No-Cam Streaming Is the Answer

Back when I was a man, I heard those words from plenty of women.

"Aww, nooo. Don't do that."

"Seriously, if you keep that up, I'm gonna get mad."

There's that saying, right? That a woman's "no" needs careful consideration—whether she actually means it.

Sometimes she says no just to play hard to get, even when she likes it.

Back when I was still green and couldn't read the room properly, I ate the so-called "rejection" more than once.

"A woman's NO is a YES."

Some people call that a bizarre fantasy drilled deep into the male psyche.

But having lived it, I know the truth really is "it depends"—"case by case."

The important thing is that this cultural climate has now become the absolute worst situation for me.

"Harin, you can stop playing hard to get already."

"I'm not playing hard to get."

I put on a straight face. Dropped my voice. Furrowed my brows, crossed my arms, and put distance between us so he couldn't approach casually.

"Ha, really. Do I look that clueless to you?"

"Yes. You're completely fucking clueless."

"Harin, your mouth is as sharp as your face is pretty."

"Could you please, for the love of god, shut that trap of yours?"

"Haha, you really… that lack of honesty is your charm."

Should I fight him?

No—should I just cave his skull in?

In a one-on-one between an adult man and woman, the woman is statistically at a disadvantage on average, but I'd kept myself in decent physical shape through my teens. My fighting skills from my past life weren't completely dead either—if I put my mind to it, knocking him flat wouldn't be hard.

The problem was that I was a fresh-out-of-the-nest young adult who'd run away from home without a single penny to my name. He might not know my exact family situation, but a man who judged everything with his lower half would think the obvious thing.

"If you keep this up…"

In that instant, text flashed before my eyes.

Ah.

I saw it.

…Tch.

Text that flashed past in an instant. I turned those words over in my mind and refined what I was about to say as carefully as I could.

"And if you keep this up, what? You gonna report me?"

"Yes. I will."

And I knew better than anyone how to prepare for that.

"Ha. Even if you report me, what are you—"

"I've recorded everything you've said to me so far. And I'm still recording right now."

"You—"

"If you try to snatch my phone, I'll scream and bring people running."

No matter how much Cassandra's Curse was in play, there was no world where a woman screaming failed to draw a crowd. This wasn't Greece—this was South Korea. Even Zeus himself would end up as a serial rapist splashed across the nine o'clock news if he pulled that here.

"Kh… You really think anyone's going to believe you?"

The real problem was the credibility of my words. I didn't know how far the curse would screw me over, but looking back on my teenage years, it had wormed its way into just about every situation. Even in middle school, the police hadn't believed me. Only after checking the CCTV did they sheepishly mutter, "You should've been clearer…"

"People don't believe what I say. But they seem to believe what I write."

"What?"

That was why filing through the national complaint portal had actually worked. It was a loophole, sure—but even if Cassandra was a vengeful spirit, she didn't seem to hold much power in a world of zeros and ones.

"Public shaming—you know it, right? Just posting this on the local marketplace app would do some real damage."

"……"

And I knew better than anyone how to handle a situation like this.

"Or should I turn the call recording into a written statement and send it to your wife?"

"Ha—how would you even get my wife's num—"

"The number stuck on your car is different from the one you keep pestering me with. I'll just try sending it there and find out."

"……"

"Deposit what you owe me for today's work. Then I'll quietly delete everything."

"……"

"Send it. Right now."

Ding.

The money came through, and I walked out of the convenience store.

"Can't even hold down a part-time job."

The curse was far too powerful for anything face-to-face. In male-dominated spaces, guys hit on me while claiming I was "playing hard to get." In female-dominated ones, I got dogpiled as some fox-faced bitch. And becoming a welfare recipient? Both my parents were still alive. We'd practically cut ties over money, but from the state's perspective it would just be, "Please reach an amicable agreement…"

Asking the government for welfare was impossible too.

There was still one path to making money, but…

"Eun Harin? Ah, that little brat? Hmm, her face is decent, but should we use her…?"

"Things were fine when we talked over text and email, but once she showed up on set there was… some kind of trouble…"

I was a total pain in the ass, and I wasn't yet at the class where looks and raw skill alone could steamroll everything in that industry. Personally I considered myself top-tier, but snapping a few photos didn't make you a brand ambassador overnight.

