Lullaby
In the entertainment industry, a completely new figure materializing out of nowhere is almost impossible.
Even the so-called supernovas the public raves about usually climb the ranks step by step somewhere out of sight, and by the time they bloom, industry insiders already know the bud is there.
Yeong-il was different.
He simply popped into existence — just like that.
Composition skills that cut across every genre, rich sound, an overwhelming ease that was simply pleasant to listen to. And the spice that drove the public wild: the audacity to drop novelty in exactly the right places.
Who was this prodigy?
What was the true identity of the man climbing the charts alongside some virtual streamer?
It was inevitable that Yeong-il's presence would seep beyond the industry into the world of ordinary people.
IG Entertainment. The CEO's office.
On Kang Seong-min's phone, the name of StarArk Entertainment CEO Park Jun-ho lit up the screen.
StarArk sat at the bottom of the Big Three, while IG ranked just below the top three — but with a singer lineup often judged heavier than StarArk's, the two were considered effectively equal, or about to be overtaken. So while the companies were competitors, the personal friendship between CEOs Kang Seong-min and Park Jun-ho had kept their relationship decent enough.
"Hello?"
"Seong-min, help me out."
The voice on the other end was thick with exhaustion. From the moment he picked up, Kang Seong-min had known this was no social call — there was business behind it.
Prism Tree.
Dislikes and comment terrorism flooding their official YouTube. Bizarre hate comments plastered across personal SNS accounts and fan cafes. Malicious shorts being mass-produced without end.
There's no way Lunari's influence is already this big…
The activity level of streaming fandoms versus idol fandoms is night and day. The idol scene is organized — hierarchical, even — with ferocious loyalty and cohesion. Call them one-man-army warriors if you want. Once they sink their teeth in, their tenacity is a headache like no other.
Kang Seong-min had tasted that vicious habit of tearing into any exposed weakness more than enough to be sick of it. And Lunari was still a meteoric-rise streamer whose fanbase hadn't fully solidified. If they'd been targeted, the script should have been tears of injustice and moving on.
That was not how things went.
Putting a beloved artist's face into a composite and marching it to the front lines — that was the kind of stunt that would make idol fans faint on the spot.
Most of the people pouring in from streaming communities weren't even Lunari fans. They were just joining the game of schooling a strong side that had picked on a weak one. Their gleeful advance drew the eyes of every online nomad, and the wreckers latched on in droves.
Idol Fans Who Got Owned by a VTuber — Current Status
Has-Been Idol Fans and Their Reality Denial
Prism Tree Fan Club's Past Atrocities
Netizens vs. Idol Fanboys
Prism Tree's Bad Ending
News that Prism Tree's toxic fans had been harassing an innocent streamer poured out nationwide, and CEO Park Jun-ho's hairline thinned in real time.
"Hyung… how am I supposed to help with this?"
He meant it. This wasn't some backroom smear job — it was pure karma. And Lunari wasn't even under IG.
"Ha… how do we even clean this up?"
"Right? I told you. You should've managed the fandom ages ago. They were way too extreme."
"Ha… you don't notice when things are going well. Everyone's got one or two weird toxic fans hanging off them."
"You made too many enemies. Social media is tearing into this with glee. When people in the same industry are calling it satisfying, that says everything."
"We need a change of atmosphere."
The simplest fix was the "we're friends" strategy — post a photo together on SNS, flaunt the bond, strip the fight of its excuse. A common move whenever fandom wars broke out.
But the other side wasn't a celebrity. She was a streamer — a VTuber, no less. Park Jun-ho had already given up on that route.
"A joint statement is out of the question, right?"
"That would look like we pressured them into it. You'd just get more hate. Can't you just quietly ride it out?"
"This album's numbers were rough, so overall fandom sentiment is already bad. Eventually the arrows come back at the company. We need a turnaround before that…"
"Hmm."
