The First Broadcast

The conference room lights flickered dimly. "Shouldn't Lee Un take responsibility for this?" Manager Park said, tapping his pen against the desk. The air in the room grew heavier with every tap.

"This project was reviewed by Lee Un at the very end, wasn't it? Right?" It was a lie. Lee Un kept his mouth shut and simply watched him. The person who had performed the final review was Manager Park himself. The evidence remained in the emails, in Slack, and in the company's approval system. But none of that mattered. Lee Un already knew it.

"...Manager. I remember you were the one who personally sent the final version to Company N."

Manager Park's pen paused for a split second. "...Ah, that. That was only a formal send-off from me. The content itself was created by you, wasn't it? Hm?"

"The content was also carried out exactly as instructed when they ordered the schedule shortened."

"Hey now, Lee Un." Manager Park suddenly dropped his voice to a low rumble. "If you start nitpicking every little thing, we'll never finish. That's not how company life works. You know that, don't you?"

Section Chief Kim, seated beside him, cleared his throat. It was a signal of agreement. Lee Un knew exactly what that sound meant. Thank god the pushover drew the short straw. Don't let this blow up. Something along those lines—pure relief.

Twenty-five years old. Second year at the company. The lowest-ranking AE at a small advertising agency. When he had joined, Manager Park had personally conducted his interview. Back then the man had said, "You seem to have a really gentle personality. You'll fit right in here." Only now did Lee Un understand what those words truly meant. They meant he would be easy to exploit.

"I won't go so far as to call it recommended resignation. I'll process it as voluntary resignation. It won't even appear on your record. Sound good? Let's keep things amicable."

It was laughable. Recommended resignation would qualify him for unemployment benefits. Voluntary resignation would not. He was saying it while fully aware of the difference. Fully aware.

"...So that's what you consider amicable, Manager?"

Manager Park's face hardened. "Lee Un. Are you talking back to me right now?"

Lee Un slowly raised his head. At that exact moment, the pen in Manager Park's hand stopped moving. The conference room fell deathly silent. Manager Park's shoulders stiffened. The mocking curl at the corner of his mouth dissolved into an awkward blank. Without realizing it, he pressed his back against the chair and slid it a hand's width backward.

He didn't understand why. Lee Un had simply lifted his head. Round, gentle eyes. Ordinary features. Slender frame. To anyone looking, the very image of a harmless new hire. But those eyes—

—they were pitch black.

It lasted only a heartbeat. In that fleeting instant, Manager Park felt as if his entire field of vision had been swallowed by darkness. Lee Un's pupils looked like two deep black wells. Something inside them was watching. Watching Manager Park. Precisely at the spot above his crown.

A cold sweat broke out along his spine.

"...Ah."

A short, involuntary groan slipped out.

"...Yes. I understand. I'll do as you say, Manager."

Lee Un spoke in his usual soft, gentle tone. Manager Park was no longer sure what he had just witnessed. Lee Un was simply sitting there with his head slightly lowered, the same as always.

"...Uh, yeah. Good. You made the right choice."

Manager Park's voice trembled without his permission. Lee Un stood up. As he closed the conference room door behind him, he heard a long, shaky "Whew" escape from the man inside.

Lee Un knew exactly what Manager Park had seen. The thing he had been pressing down, smothering, had leaked out.

His mind was so crowded that he walked without any destination. By the time he reached home it was nine at night. Lee Un kicked off his shoes and glanced toward the corner of his small officetel room. A tiny wooden tray sat there, holding a single bowl of jeonghwasu. The water remained as clear as the moment he had drawn it yesterday. Normally dust would settle and cloud it within a day, yet this water never changed. It stayed exactly as it had been on the first day.

Lee Un looked at the bowl, then at his phone. Three missed calls, all from his mother. He hadn't answered. He already knew what she would say. How is work? Are you getting along with your manager? You have such a gentle personality, so don't cause any trouble. That word—gentle. Lee Un had heard it his entire life. No one knew that because of that gentleness he had been dragged from shaman house to shaman house.

Five years old. His earliest memory was inside a manshin's shrine. Brightly colored shamanistic paintings covered every wall, and five-colored cloths dangled from the ceiling. His mother had taken him because he saw things every night, cried, and couldn't sleep.

The manshin had stared at him for a long time before suddenly stepping back.

—If you brought him here hoping for a divine descent, you're wasting your time.

When his mother asked what she meant, the woman answered:

—This isn't spirit sickness. He doesn't carry spiritual energy, either. This child's vessel is different from the beginning. He doesn't receive. He sees. And he sees far too well. What someone like me must beg an entire lifetime to glimpse, this child simply... sees.

