Dead Drunk Cat

The moment class ended, Yu Nari's college classmate Park Hye-jin came barreling through the door and scrambled to boot up her computer.

"Aaaah, Se-young unnie hasn't gone on yet, right?"

She dug up the Link account she'd made back during Virtual Voice Fight, hammered through the login, and dove straight into Lunari's stream.

Shin Se-young hadn't overdone the promotion. She never mentioned it on social media at all—just left a simple note on her fan café: I've been invited as a guest for a special concert!

Virtual culture was still unfamiliar to the general public, and she figured a flood of ordinary fans pouring in would only put pressure on Lunari. That was the call she made.

Even so, Se-young's most devoted fans—the Sirens—tracked her down to Link anyway. Park Hye-jin was one of them.

By the time Hye-jin ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠connected, Lunari's new-avatar showcase and guest introductions were already over.

"Whew, thank god. Hasn't started yet."

The stage built inside the VR world was decked out in full glitter and lights. Across it wandered Lunari, Yui, and Shin Se-young's avatar—which, in the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠end, they'd just stuck a photo of her face onto.

After watching Virtual Voice Fight last time, Hye-jin had thought she was used to these cartoon characters. This was different again.

Wait—they can actually move? Holy crap.

Arms and legs in motion made everything so much more vivid, so much easier to sink into.

Shin Se-young took the mic and worked the crowd.

Lunari.

That cat-eared character from Virtual Voice Fight. At first Hye-jin had thought the VTuber named Sion was the one who'd left the biggest impression—but as time passed, the one that stuck was that pink cat.

She'd liked the song so much she'd gone back and rewatched it after the tournament ended.

Lunari's renewed character beamed and stepped onto the stage, and the lights found her.

First song: Delivery Food.

Playful lyrics, a melody that was anything but. The exact track Park Hye-jin had raved about. And with the official recorded arrangement underneath it, the sound hit even richer, even more delicious against the ear.

God, still so good.

In the Siren fan-club group chat she'd left open beside the stream window, messages were already flying: this song is insane, this one just makes you feel better.

Lunari wasn't quite at dancer level, but she moved lightly as she kept singing, and Hye-jin hummed along through the last stretch, deciding the mad dash home had been worth it.

"Mm-hmm~"

After the first number, Lunari swept in close and asked her viewers,

"Huh?"

When she sang, Hye-jin had written it off as familiar from the last tournament. But speaking—that voice she was hearing for the first time.

And why did it sound so…?

Familiar…?

Hye-jin's hands stopped moving.

That tone. That cadence. Not the singing—the way she talked.

Among the voices she heard almost every day, this texture was there. The same tone from the hallway before Applied Music class: "Ugh, what should I eat today…"

Come to think of it, even the vocal placement was similar…

Hmm.

No way.

But if—if it really was—how was she supposed to act? Wasn't that basically a celebrity at this point? Could she get an autograph?

Luckily, Shin Se-young's stage coming up let Park Hye-jin shove the confusion aside for a little while.

The concert was flowing beautifully.

When the new avatar dropped, I'd been so tense I swallowed hard and stared at the chat—but thankfully everyone seemed happy. More than anything, Yu Nari herself clearly loved it. Watching her try on this expression, then that one, all excited, made me feel warm without even trying.

The singing went without saying—it was flawless.

The VR full-body tracking stuttered now and then, and sometimes jumped in weird ways, but even that landed as charm. Especially Shin Se-young: no virtual character at all, just a slender career-woman body with a photo of her own ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face stuck on top. Hilarious from the jump. She moved so stiffly, this way and that, that the viewers were dying of cuteness.

Her fan club flooding in probably helped, but she really was adorable. And then the second she started singing, she snapped into a deadly serious performance like none of that had ever happened. The gap was enormous.

"Those two go so well together."

Lunari and Shin Se-young's duet had just finished, and my ears were completely at ease. When Se-young's clear high range layered with Lunari's mid-low, the blend was ridiculously good. They couldn't have rehearsed the pairing that long, either. Incredible. They must have practiced like crazy.

"Ah, ah. Mm~ come back again~"

I idly tried following their harmony parts. If you added one more vocal like this, would it start feeling a cappella? That might be even better. Or if you added another instrument—what would work? A cajón in the middle might not be bad…

Lunari's cue cut off my urge to open the production software.

