Renewal

IG's CEO, Kang Seong-min, pulled his eyes from the monitor and let out a sigh.

Basically a virtual MCN.

Full IG capital backup.

Lunari is basically under IG.

All of it wrong.

The moment she fell into Kim Hye-min's hands, she had been a raw gem he should have let go — but the lingering attachment still had him lurking around the internet.

Muse Family ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as IG's VTuber division. The reality was nothing more than a completely separate company being run however its headstrong representative pleased, without listening to a word from anyone above her.

Still, he couldn't entirely blame people for misunderstanding. Even Manager Kim Hui-dong, who had been preparing a virtual department of his own, had been stunned that an independent label of only five people could produce something of this scale in two weeks.

Did Kim Hye-min have other plans from the start?

In truth it had all been possible because Han So-yeong's efficient, lightning-fast work was worth a hundred people — but Kang Seong-min had no way of knowing that.

Not that his suspicions toward Kim Hye-min ran particularly deep. From where he sat, she had already missed every golden window for promotion. She had simply thrown them away.

If she had truly meant to raise that VTuber, she should have done it while the VBF hype was still hot. She should have draped herself in IG's halo to draw attention, and she should have thrown herself into every media interview without hesitation. With her connections she could have ramped up exposure on YouTube, TikTok, and everything else — yet she had shown no such intent, and simply let the time burn away. She hadn't even asked IG for a proper promotional push.

In the end, even the VR concert had been self-supplied by their own hands.

"Still not coming… What is she thinking. Heh."

Kang Seong-min exhaled another long breath. He had been ready to pretend he was being magnanimous and grant the request if Kim Hye-min had come begging for promotion even a few days ago — but being ignored this long was starting to make him feel like the petty one.

No — wasn't simply not blocking Shin Se-young's appearance already more than enough help? His side's preparations to enter the VTuber business had gotten thoroughly tangled. Without being able to ride the VBF wave of attention, they were back at square one.

Should we hold an open audition or something?

He closed his eyes amid the tangle of thoughts.

Yeong-il's unreleased tracks being unveiled. He hoped those turned out to be empty shells.

Still sulking, Kang Seong-min marked a date on his calendar.

The 18th, 5 p.m.

How thoroughly Kim Hye-min's label had prepared. And what kind of goods Yeong-il's unreleased songs would turn out to be. How far they could go without IG's help.

That, at least, he was a little curious about.

The group chat So-yeong had made to coordinate the concert setlist. The members were Han So-yeong, Lunari, Kurogami Yui, and Shin Se-young.

Han So-yeong had laid out the skeleton of every performance. All that remained was for the artists who would fill the stage to fine-tune things among themselves.

What began as light small talk soon shifted into a serious discussion of the concert's structure.

Shin Se-young's parts settled quickly — one solo track and one duet.

Up to this point, everything had gone smoothly.

The chat that had been pouring without pause went still. Roughly two minutes later, Lunari's reply arrived.

They acknowledged each other's opinions while refusing to yield a single step. The increasingly polite wording and laughter only sharpened the chill between them.

You're just worried you'll get buried under me, aren't you?

You can't carry this with your skills. This is my song.

Each of them was wondering why the other was being so stubborn over a single track, eyes blazing — but neither of them let a trace of it show.

Shin Se-young could only stare at the chat window as the two conducted their high-level duel. Their messages flew too fast for her to find an opening, and something about the air felt… thick.

I thought this was a festival…

The intensity of an idol group concert part-allocation fight was creeping up. She understood both positions, which made it all the more awkward. As Yui had said, Broken Clock wasn't a new song, so a collaboration between the two could offer a non-obvious variation — a common move at live concerts, and considering Lunari had to sing six songs total including a cover, it might even serve as a needed breather.

But even on a stage meant for everyone to enjoy, the clear star was Lunari. Didn't they need to align with that? Shin Se-young and Yui already had higher name recognition, so Lunari needed an open, deliberate push if the event was going to feel like a Lunari concert.

Sitting in silence any longer started to feel like a failure of her duty as a participant, so she carefully slipped in a single line.

Immediately, gazes from both sides shot toward her at once.

"Aaaah."

The ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠pressure.

Drawing on every performance she had ever been part of, Shin Se-young crafted a compromise. The silence that followed made her heart race.

"Whew."

Shin Se-young felt the relief of a job well done.

And then.

Huh?

Lunari's sudden shift in stance was puzzling, but Shin Se-young let it pass without much thought. Looking back, maybe she had simply changed her mind. From a performance standpoint it wasn't a bad structure.

So everything was settled now, right?

Shin Se-young came away with a fresh realization: no matter how small the stage, coordination was always hard.

Two weeks flew by.

In that time Yu Nari became truly busy, cutting down her stream hours to throw herself into practice. Whenever I checked in by phone, she was grinding her teeth and preparing with an intensity that made me wonder if she was just that excited for the show. Pouring herself in that hard was a little worrying for a streamer — but with six songs to sing as Lunari, maybe she had no choice. Even with shorter hours, I could only hope her sincerity in turning on the stream without fail would reach her fans.

Today at five, right as the concert began, the tracks would go live. Everything made in this room was going out into the world today.

Once they were out, should I tell my family? Half of me wanted to reassure them that I was doing something in this room, that they didn't need to worry. The other half was the embarrassment of having people close to me actually hear my songs.

Beep-beep-beep!

A message from Nari.

I had heard the rumor that Han So-yeong, her operations manager, had spent two weeks torturing the artists. Something about beating them over the head with money, so from an ethical standpoint there were apparently no issues.

During production, Yu Nari had shared the flood of character drafts with me, and the art style had drifted toward my preferences. After that, the details had been refined between Yu Nari, the manager, and the artist — so I had never seen the final result.

Ah, why.

I was a related party in my own right.

Yu Nari sent a teasing tongue-out emoji and disappeared back into preparations. Fortunately not much time remained, so the wait wouldn't be long.

—Open the door!!!

—Unnieeee! You're so pretty!

—How many hours today?

—Open the door I'm getting dizzy

—(Banned Viewer) Ugh the stan army showed up

Still before the stream started — the waiting screen. The chat was already exploding, and the viewer count kept climbing.

8,390 people.

More than I had expected. Kurogami Yui had shut down her own stream and funneled people to Lunari's channel, and with the broadcast rising to the top of the rankings there were plenty of curious onlookers. Then there were the chats that reeked of ordinary civilian energy, which I guessed belonged to Shin Se-young's fan club — proof that a flood of people was pouring in from outside.

I, meanwhile, was hammering refresh on the music site Mellow.

"They said it'd go up at five."

4:59:57. 58. 59.

And five o'clock.

Four digital singles appeared in artist Lunari's tracklist.

"Whoa."

Whoa whoa whoa whoa.

Songs I had made. Composer: Yeong-il. My name was right there.

It felt like someone was skipping stones across the still surface of my heart. Before that strange feeling could even settle, Lunari's screen flashed.

The waiting screen changed. A countdown began.

5

4

3

2

1

Only her silhouette appeared on screen, hidden behind a curtain. The Lunari behind it toyed with the reveal, teasing without drawing it out too long — time management that accounted for how many outsiders had likely joined.

With a flourish, the curtain was swept aside — and the new avatar filled the screen.

Soft, long pastel-pink hair, with neatly falling bangs arranged in an adorable line. Shy cat ears and a tail fluttered wildly as she kept twisting her body this way and that. She was wearing a full VR tracker, so every movement came through without a filter.