Her hands trembled as she delivered her final warning. The words were still crystal clear in his memory.

—This path cannot be escaped. No matter how much you press it down, it will return. But do not use it lightly. If this child looks too deeply by himself, he won't be seeing anymore—he will be swallowed. The line between what is him and what is the other will blur.

...He needs something to hold him up. He cannot do it alone.

His mother had taken his hand and left immediately. She visited another shaman. Then another. Every single one said nearly the same thing.

Later, when he was older, the final elderly manshin didn't even check his palm or birth chart. She simply said:

—You do not serve the gods. The gods borrow and use you. If you wish to look deeply, you need an anchor that will hold you steady. The more eyes that watch you, the farther you can go and the safer you can return. To look alone is dangerous. To look together is to see far.

...You don't need to understand it yet. You will know when the time comes.

Lee Un had let the words pass him by. So he lived an ordinary life. He graduated university, joined an advertising agency, and allowed himself to be used as a pushover by people like Manager Park. Suppressing it. Suppressing it again and again. Today's result was the price.

Lee Un sat down in front of the bowl of jeonghwasu. His own face reflected on its surface. And above that reflection, something that should not have been there shimmered faintly.

"...All right."

Lee Un whispered.

"I won't suppress it anymore."

The water's surface trembled though there was no wind.

Shin Saetbyeol barged in two nights later.

"Hey, Lee Un! Open up! It's me!"

When he opened the door, Saetbyeol stood there holding black plastic bags in both hands—three bottles of soju, dried snacks, and a box of fried chicken.

"Why did I only hear about your resignation now? It's basically the same as getting fired, yet you didn't say a single word to your friend? Wow, but seriously, ventilate this place. It smells like a lonely old man's apartment."

Shin Saetbyeol. His childhood friend since she moved in next door during second grade. The only person outside his family who knew he saw things at night and cried. When young Un would say, "Someone's standing over there," she never got scared. Instead she would shout, "Where? Where! Don't worry! I've got you!" and glare in that direction with him. If it came to it, she would even raise her fists as if ready to fight the ghost.

And now she was an internet streamer who casually pulled thousands of concurrent viewers. She broadcast under the simple name Saetbyeol.

After two bottles of soju had emptied and she had heard the entire story about Manager Park, Saetbyeol slammed her cup down.

"Ha... that snake. You know he's trying to block your unemployment benefits, right? ...But how on earth did you get it processed as recommended resignation?"

Lee Un stayed silent for a moment. He chose not to mention how Manager Park had turned deathly pale and scooted his chair backward the instant their eyes met.

"...He just stamped the papers."

"You did that gentle-pushover act again, didn't you? Sucker. Absolute sucker."

Saetbyeol tore open a bag of snacks, then glanced toward the corner of the room. The tray. The bowl of jeonghwasu. Her ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chopsticks paused.

"...Un. You still see them?"

"...Yeah."

"A lot?"

"...Lately it's been getting worse."

Saetbyeol didn't press further. She simply poured more soju. It had always been like this. When Un said he could see, Saetbyeol never grew afraid or called him a liar. She simply stayed beside him. That was why he kept her close. Saetbyeol was different from anyone else.

Then she suddenly began fiddling with her phone and stared straight at him.

"Un. Want to try streaming?"

"...What?"

"Fortune-telling broadcasts. Tarot, four pillars, astrology—there's huge demand for that stuff lately. Everyone else is faking the concept. But you wouldn't be faking it. I think you'd crush it, seriously. You've been seeing this stuff your whole life anyway. Was suppressing it every day at that company worth it? Just getting exploited and fired. Might as well make money off it."

"I don't want my face known."

"Who said anything about showing your face?" Saetbyeol grinned. "You can be a VTuber. Just wear an avatar. I'll teach you everything. Trust me."

Lee Un stared at her blankly for a moment. VTuber. They didn't reveal their real faces. Instead they wore a character avatar and broadcast. To him, it wasn't merely a mask of anonymity. When he sat face-to-face with someone, the things perched above their heads appeared far too clearly. Sometimes he locked eyes with what stood behind them before even seeing the person. Then it would notice him. Face-to-face was dangerous. He needed distance. The VTuber shell would act as a filter.

And though Saetbyeol probably didn't realize it, the old manshin's words rose in his mind.

Hundreds, thousands of eyes watching him through the screen. Could that become his anchor?

"...You'll really help me?"

"Of course. I can set it up right now."

Saetbyeol finished the setup in thirty minutes. A free avatar appeared—a character wearing clothing resembling traditional hanbok. When Un moved his head, it moved with him.

