They'll Take Care of Everything

The finals were over.

"I am not milking it! And please don't trash-talk the others."

On screen, the pink cat demi-human Lunari pressed her hands together, cheeks flushed. Despite her protests, a damp edge clung to her voice — but with her face hidden, she was fully committed to denying it.

They weren't tears of grief. All the hardship, the lingering afterglow, and the sheer happiness had only crashed over her once the tension finally let go. That rush of emotion didn't last long, though.

The moment the official broadcast cut out and the flood of new arrivals sent chat into absolute chaos, the tears dried up on the spot.

Ugh… I really need proper rules. And maybe I should hire a manager.

Lunari's stream was a chaotic mix of every kind of crowd imaginable — pure bedlam. With no established fandom to speak of, still basically a newborn streamer, there was no room culture to fall back on. How many of these people would actually stick around was anyone's guess, but Yu Nari steeled herself with the thought that this — right here — was the real beginning of streamer Lunari.

"Ahh, I really did well, didn't I? I'm so proud. Thank you all for loving it. Oh, and I never expected Ririe-nim to cry for me."

"Ah, that sexual harassment is a bit… ahem."

She'd snagged the offender with a hawk's eye, but Yu Nari — still more civilian than streamer at heart — found it genuinely hard to ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠know where the line was supposed to be drawn in broadcasting. When in doubt: ban first, ask later.

The finals vote had been a pure photo finish, and people were buzzing. After long deliberation, the judges had split — Shin Se-young for Sion, Ririe for Lunari. Then the audience vote closed at 53 to 47 percent, and Sion took the win.

Nari had finished a stage with no regrets and a score higher than she'd dared hope for, so she was genuinely content. The fact that the viewers seemed more disappointed than she was made it an even more precious gift.

Okay. I know how to run today's stream.

The theme that could steer this massive tide of traffic was, of course, the tournament itself. Whenever they talked about the competition, the trolls thinned out and the reactions stayed consistent.

"Alright then, shall we listen back through the round-of-eight songs together and talk about them? I'm curious too — how it all looked from the outside."

Just as Lunari was getting ready to cue up the round-of-eight clips, a donation alert chimed.

"Thank you for the thousand won — wait, your ID is… Uh, but are there reactions out there? ……Okay, that does sound kind of interesting."

Where was she even supposed to find those? She didn't have a community café yet, so viewers couldn't just dump links for her. She was wondering whether she'd have to hunt them down herself when chat lit up like a festival.

"Ah, here it is. Enabling settings!"

The second video donations opened, several poured in as if they'd been waiting. A few were random videos of weird uncles dancing and other pure junk, but luckily the settings let her filter — she could pick and play only the stage reaction clips.

"Hrmm, the lyrics are the good part, you know! They're catchy and cute."

"Hmph! There are people with good taste in here. That melody fits those lyrics and that vibe perfectly. I'm only human — I panicked a little when I first saw the title, but the second I heard the song I went, this is peak!"

Ignoring the chat insisting it should be "good ears" not "good eyes," Lunari kept the reaction stream rolling. Leave it to the pro streamers. Their responses packed more dopamine than those overseas reaction videos on YouTube, and at certain points the praise got so intense it made her face burn with embarrassment. And of course, at the finals stage, that energy detonated completely.

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠illustrated music video she'd prepared behind Do-yoon's back. Not exactly high production value — not enough time, not enough money — but the charming little drawings fit the song perfectly. And the highlight of all of it was, without question, the final shot.

In the illustration, Lunari reached toward the monitor as if stretching her hand out to the viewers themselves — and streamers everywhere were openly weeping.

The reaction was so much better than expected that Yu Nari's face burned. So this was what attention tasted like. It almost felt like it had blown past her limit. A continuous flood of feelings she absolutely didn't deserve.

She untangled her arms and legs, which had started twisting and fidgeting of their own accord.

"Honestly, Yeong-il-nim's song was completely insane, right? Don't you think?"

Yu Nari redirected the credit elsewhere. There was someone else who absolutely deserved the praise — and also, her face had gone so red she was about to explode.

Only then did the viewers start asking who on earth Yeong-il even was. What did he do. One or two people wondered if he was her boyfriend and got promptly kicked. Watching them speculate every which way, Lunari finally opened her mouth.

"Did you know Yeong-il-nim used to be one of my viewers? You could call him an ancient Lunari fan! Hehe."

After deciding with Do-yoon that she'd enter the tournament, Nari had wiped every single VOD. So no one could possibly know he existed, and out of consideration for him, she'd agreed to reveal only this much.

"He might even be watching right now? He's the quiet type, so he doesn't chat much, though."

When Lunari waved at the camera like she was greeting him through the screen, the chat split cleanly between "Getting greeted by Lunari herself is so lucky!" and "Knowing that composer is so lucky!" — and the whole spectacle was so funny she burst out laughing.

Then, just as the recap stream was winding down, a massive donation alert rang out.

"Eek — w-what?"

IG Entertainment's official account had all but openly declared they wanted to contact Lunari. She said she understood and posted her email on the channel.

And when she woke up that night, her inbox held over three hundred messages.

Anyone who'd watched Virtual Voice Fight could easily guess why IG ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠was looking for Lunari.

A conference room inside the IG Entertainment building in Nonhyeon-dong.

CEO Kang Seong-min lightly tapped the table as he looked over the total viewer count.

69,847.

"That's Jamsil Stadium numbers."

"It's online, but the impact far exceeds projections."

Firepower twice as strong as Kang Seong-min had anticipated. The perfect timing to plant a foot in the virtual market — if things had gone according to plan, that is.

Twenty million won, or becoming IG Entertainment's fully backed Virtual Artist No. 1. Drop a historic offer on the tournament winner, maximize the buzz, then ride that wave straight into a chart-smashing digital release. That was the A&R team's scenario, and it was supposed to roll forward without a hitch.

Except — what was this?

Sion had chosen the twenty million?

Meaning IG Entertainment's music deal had lost to a mere twenty million won. At least it had happened in the subculture side of things rather than their main field, so the story hadn't leaked into broader entertainment industry channels. Still, it was perfect material for social media mockery.

Even a mid-tier chart performance would clear twenty million and then some, not to mention the secondary revenue streams that followed. Plus a virtual concert for the fans. Song production costs, distribution, promotion — all covered. So why on earth.

"I still don't get it."

Grabbing Sion on a live broadcast and explaining it point by point would have looked too desperate, so he'd told Shin Se-young to just send her off coolly. But Kang Seong-min's head was still full of question marks.

"Same here. There has to be a reason, right? For a singer who takes music seriously, we thought this was an offer you simply couldn't refuse… Well. We'll have to go with Plan B."

The A&R team manager who, under the original plan, would have been appointed head of the new virtual business division, continued.

"First place turned us down, so of course we pass the offer to second. And frankly, if we're talking pure buzz, I think she already surpassed the winner, Sion. If Sion is an exceptional singer, Lunari is closer to an artist… The problem is that atmosphere exists because of the mystery composer behind her."

Lunari already had three songs ready for digital release. And each one powerfully reinforced her mysterious artist image. To protect that image—

"So she can't use our songs."

"Right. At minimum, those three would all have to drop first. And since Lunari used the same composer back-to-back, if our track underperforms by comparison afterward…"

"We get compared. To that composer. Against ours."

"……Yes."

As the issue grew more complicated, the air in the conference room only grew heavier.