Chik—

The scrape of a worn LP needle, then the electric guitar charging in.

A song I'd made. I'd heard this arrangement hundreds of times, but flowing out live with a full performance frame around it—it was different all over again.

Lunari hauled every ounce of huskiness out of her tone and rode the track. The clean polish of the mastered audio only made that voice shine harder.

Verse one passed. Verse two began.

Tick-tock, tick-tock—

The sampled clock section rolled by, and then, mid-verse two, another figure stepped out from behind her and a new voice joined in.

"Yui?"

She'd mentioned on her personal stream that she might sing Broken Clock, and apparently she'd meant it.

Same arrangement—but the second the other vocal locked in, the color of the song shifted. Same as the duet with Se-young: Lunari on the mid-lows, Yui taking the belts. Both of them had tones that sat beautifully in a band sound, so each one's charm stood out.

As they drove toward the chorus, Nari and Yui shouted together:

"Oh?"

Nari's vocal was somehow… stronger than usual? No—how to put it?

Destructive, and yet the stability wrapping everything around it hit me all at once. Yui's highs wanted to fly over the top of the track, and Lunari's color rose from underneath and simply folded the sky over them.

Not so much harmony as domination. The balance of it. When Yui climbed, Lunari pulled from below. When Yui belted, Lunari dug even deeper. The song's center of gravity sat entirely with Lunari.

They were clearly singing together, and yet… Lunari's voice pulled everything in so hard that Yui's tone almost felt like a virtual instrument.

What was this? Why did she keep getting better?

Yu Nari really was the endlessly-growing type.

Yui sang well too. She'd colored the song differently and shown what else it could be. But in the highlight chorus of this track, the moment that always shone brightest—the one that lingered in the ear—was always only Lunari's voice.

"Do we need to re-record this?"

That perfect a stage. The song's owner really was different.

After Broken Clock ended, Kurogami Yui was still breathing hard.

She hadn't meant to be difficult. Talking with Lunari in the group chat, instinctive irritation had made her push—but there was no reason to turn it into a power struggle that would hurt the show. In the end Lunari had yielded from mid-verse two, and Yui was simply giving everything the concession deserved.

On the same band sound, I suit it better—and I'm more confident!

She'd wanted to show that to the mysterious composer called Yeong-il, to make her case. And then, on the actual stage, she'd been pushed back.

The feeling of being pressed down hard under Lunari's vocal. Practice hadn't had this kind of pressure. On the real stage it felt like the gear had jumped one higher.

Her lips were trembling.

What kind of sensation was this?

It's because this is Lunari's song.

Nothing to be done about that. Of course the original singer is strongest on the original. She'd just show ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it on the next number.

And the next number was right away.

Yui's solo stage began. She turned her blue eyes red and stepped out.

A song she'd chosen herself—a fierce J-pop band sound. This was her territory. She belted, climbed, poured feeling in like she was scrubbing away that earlier shove.

Praise pouring through the chat. Good. Done. She'd shown them.

She held her settling heart and slipped off the VR trackers for a moment.

"Next is Lunari's new song! World premiere tonight!"

Shin Se-young threw the intro, and soon Lunari stood on stage.

Not the demure dress she'd worn from the start. A black corset top that bared the shoulders. A checkered miniskirt with safety-pin details. Cat ears under a hat folded on one side. She looked like a singer about to do something jazzy—or funky.

Blackout Cat.

The title came up in subtitles.

On the original setlist this unreleased new song had been placed dead last. During the coordination process Lunari had moved it. Yui never really got a reason—just a cheerful, "I think here would be better than last, haha." The host was Lunari in the end, so who was going to argue? They'd just shrugged and moved on.

Tong—!

The drums announced the arrangement's start.

Doo-doom—pat, doo-doom-doom—

A rest where beat one should have been, and a snare exploding where the rest should have been.

Offbeat?

Yui's ears pricked.

An upright bass slid in. Low end walking like a walking bass, then suddenly plucking the strings. It sounded like a drunk cat staggering across the bass strings without quite falling—a sound shape teetering on the edge.

Baa—bara-bam!

Brass burst. Festival fanfare with a crooked lean to it. In four bars of intro, every instrument had already been thrown at the wall.

Is this rock too?