"What should the channel name be?"

Lee Un thought for a moment. When he was dragged to shaman houses as a child, his only escape had been the comic-book shop. One martial arts novel he read until the pages fell apart still lingered in his memory. The name of the protagonist's lightness technique had stuck with him.

"...Cloud Dragon Great Eight Forms."

"...What?"

"Cloud Dragon Great Eight Forms."

Saetbyeol's fingers froze above the keyboard. "...What does that even mean?"

"...I don't know. It was just the name of a divine skill from that old martial arts book. It sounded cool."

"......"

Saetbyeol stared at him for a long time. "Dude. If your username is a martial arts technique name, what are people going to think?"

"It's fine as long as it sounds cool."

"Your naming sense is actually terrible."

Even while grumbling, she registered the name CloudDragonGreatEightForms. Then she asked for the channel description.

"...Don't ask questions. I'll speak first."

Saetbyeol paused. "...That's actually creepy. I like it."

She created the channel and gestured to him. "Okay. Hit go."

Lee Un pressed the stream button.

"...No one's coming in."

"Just wait."

Saetbyeol turned on her own stream and spoke into the camera. "Hey everyone, it's Saetbyeol. I'm at a friend's place right now and he just started broadcasting. The concept is wild—he's a real shaman. I'll drop his coordinates, so go say hello nicely. No trolling. Understood?"

She pasted his channel link into her chat. The viewer count on Un's screen shot upward. 0 → 60 → 210 → 480 → 700 → 800.

The chat window flooded like a waterfall.

Lee Un's hands stopped. The issue wasn't the number of people. Something had changed in what he could see. Whenever he had looked alone his whole life, it had always felt precarious. If he stared too deeply, the line between himself and the other blurred. That was why he had sometimes lost himself for days as a child. Just as the old manshin warned, looking alone pulled him in.

But now.

Eight hundred pairs of eyes were watching CloudDragonGreatEightForms from beyond the screen. Those gazes anchored him. Stay right there. We're watching you. That countless attention became the anchor that kept Lee Un as Lee Un.

It was the first time. The first time he felt he could look deeply without fear, because there was a place to return to.

The avatar had no expression. It still wore the blank face it had when the stream began. Yet from behind that empty face, his voice sank like a stone into a well.

Someone in the chat laughed.

Lee Un scanned the rushing comments and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠chose one. There was no real choice. It was simply the clearest.

"...Username JonberWins."

The instant the words left his mouth, the screen, Saetbyeol, everything vanished. Only the black surface of the jeonghwasu remained. He had been pushed into this, yet strangely he no longer wanted to stop. He wanted to look deeper. Just a little deeper.

Lee Un lifted his head. His voice sank even lower. The tone grew cold, almost commanding.

"You drive. Your own car. To and from work."

"Tomorrow. It's going to rain."

"Tomorrow evening, do not take your usual shortcut. There's an alley you enter after two right turns off the main road. Barely wide enough for one car. That one."

"You must not go there."

The avatar's empty eyes seemed to stare at a point somewhere beyond the screen. Yet the gaze felt strangely precise, as if aimed directly at one specific person on the other side.

"Whether you go or not is up to you. I saw it, so I'm telling you. Tomorrow, do not enter that alley."

"The shadow there is too thick. Everywhere else is visible, but that spot is completely black. Like a bottomless well. Something is blocking the view. So don't go. Take the main road. Only walk where you can see."

"Answer me."

The chat exploded. The waterfall of messages froze for a heartbeat, then burst all at once.

Beside him, Shin Saetbyeol's expression changed as she watched the stream. She knew Un possessed a different kind of ability. But she had never seen him pinpoint one person and pour out information so smoothly. And that tone. The gentle, ordinary Un had vanished. Whoever sat on the screen now was someone she had never met.

"...Un," she whispered.

He didn't seem to hear her. Lee Un slowly raised his eyes. Everything returned to its proper place. The black surface that had filled his mind slowly receded. The sensation of eight hundred gazes supporting him from behind also gradually faded.

Viewers: 800 → 900 → 1,050. The chat was still boiling.

Lee Un scanned the comments once. Believers, skeptics, those caught in between. It didn't matter. What he saw, he saw. Whether they went or not was their own responsibility.

"That's all for today."

He was still speaking informally. The cold tone remained.

"It's the first day. There isn't anyone else."

"There isn't anyone else. Out of everyone who entered today, only you had something to see."

Lee Un gave no answer. He ended the stream. The broadcast terminated and the 【LIVE】 indicator disappeared.