"Ugh…"

Once I got home, I had a decision to make.

"Let's see…"

Lying on the bed, I opened the banking app on a smartphone with a half-cracked screen.

Cash on hand: 3,701,892 won—security deposit excluded. That money had to cover rent, food, and a place to sleep. There was about eight million won waiting to be settled, sure, but even that wouldn't clear for half a year—nearly six months.

"If I'd been a pretty boy instead of a pretty girl, I could at least sell my bo—ugh."

I knew the easy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠ways to make money. But what had been fine when I was a man looked completely different now that I was a woman. Change where you stand and your perspective changes with it, they say. Putting it in was one thing—I could do that all day—but the thought of being on the receiving end made my skin crawl. I had to find another way to survive.

"Working from home is the answer."

A job where I only worked from home, never had to meet anyone face-to-face, and could handle everything through text and written documents when needed.

"…Gemini."

If I kept thinking on my own, I'd just spiral into past-life habits, so I had no choice but to get recommendations from as objective a source as possible.

"Recommend jobs that focus on remote work and non-face-to-face contact, with high earning potential and minimal people stress."

Shameless? What, was I supposed to have a conscience when I wanted to freeload my way into a rich life?

Beep.

The answer came almost immediately.

"……"

Industries I'd heard of but never once set foot in.

Number one I roughly understood. One of the ways con artists made a living was the so-called "course hustle," after all.

How to get rich. I made a billion a year like this. Stop doing OO and start doing QQ.

Rack up views with the most sensational thumbnails possible. Buy ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠subscribers so you look established. Slap together a half-baked course and a program. Hire part-timers to write reviews posing as students. Then, once you hit a million subs, sell the channel. Or just generate videos with AI, slap AI dubbing over stories people already know or would care about, and upload.

"…Not bad."

From a con artist's perspective, this was a pretty solid cash cow. Whether other people sweated blood for their money or not—wasn't this easier than literally picking their wallets?

As for the rest…

"Ugh."

Number two was out for now. Talent for creating things aside, it was far too vague for someone who needed money to eat today. If every other path got blocked, I'd figure something out eventually, but…

"Streaming, huh."

I knew a little about that world.

There was that girl I met at twenty-four who was a BJ.

In the past, one of the women I'd run a con on had been an internet streamer. Unlike with other people, I hadn't bothered building background knowledge—she liked "handsome guys who didn't know anything about the industry"—but I'd picked up quite a bit while we were dating.

Some whale dropped a million won.

I normally charge a hundred thousand for this dance, but for you, oppa, it's free.

If you end the stream early before a trip, the viewers won't catch on…

Stories like that. I'd thought, so this is another way people make money in the world—and that memory was now a lifeline.

The problem:

"…I can't just sell my image freely."

I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still had contracts in place. Casually putting my body in front of the public was a problem.

Therefore—

"No-cam streaming is the answer?"

I'd planned to freeload through life on my face, and now I was stuck surviving on pure talk. The silver lining was that even if the curse had annihilated any credibility coming from my words, my voice itself was still plenty feminine.

"…Alright."

I could see the path.

But first—

Tap-tap-tap-tap.

I fired off a text.

It might have looked like I was asking a labor agency to broker gigs, but the person on the other end was someone I'd known for three years—and the oxygen tank keeping my bank account alive.

"Ugh."

Damn Cassandra.

No—maybe the curse was activating this hard because I'd scammed my way through my past life, and this life was telling me not to earn that much again.

…In that sense, streaming was a truly wonderful place. It opened a path for a twenty-year-old high school dropout—middle school graduate, technically—living alone in a provincial studio apartment to actually make money.

"Survive a month on the bare minimum diet, keep startup costs as low as possible, and build a way to live."

Try it first. If it doesn't work, pivot.

"First… what do I even stream?"

Every kind of case floated through my head, but…

"…I should use the curse."

No reason not to exploit the ability I had. Especially in the streaming world.

"People just don't believe me. I can still read the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠future, can't I?"

And then, two weeks later.

On a certain internet streaming platform, a green light blinked to life.

A streamer under the name Final Boss Parrot had appeared.