The Red Sticker
Be careful of one particular user? As they stepped properly into the gymnasium, people were everywhere. How could there be so many? Roughly twenty minutes remained until the showcase began. The venue was already packed with attendees waiting to enter, and the sight of the crowd wriggling in like a swarm of earthworms was enough to make anyone’s jaw drop.
Wow, if I’d been stuck out there I would’ve melted from the heat. Good thing I’m a streamer, huh.
Following the staff guide, they reached the streamer seating area. Suha was already waving from her spot—wait, what?
“Is this really the right place?” Minji directed the question at the nearby staff member. Was this truly where she was supposed to sit?
“Yes, you may sit wherever you like. Ah… it looks like your friend is already here, so sitting beside her should be fine.”
“Hmm, no, that’s not what I meant…”
Minji’s gaze drifted toward the endless river of people still flooding into the stands. Over there, only ordinary seats existed, and even those were crammed close together. In contrast, this section came with proper tables, and atop them sat neatly arranged sets of juice, tea, and bottled water.
“It might seem like favoritism, but… we do have to take extra care of the streamers who help promote the game. Especially since you’ll be assisting with the showcase itself today.”
Minji accepted the staff member’s straightforward answer without complaint. From an ordinary attendee’s perspective it might feel unfair, but she was a streamer too. Turning down special treatment for the sake of perfect equality simply wasn’t in her nature. If anything, she was the type to think, Hehe, jackpot~
“All right then, I’ll be going. Thank you.”
“Not at all—we should be thanking you. Please take good care of the showcase.”
After thanking the guide, Minji hurried over to Suha. Still, the staff member had said “please take good care of the showcase.” She didn’t really have any official role, so what exactly were they asking her to do? Maybe they wanted her to run damage-control propaganda on stream if the reaction turned disastrous? Stirring things up was her specialty, after all.
While entertaining that ridiculous thought, she reached Suha—just as a booming voice echoed through the gymnasium.
Showcase begins in ten minutes. Users, please take your seats and wait. I’ll repeat that once more…
“Oh. Looks like it’s finally starting.”
“You found it okay? I was a little worried.”
Suha looked at Minji with the fond expression of someone watching a lost child successfully find its way home. Minji wasn’t that hopeless, but Suha clearly had her own standards. Minji paid the implication no mind. Right now, the only thing occupying her thoughts was the fact that Suha had wronged her.
“You abandoned me… I thought we were going together. Leaving first was pretty hurtful, no matter how I look at it.”
Honestly, she hadn’t been that hurt, but she wasn’t about to waste a perfectly legal excuse to torment Suha.
“Ahaha… well, you see…”
While Suha launched into her usual long-winded explanation about her introverted personality and why she’d had no choice but to leave Minji behind, another announcement rang out.
Showcase begins in five minutes. The lights will dim shortly, so please remain seated.
“Okay, okay, that’s enough.”
“I’m really sorry…”
Minji stopped teasing before Suha’s soul could escape her body. Any more and the girl looked ready to burst into tears.
Glancing around, Minji noticed the stands—once mostly empty—were now completely packed. She’d heard Jangchung Gymnasium held 4,500 seats, and seeing every single one filled made the scale of the event sink in. Even so, letting streamers help run the showcase after everything that had happened… wasn’t that a bit reckless? Suha, being a big-company streamer, could probably handle it smoothly, but the others carried obvious risks…
Huh?
“Wait, why is yours red?”
Minji’s eyes landed on Suha’s name tag. Why was there a red sticker on it?
“Huh? I told you I was participating—wait…?”
Suha’s gaze shifted to Minji’s name tag. Her eyes widened, then blinked rapidly. Why was hers red too?
Minji wasn’t oblivious. As a professional troll, knowing exactly how far she could push things without getting banned was a survival skill. In that sense, deliberately toeing the line made her even more dangerous.
Her instincts were already screaming.
Wait, something’s off here.
“Didn’t you text me that red meant not participating?”
Suha’s face went blank for a second before she frantically pulled out her phone.
“Ah.”
That single syllable was the last thing Minji wanted to hear at a time like this.
“Suha?”
“Uh, well… you see…”
“It’s not, right? Right? Right? Right?”
Minji kept repeating the denial like a broken record. Suha could only offer a sheepish smile. It didn’t fix anything, but she did look pretty while doing it.
“So… red actually means participating and blue means not participating…?”
“Ehehe… sorry, I must’ve mixed them up when I sent the message…”
Thud!
