Mellow

The Content Planning Team office at the M Town headquarters.

Jang Seok-hyun stared hard at the chart screen pulled up on his monitor.

The movement at the top of the Mellow chart was anything but ordinary. Blackout Cat, which had dropped to sixth, had climbed back to fourth. And Eumnya was charging upward at a terrifying pace.

It had only been a few days since the song entered at eighteenth.

This one's going higher.

It wasn't the kind of track that spiked on pure virality and then vanished. The more the play count stacked up, the more it accelerated. Because there was no fandom actively hammering streams, the climb was slow — but once a rank was taken, it didn't give it back easily.

It was a similar pattern to Lunari's previous charting songs, except the growth curve was the strongest of any of them. And above all, the Japanese numbers were absurd. A track that had entered the Billboard Japan Hot 100 at twenty-second was now sitting at fourteenth. The Spotify Japan chart had it in the upper ranks as well. For a rookie foreign artist, the trajectory was almost unheard of.

Jang Seok-hyun clicked his tongue. For a Korean singer to put up numbers like that in the Japanese music market wasn't easy even for a recognizable idol group. And she'd done it without any of the usual setup — no major agency's local promotion, no Japanese-language version release, no on-the-ground activity. Just one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠song. One song sung in Korean.

So it actually works.

He leaned back in his chair. The timing was perfect. This year's MAMA was being held at a dome stadium in Japan. A Korean VTuber who'd become a talking point on Japanese soil, standing on the MAMA stage? You couldn't write a cleaner storyline if you tried.

And the chatter drifting over from across the office only made it more interesting. He'd managed to catch the internal mood around the Mellow Music Awards — which were being held before MAMA. True to a domestically focused awards show, they'd made the conservative call. Lunari's Rookie of the Year win was all but locked in, but there was no stage assignment. Only a proxy would go up to the podium. No special consideration for the red carpet or the official photo wall, either.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

"We've never done this before."

"Putting a VTuber on stage is technically difficult…"

"If she can't come in person, there's not much we can do…"

All excuses. They didn't know how to treat a VTuber? No — they just didn't feel like putting in the effort. Classic old-guard reaction. Nothing surprising about it.

At a normal entertainment company, that kind of cold shoulder would have been enough to sour the mood — but from Muse Family's side, no particular signal of offense had been detected. From everything Jang Seok-hyun had observed of them so far, the company itself wasn't the type to force things. Even when a good offer came in, if it didn't feel right, they cut it clean. Whether it was out of a priority on protecting their artists or something else, they weren't especially aggressive about outside activity. But once they took a job, they delivered the best performance possible.

So you're telling me that company isn't going to feel slighted? Come on. People are people. They're not saints.

This was an opportunity. Jang Seok-hyun had gotten a thorough taste of what new technology could do — and the company standing at the front line of that technology was none other than Muse Family. If he didn't lock them in now, while they were still keeping a low profile, it'd be that much harder to grab hold once they took off.

Start laying the groundwork now.

Jang Seok-hyun was still only the Content Planning Team lead at M Count. MAMA was run by a separate organization, so he had no decision-making power — but he did have the internal foundation to push hard for support. That, too, was thanks to the credit he'd banked last time by getting Lunari on stage.

Build the proposal properly.

Eumnya's Japanese performance data. Lunari's growth graph. The viewership numbers from the Blackout Cat appearance. The perfect timing of a Japan-hosted event. He started pulling every scrap of material he could find.

"This is going to be huge. Just wait, Seung-jin!"

Jang Seok-hyun's fingers flew across the keyboard — the fingertips of a man looking higher.

A long vibration meant a message. A short one meant an app ad or a popup notification. So I usually only checked my phone for the long ones. The short ones were almost always useless, so there was no real point looking.

I'd finished everything I needed to do and was about to take a short break when I picked up my phone — and nearly jumped.

"Huh."

The settlement money had come in. The number of digits looked wrong, so I carefully counted again — same result. I'd expected it to be better than last time given the stronger performance, but facing the actual amount short-circuited my brain.

It more than doubled…

I just sat there staring at the deposit for a long while. I'd run this far carrying nothing but worry after worry, and looking back, everything had worked out. Not just "it went well" — by my standards, this was a jackpot. Eumnya had been the song I'd fretted over most, and in the end… so far, it had become the most unpredictable track of them all.

Maybe I've just gotten into the habit of getting scared first because I'm still stuck in the past.

Whatever came next, I shouldn't be so afraid. It wasn't just the music, either. I was going outside into the world just fine now, wasn't I? I went to the convenience store regularly. I even talked to cashiers I didn't know. I made it all the way to a company that wasn't nearby, and I'd even revealed my voice on Yui's channel. Looking back, a lot had happened.

It's all thanks to Nari-nuna.

Ever since I'd gotten tangled up with Yu Nari, everything seemed to fall into place. Look at this — even this smartphone was something she'd bought me. When I first ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠received it, I'd thought, eh, my old one was more comfortable. Now it was the most convenient thing in the world. The battery lasted forever, the camera was sharp, the touch response was fast. A sleek gray device in a light-green case. She had an eye for design, apparently. It was expensive, sure — but like Nari said, I'd written her songs for it, so my conscience didn't sting.

