something Yu Nari likes. A refund was not an option.
Carrying that desperate prayer, I immediately sent her every finished track.
“Huh? Th-this is… how many… whoa… that’s a lot?”
For what little it was worth.
“I’ll be in your care.”
“Heheh, I’m excited. I’ll listen to all of them first and get back to you!”
IG Entertainment Headquarters.
CEO Kang Seong-min slowly scrolled down the tablet PC resting on his desk. On the screen was an analysis report on the steadily expanding virtual market.
As a private individual, Kang Seong-min had little interest in this subculture of floating panels that sang and danced. As a CEO, however, it was a different story.
IG Entertainment prided itself on respecting the diversity of its artists. The company’s open culture—refusing to draw hard lines between genres—had attracted a deep bench of skilled talent and, it was no exaggeration to say, had built the agency’s current reputation. Once again they had not hesitated to stake out a new category.
The presence of the company’s flagship singer-songwriter, Shin Se-young, played a part as well.
She thinks she’s keeping it completely hidden, but…
That Shin Se-young was a hardcore VTuber fan was an open secret among anyone who had worked with her for long enough. Everyone simply pretended not to notice. There had been more than a few occasions when someone had caught her giggling to herself in the company cafeteria.
The reason IG Entertainment had stepped in as a sponsor for Link’s Virtual Voice Fight tournament and installed her as a judge was largely to humor her private hobby while quietly taking the pulse of the new market.
Knock-knock.
A light rap on the door, and Manager Kim from the A&R team entered the CEO’s office.
“Sir, these are the VTuber tournament clips Se-young mentioned.”
“Let’s see.”
The tablet Manager Kim handed over already had the Round of 16, Match 3 video queued up. The unknown virtual streamer Lunari performing “Graduation Ceremony.” The view count had already sailed past eighty thousand with ease—a terrifying growth rate for a clip from a subculture tournament on a streaming platform.
When the video ended, a low sound of appreciation escaped Kang Seong-min’s lips.
“Oh. She’s really something. Completely reworked the song to her liking, didn’t she? Now I understand why Se-young’s eyes were sparkling.”
This wasn’t a simple rearrangement of the accompaniment; it had been tailored to perfectly highlight the vocalist’s strengths. Both the Round of 32 and Round of 16 versions had been crafted so precisely around the singer that even a casual listen told him the arranger’s skill was exceptional.
Still, messing with a popular group track was usually a recipe for disaster.
“Heh. Prism Tree fans are going to foam at the mouth when they see this.”
The comment section right beside the player was already pure chaos.
It wasn’t even an official YouTube channel, so there was zero moderation—total free-for-all. Kang Seong-min clicked his tongue. But controversy was free publicity. An arranger who could generate this much noise and praise at the same time was enough to make any agency CEO’s mouth water.
“This arranger’s handle is ‘Yeong-il,’ right? Contact them immediately. Find out if they’re signed anywhere or freelancing. Best case, we bring them over to us.”
“……There’s a bit of a problem with that.”
“Problem?”
“We have no way to approach them.”
Manager Kim scratched the back of his head, looking uncomfortable.
“All we know about the composer Yeong-il is that they’re an acquaintance of the VTuber Lunari. Searching turns up nothing, so it’s almost certainly a complete alias. We tried reaching out through Lunari first, but…”
“But?”
“Lunari’s channel doesn’t list a single business email or contact method. Not even a common SNS account link.”
“Huh?”
Kang Seong-min looked genuinely dumbfounded. For any streamer running an internet broadcast these days, putting at least one email for sponsorship or collab inquiries in the channel profile was the most basic of basics. It was simply a detail that a broadcasting rookie who had never held a real job—Yu Nari—had overlooked.
“So the only contact method is live chat. Should we try asking there?”
“Are you insane? That’s way too tone-deaf.”
Kang Seong-min waved the idea away firmly. Asking on stream about recruiting Lunari herself might have been somewhat understandable, but barging into a live broadcast to demand an introduction to a third party was pure social suicide. More importantly, it could create unnecessary friction if they ever sat down at a formal contract table later.
“With skill like this, there’s a 99 percent chance it’s some big name’s secret alt account. Don’t get your hopes up about snatching them overnight.”
“Then what should we do? Just wait and watch?”
“That Lunari VTuber is advancing to the quarterfinals, right? Tell Se-young to chat with her on the next broadcast and get a contact number.”
Kang Seong-min smiled leisurely.
“Anyway, the arranger is one thing. Keep a close eye on next week’s tournament. That ‘Sion’ person sings damn well.”
If IG Entertainment decided to push someone, any VTuber could be grown in no time. That was exactly why they had sponsored the tournament and put up the prizes. All that remained now was to sit back and enjoy the results.
About half a day had passed since I handed the songs over to Yu Nari.
Thirteen tracks—no wonder it had taken a while. Which ones had she chosen? I wondered if this was how people felt when they sent a puppy from their dog’s litter off to a new home.
Riiing— riiing—
Before, she had at least asked if it was okay to call. Now she just dialed like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Hello?”
“Wow, Yeong-il-nim! The songs are so good! Choosing was sooo hard.”
Phew. Looks like I’m getting paid after all. First thing I need to do is replace this rattling mic arm.
“Which ones did you pick?”
“Hmm, I narrowed it down to four pretty fast, then barely managed to cut those down to three. Let’s see—these ones.”
Yu Nari sent over the file names.
The third track, the ninth… and the first…?
The first two made sense. Most of my songs leaned slow and damp with emotion; among them, those two still had the kind of rise-and-fall structure that could work in a competition. If I’d been the one choosing, I probably would’ve landed on something similar.
But that first song…
When sorted by date, it was the oldest. I’d written it not long after locking myself in this room. The lyrics had been scrawled in a raw rush, and it was the stickiest, gloomiest piece I had ever made.
Title: This Is All There Is to Me.
“Why the first one?”
I couldn’t not ask. Why that one of all things?
“That one’s not for competition.”
“I know. But still.”
Why that one specifically?
“It’s the one I like the most.”
Out of thirteen songs, that was her favorite. Breathing suddenly felt a little uncomfortable. This was absolutely not a competition song. It was slow, uneventful, and completely lacking in impact. What on earth had she heard in it? I was curious and, at the same time, didn’t want to know.
“If you want to win, you need a highlight that really explodes. This song…”
“I get what you’re saying. But I just like this one. The lyrics too. It’s hard to explain why, but I feel like… I can express it well.”
Yu Nari showed no sign of changing her mind, so after a moment’s thought I decided to find a middle ground.
“How about this. We decide based on whoever we face each round. Choosing the song according to style is the right call. So… let’s practice one more. You said you were torn between four, so let’s include that one too.”
“Yes! Perfect! I’ll practice all four of the ones I was considering so I can use any of them whenever.”
“……”
Coldly speaking, I didn’t believe This Is All There Is to Me would ever actually be chosen. It was simply too unsuited for a tournament. No matter who the opponent was, one of the other three would be the better pick.
“Okay then, I’m gonna go practice first—will you listen later? I need the original artist’s approval too.”
“Yeah. Of course.”
After sending Yu Nari off, I played This Is All There Is to Me for the first time in a long while. Crushing depression and despair. The wretched isolation of those days. Memories of myself hunched over the keyboard came flooding back.
What had Yu Nari heard and seen in that song? I felt stripped bare, and it made me embarrassed. Maybe the problem was the version of me from a few hours ago who had been blinded by money.
After she left like that…
“Haa……”
I let out a deep sigh, then sat back down at the computer and began listening through the songs I had made, one by one, the only way I knew how to calm myself.
And time, as always, flowed by far too quickly.