On the surface it looked like Prism Tree alone would take the heat and the story would end — but the world always turns. Kang Seong-min could already see the reverse wind that would hit Lunari if this snowballed. Right now the toxic fans were public enemy number one, but if Prism Tree sank like this, even the normal fans could blacken and flip sides.
Showing a little mercy here would be good for everyone.
Even if she's not under us.
Still weighing whether to keep the virtual business or attach himself to Muse Family, Kang Seong-min turned the problem over until a single thread of an idea caught.
"Hyung, I'll talk to Producer Hye-min. I've got a decent idea."
"Yeah? Talk it over and get back to me. Ugh, I've got a strategy meeting to get to."
Kang Seong-min ended the call with Park Jun-ho and summoned Kim Hye-min at once.
Thirty minutes later.
"Y-you called for meee?"
"Ah, sit. You know Lunari got swept up in this mess… right?"
"Mm, roughly?"
"Whew. Good."
With Kim Hye-min, he had half expected she might not know at all — which was why he'd asked.
"You remember we were preparing a virtual business?"
"Yes."
"I'll transfer the VR gear and motion-capture vendor contracts over to Muse Family. The audition-related projects too, if you want them."
"Uuuhm?"
Kim Hye-min tilted her head as if she had no idea what he was talking about. Kang Seong-min explained.
"I'll hand over everything IG prepared for the virtual business. In exchange, raise Muse Family's profit share."
"Huuuhm? W-why bother?"
"Do you know how expensive mocap is? The place we lined up is an optical studio — one shoot can blow through hundreds of millions of won. The personal VR kits we can support run in the tens of millions each. You've got to think about your artists. The quality difference is night and day."
"……Mm."
"Heh."
Kang Seong-min leaned deep into his chair with a confident face and lifted the corner of his mouth.
"I heard Kurogami Yui received a track from Yeong-il. Planning to expand the virtual streamer roster, aren't you?"
"Eh, that's a misunderstanding, but……. Support wouldn't b-be bad, maybe. So you want the profit share raised?"
"From the original five percent, add fifteen. Twenty total."
"Uuung, ten total."
"Hey! What kind of piddling—"
"Heheh, is it? Still, twenty is t-too much. There's only one VTuber under the company anyway, and you're using VTuber support as the leverage……"
"Fine. Fifteen percent."
Kim Hye-min nodded rapidly, then stuck up her index finger with a flourish.
"Ahh! And one more thing!"
"What."
"I-I don't plan on holding the CEO seat for all that long. When I want to pass it on later, I'd like the renegotiation rights over IG's shares to transfer to the new CEO?"
"Ah?! What are you talking about?"
"So the new CEO can pay a fair price and buy the fifteen percent back~ Leaving a mess behind when I go would be a biiit…"
"What if the new CEO swallows the company whole? I'm not doing a favor for someone else. No."
"Ah! I should've said this first, huh? I h-have no intention of selling outside. I'll only pass it to someone currently under IG Entertainment or an affiliate. I don't want to hand a company I've grown attached to over to a stranger either."
Kang Seong-min scratched his chin and thought it through carefully.
No risk of it going to an outsider. Even if Hye-min stepped down, Muse Family was still an IG affiliate. She didn't really have a faction inside the company. The successor would be an IG personnel pick anyway. And if renegotiation happened with someone on the same side sitting in the chair, wouldn't that actually be better?
Buying back a full fifteen percent could cost anywhere from hundreds of millions to billions of won — and there wasn't exactly a line of people ready to put that kind of money on the table. They might even try to push more shares toward IG instead.
Even in the one-in-a-thousand chance of a knife in the back, selling at market rate would never be a losing deal.
Hmm.
Between the talk of leaving and everything else, Kang Seong-min concluded that Kim Hye-min really was indifferent to label business.
"……Fine. But put it in the contract clearly. Current personnel of IG and its affiliates only. Anyone brought in after this contract is signed doesn't count."