I set the phone down and pulled the guitar toward me. An acoustic guitar I'd left leaning against one side of the desk. Back in my streaming days, I'd mostly done guitar-playing broadcasts. Letting people hear me play, feeling my skill grow day by day — that had been genuinely happy.

Was it since I'd sung on Yui's stream? The positive memories from my streamer days that I'd forgotten kept surfacing. People cheering, the chat scrolling by so fast you couldn't keep up — I had clearly loved that, once.

Maybe I should make a song centered on a guitar melody.

That era didn't feel as uncomfortable as it used to. Maybe it was the big settlement deposit, but the broadcast appearance from a month ago kept flickering through my mind. I should give something back to people again. There wasn't really a reason to appear on stream another time. What if, under the name A-il, I released a song dedicated to the fans instead? I could think about a proper music release later — do it or don't, whatever — and just upload it straight to YouTube. Waiting through a release cycle was way too boring. I didn't have a personal channel, so I'd just put it up on the Muse Family official account, right?

The songs I'd written in the past always had a dark, heavy feel somewhere in them. Lately that color was gone. Just look at Eumnya — it was so bright and bubbly I almost couldn't believe I'd made it. Something hopeful would be good this time, too. Like a bedroom guitarist's quiet reflection.

I knew the direction I wanted, but half a dozen branches were branching off in my head, so I needed to build them all and then combine. Looks like I'd be freeloading at the company studio for a while. Sorry, company CEO — but having so few people around was actually great. I could write whenever I felt like writing.

While the decision was still hot, I messaged Han So-yeong and booked the studio.

"You don't know her that well? She's supposed to be one of the most famous VTubers in Japan."

"So you're nothing more and nothing less than a translator, huh."

A formal collab request had come into Muse Family. The partner was Iris — the famous Japanese VTuber who'd been the very first to promote Eumnya. And what manpower did Muse Family have lying around, exactly? Fortunately, there happened to be a Japanese speaker at simultaneous-interpretation level on hand. Han So-yeong had asked, and Yui was invited along as both interpreter and guest for a joint stream.

For someone that famous to call herself a fan and reach out first… Yu Nari was still half in a daze.

Lately, Yui had been checking the Japanese charts more often than Nari herself. At the sheer excitement in her voice, Nari pulled the phone a little away from her ear.

"Yeah, yeah, I saw."

"……"

Yui's Japanese-laced Korean was even more dynamic than usual. Nari laughed awkwardly.

Of course it's surprising.

But she felt oddly composed. Was it just not hitting her? Right up until release, the mood had been "this one's a little worrying." Domestic success was one thing, but nobody had expected it to explode like this in Japan.

"I'm amazed too, it's just… looking at the numbers, overseas still doesn't feel real."

"I'm not K-pop. I'm a VTuber…"

Yui was so thoroughly plugged into the Japanese market that she was that much more intense about it — a completely different temperature from Nari, who was still treating Japan as a bonus.

In truth, Yui had a separate reason for being so worked up. Being recognized at home and abroad meant nothing if Muse Family wasn't sending a single person to the Mellow Music Awards this time — even with three nominees: Lunari, Kurogami Yui, and Yeong-il.

"Can't be helped. Honestly, it was kind of a hassle anyway."

"Yeah. I'm just taking it as it is."

Deep down, Yui had held a small hope that even if going in person was impossible, they might at least set up a screen for her. But Mellow had officially informed them that when it came to things like stage performances or individual interviews, special accommodations for a VTuber would be difficult.

Yui's voice shifted into a sulky register.

"Calm down. Think about the fans. How did a regular person like this even become a VTuber in the first place."

Yui had always been the type with a longing for the entertainment industry. She'd said things like "I kind of idolize idol stages," hadn't she? She'd gotten her hopes up that there might be a chance to stand on a real stage — and after the official notice that no special consideration ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would be given, her mood had soured badly.

Nari, on the other hand, was silently cheering even better. She'd clenched her teeth and sung it because it was a song Do-yoon had given her and she didn't want it taken away — but her face still burned every time she performed it. She couldn't exactly go around explaining the emotional state of acting cute over a song built out of her own snoring. In recent streams, she'd even launched a full-scale crackdown because of it.

After the Eumnya music video dropped, chat had exploded with cringey strings like "cute," "700," and "pretty af." She'd put up with it at first, but eventually Nari detonated and started spraying bans left and right.

Ahh, that felt good.

She should have done it sooner. It was the relief of finally pulling a rotten tooth.

For all those reasons, Nari wasn't particularly sad about the lack of a stage. Though she did feel a little residual discomfort that they couldn't at least have handled the award acceptance itself over a VR screen.

"There'll be a better opportunity next time."

"I'm already satisfied enough."

"Don't put pressure on Do-yoon. Before I pop those cheeks of yours."

Yui clicked her tongue at Nari, who had been lukewarm about the song doing well but flipped into full aggression the second Do-yoon's name came up.

"Why?"

"Mm. Right, right."

"Must be nice for So-yeong-nim that you're so capable, unnie."

As Nari played along with Yui's rhythm, she could see exactly how Han So-yeong had reeled her in, clear as day.