Her heart was pounding. She genuinely loved this style. So this was Lunari's new song. Of course she'd brought something ridiculous again.

Lunari's mouth opened, smooth as silk.

She started low and level. The arrangement was this chaotic, and the vocal gave nothing. The contrast was hypnotic. A muted trumpet slipped little responses between the lines—wah-wah—like it was keeping time with a drunk.

The bass switched to slap. From a steady footfall it turned aggressive, kinetic. Brass staccato stacked note by note like climbing stairs. On a beat rising higher and higher, Lunari threw a hand up and splayed her fingers.

Countdown, and the chorus detonated.

Every instrument exploded at once. The addictive hook made the chat race.

Verse two. The vocal climbed a full tone above verse one, emotion stacking. The muted trumpet's asides got more and more playful. Vocal and trumpet trading lines like two drunks talking over each other.

Jazz-swing rhythm under rock energy, with crackling electronic glitch mixed through it. An arrangement that crossed genre lines like it was nothing.

"Whoa…"

Yui had already set the VR trackers completely aside and locked onto the screen and her earphones. Her mouth hung open.

Could she shine brighter than that? No—could she even keep up?

As the second chorus approached, Lunari grinned wide and turned the mic in her hand toward the camera.

It was a VR concert, so you couldn't hear a real crowd—but the chat did that job instead.

Spam so fast you had to wonder if it was even the same kind chat that had been praising Yui a few minutes ago. A wave of blackout flooded every corner of the screen.

Yui wasn't looking at the chat. She couldn't. She was just lost in the song.

Past the interlude into the bridge. The mood of the track settled. Brass dropped out, only piano left. Lunari took the mic in both hands.

A voice just slightly trembling carried the truth of it. This song had been made for Lunari. Every note was cut to her tone. Different from the three Lunari tracks that had been lightly revised from songs Do-yoon already had ready. This one he'd carved while holding the voice, the mood, the personality of Yu Nari as he'd known her all this time.

Last chorus. Lunari came forward again and tore into it.

Every instrument detonated again—harder than the intro. Lunari's vocal punched up through the brass, and by now the viewers were chanting blackout without being asked.

Then the sound thinned. Only a sweet piano left, drawing every eye to the vocal.

A sampled cat's yawn, a soft murmur, and the song was over.

Kurogami Yui's hands were clenched tight.

She'd been crushed. Literally. Whether Lunari had moved the song order for the reason Yui thought or not—she'd been overwhelmed.

……Ah.

I can't do that.

She'd thought her own stage had gone really well too. And then the memory of the Virtual Voice Fight semis flickered past. Back then Yui had finished her stage first. She'd been confident. She'd sung well. And right after, everything flipped. Exactly like now.

Back then she'd told herself it was a song difference—you had a song that fit you, and I didn't. Just that kind of gap. She'd lost, and still believed she was skilled enough to stand beside her.

Yui thought of Sion, the one who'd made her feel a wall. That feeling that stabbed the chest and still left it tight. The familiar ache of being measured against Sion in song.

The feeling that had come after singing Broken Clock together—the one she hadn't wanted to name—woke up in her chest.

This was defeat.

And a small, sharp longing.

She was grateful she had no more songs left to sing today. She would have ruined it horribly.

Kurogami Yui couldn't bring herself to put the VR headset back on. She just worked to steady her breathing. Behind the dazzling avatar, her small body trembled in fine, tight shivers.

"Whoa. That's actually insane."

Han So-yeong had been recording live and running the editing software at the same time, and now she just sat staring blankly at the stage. Holding out and not previewing Lunari's new song early had been worth it.

"I told you the song quality was insane."

Park Gi-dong played it cool, claiming he'd already heard it while recording—but the quality was even better than the session, and his heart was hammering.

"Now I get why you suddenly stopped going on about Yeong-il-nim being some parachute hire."

"Ah—no, I never really had, like, huge doubts even before. It was just the situation, you know~ A main producer with zero track record was coming in, so~"

She stared at Park Gi-dong whistling shamelessly for a second, decided he was hopeless, and turned back.

Along with launching Lunari's new avatar, Han So-yeong had been preparing to delete the old Lunari YouTube channel and open a new official one. Naturally the plan had been to break ground with the Virtual Voice Fight stages that had put her on the map.

No need to even think about it.

The first video would be Blackout Cat.