"O-of course! I wouldn't want it any other way either!"
Hye-min agreed with sunny brightness.
"Good. And one favor. Let's pull a few Prism Tree members into that optical motion-capture studio for a VTuber experience. Work them hard and make it as funny as possible. Then bring Lunari on as a guest, show the dignity of a senior VTuber, and wrap it up in a warm, friendly atmosphere. How's that sound?"
"Ah! Controversy laundry!"
"Nothing easier than a collab. The framing clearly has Prism Tree on the losing side going in. Help them once and they'll owe us a favor someday."
"Mm! I'll ask Luni— Lunari. If the a-artist doesn't want it, I'll oppose it."
"Fine, understood. I'm leaving it with you."
Hye-min offered a rough goodbye and left the CEO's office. She distilled everything that had come up into a mountain of a long text and sent it to Han So-yeong.
A fifteen percent profit share.
It stung a little. Still, free access to motion-capture equipment was nothing to sneeze at.
I'll make it back soon enough anyway.
Kim Hye-min thought back to the unfinished cut of Yeong-il's new track Spotlight, set for OST release just the other day. That unbroken run of melodies that stirred the heart — she hadn't been able to stop smiling. In her eyes, the currents around Yeong-il had already begun to shift hard.
Fifteen percent or so. By the time I step down…
Hye-min's steps were light.
"You okay?"
"I said I'm fine."
"Mm."
"Huuung, so Do-yoon was worried too, huh."
Against every concern, Yu Nari's voice still held a smile. I'd overslept and missed the stream, but I'd heard after the fact that Lunari had been hit with a terror campaign.
I knew that streamers sometimes get dragged into things they never asked for. Knowing it doesn't mean it doesn't leave a wound. I'd been upset and unfairly treated often enough while streaming myself, so I understood more than I wanted to.
And something kept jabbing at a corner of my chest.
Prism Tree's graduation ceremony track. I'd arranged that. One of the excuses the toxic fans had latched onto and torn into was my arrangement.
"You don't think I overdid the arrangement and got you flamed for it?"
"Do-yoon-ah."
"Yeah?"
"I was in a good mood until just now, and this is kind of a buzzkill. People noticed me because that arrangement was good. Can you not trash my precious cover song?"
"……"
I knew. The people raving about "better than the original" and the people who got scratched by that and took it out on the wrong target — none of it was really my fault. Separately from that, I still couldn't stop fretting about it.
"Alright. Time to go back to comforting me."
"……"
"Come on."
What was I supposed to say? How did you even do that?
"Sniff. I'm sad."
"What else do you want me to do?"
"I don't know. Just more."
"…You handled it well. You worked hard."
"Hmph. More."
Was she crying or laughing? A rustling noise came through — she must have been lying in bed.
"Forget it and get some sleep."
"Ahh, I don't think sleep's going to come easy tonight."
She said it in a thoroughly gloomy tone while clearly smiling, and I couldn't tell whether she was forcing the "I'm fine" act or actually fine.
"If I could hear one song before bed, this nuna would have no wishes left."
"Just put on YouTube."
"Ahem. Live."
"……Me?"
"Yeah."
Was she serious?
"What song?"
"Anything. Whatever Do-yoon likes."
Anything, huh.
I picked up the guitar. I found a rough chord shape and fingerpicked lightly until a familiar melody spilled out. I reworked a variation of Broken Clock and sang it soft and quiet.
"……"
The song ended, and even when I waited in silence, no reaction came.
"Asleep?"
I was just about to hang up when—
"Hrrngh… kuhp."
"……?"
The faintest snore drifted through. Falling asleep that fast probably meant she'd been more exhausted than she let on, no matter how strong she pretended to be.
"Hnn… mmya."
Mm.
I almost pretended not to hear it, then hit record on the call and waited a little longer. It might look creepy, but I didn't have bad intentions.
A good idea for a song had just hit me.