Minji smacked her own forehead. The helmet made the impact echo loudly, but that was beside the point.
Well, mistakes happen. Sending a message while talking probably wasn’t easy… but the color coding was important information. How could anyone mess that up? Had she done it on purpose to sabotage her? Watching Suha glance nervously between Minji and the floor, it didn’t seem intentional.
Fine. The water was already spilled. Scolding Suha now wouldn’t change anything.
“So… if we ask them to swap the sticker right now—”
Click.
Before Suha could finish, the gymnasium lights began to dim one by one. A few remained on to prevent accidents, but the brightness was low enough that leaving their seats to find staff was clearly impossible. A giant countdown appeared on the overhead screen: [60].
Realizing what it meant, Minji voiced her immediate thought.
“We’re screwed.”
One minute until showcase start.
Director, countdown has started. Please prepare.
“Yes.”
Standing alone at the center of the stage, Jeon Gangseop slowly steadied his breathing. The next hour—or less—would decide Ias’s future. He believed the preparation was flawless. After a full year of work, even if not every user would be completely satisfied, at least no one should walk away thinking, “That’s it?”
The staff who had sacrificed sleep, the endless meetings that finally produced the finished presentation—he was ready. Even without the previous director’s legendary charisma, if he conveyed their sincere efforts, the users would surely understand.
Ten seconds. Let’s count down together. Nine… eight… seven…
“Hoo… haa…”
After one final deep breath, Jeon Gangseop’s eyes shone with clear resolve. Three… two… one…
Flash!
The stage lights blazed to life, illuminating the previously dark platform. Cheers erupted as Jeon Gangseop appeared.
“Ahem.” Clearing his throat, he switched on his microphone.
“Hello, Ias users. I am Jeon Gangseop, the overall director of Ias.”
Another wave of cheers followed. He waited until the roar subsided, then recalled the lines he had rehearsed hundreds of times.
“Thank you so much for the warm welcome. Honestly, while walking up here I was half-expecting to be pelted with rotten tomatoes or eggs.”
Laughter rippled through the audience. Somewhere in the front rows, a helmeted figure flinched and muttered, “How did he know?”
“We’re well aware that the updates we’ve prepared so far have been… lacking. You, the users, know this better than anyone, and we feel the same.”
He began by taking responsibility, calmly listing every mistake the development team had made.
“In fact, user churn this year reached an all-time high. I can’t show the exact numbers, but… yes, the situation is that dire.”
This was a tactical retreat before advancing. Excessive honesty could be poison, but poison, used correctly, could also become medicine.
“Still, seeing this gymnasium filled to capacity with users—and knowing countless more are watching online—tells me many of you still believe in Ias. That we can change. That we can return to how we used to be.”
As the successor to the previous director, Jeon Gangseop had witnessed that legendary silver tongue firsthand. He might not match it, but he could at least imitate a fraction of it.
“And I hope today can be the moment we repay that trust. Let me introduce the updates we’ve prepared!”
Applause and cheers thundered. A smooth start—Jeon Gangseop’s lips curved upward. Just as he reached for the remote to advance the slides—
“Huh?”
His eyes were drawn to one particular streamer seated closest to the stage. The figure wore a helmet completely unsuited to the venue and sat with arms crossed, emphasizing a rather prominent chest. The pose looked awkward and slightly embarrassing to witness.
Jeon Gangseop’s gaze settled on the name tag attached near that chest. Not for any strange reason—he simply needed to confirm the color.
Why… why is it fluorescent?
The red stickers given to participating streamers were specially made to glow even in low light. While the stands weren’t pitch black, the fluorescent tags stood out clearly against the dim background.
Right before the showcase, he’d joked with the planning room head. If that notorious troublemaker Seongnyeo Naise ended up participating, no one could predict what chaos might unfold.
That was why, just before the event, he had quietly asked Suha—who was close with Seongnyeo Naise—and received confirmation that she wouldn’t be joining. So why… why was the tag fluorescent?
As Jeon Gangseop’s mind raced over the unexpected development, the very person responsible for his headache—
Hmm… when should I start causing trouble?
—was already feeling a pleasant thrill at the prospect. She’d been flustered at first, but thinking about it now, this wasn’t so bad. After all, she literally held Ias’s fate in her hands. She could either ruin the showcase or make it a success.
It was a childish thought, but Minji’s mental age wasn’t particularly high.
This is gonna be fun…
Hidden behind the helmet, no one could see it, but Minji’s lips curved into a grin.
You’re all dead.