Choi Eunseo, Twenty-Seven and New to the World

I had a brother six years older than me. Or rather—now that I'd gotten four years younger, did that make him ten?

His name was Choi Eunseo. Unlike me, who had tossed every last bit of schoolwork aside to juggle soccer and games until I debuted as a pro, he was a model student through and through, the sort of person people call an elite. He had never once lost the top rank in his school. He was a prodigy who never missed a prize at any contest he entered, a genius who—unlike me, scolded every single time—had never once heard a rebuke from our father.

That was my brother. Choi Eunseo.

"Uh... I'm home?"

I offered the greeting a little awkwardly to the brother staring straight at me from the entryway.

If someone asked about my relationship with him, I would say it wasn't bad. If they asked what kind of person he was, I would say he took after our father. He had inherited Father's cold air wholesale, and because of that air, everyone around him thought he was cold and unfeeling. In truth, he was incredibly warm.

When I ran away from home against our parents' wishes, the one who watched my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠back was my brother. He found a place for me to stay when I'd bolted with no plan at all, and afterward he was the one who sat with me through every problem that had to do with money.

When I caused trouble, even if the fault was mine alone, he would claim the two of us had messed up together and take the scolding beside me.

Father knew he had stepped forward to shield me, but he called that my brother's choice as well and scolded them both. Anyway. To me, a brother had been something like a second father.

"...Dinner?"

"...Huh?"

Dinner, out of nowhere?

"I asked if you've eaten."

Oh.

"Ah... yeah. I ate."

The sudden question threw me, but he had always been like that. Kindness tucked inside bluntness, maybe—the sort of person who looked as if he wouldn't look after anyone, and then did. Hearing that I'd had dinner, he answered with a nod.

"Hyung, did you eat?"

"...Hyung?"

Oh, no.

The me of right now was a girl. Not Choi Eunha, the boy born in '03—Choi Eunha, the girl born in '07.

"O... pp..."

"...?"

Hoo. You have to do it, Choi Eunha. You already wore a skirt outside. What are you hesitating for? You have to get used to titles like this.

"O......ppa, did you eat?"

Only after stretching the word as long as it would go did I manage to push it out of my mouth.

"...? Ate before I got here. You sick somewhere?"

"H-huh? N-no, nothing's wrong!"

While I was busy drowning in self-loathing over a title only a girl was supposed to use, the entryway keypad chimed.

Beep. Beep. Beep. Beep—tiriring.

"Hm? You were already here."

The voice belonged to Father.

"Welcome home, Father."

"Welcome home, Dad."

"Aigoo, my girl~ Did you come out to welcome Daddy?"

The voice that flipped the instant he saw me. I'd grown somewhat used to that side of Father by now.

"And you. What are you doing, standing there instead of going in?"

Watching his tone swing a full hundred and eighty degrees the moment he addressed my brother, I nearly let out a hollow laugh.

"Eunha didn't look well."

"What? Eunha! Does something hurt? We're going to the hospital this instant—"

Eh?

"No! I'm perfectly fine!"

I had already learned, last time, that Father's fussing never stopped at fussing. I'd nicked a finger while unboxing a streaming rig that had been delivered, and he'd made an enormous scene about rushing me to the hospital right then. The housekeeper caught a scolding from him for letting me handle something as dangerous as a knife.

...It had been a box cutter.

I had my doubts that a box cutter even counted as a dangerous object, but the incident taught me that when it came to anything involving me, Father was ferociously overprotective.

"Really? You're sure nothing's wrong?"

"Yes. I'm really all right."

Only after hearing me confirm it a second time did Father let out a sigh, as if reassured. Seriously. Way too much.

I was worn out from being out, and I'd meant to just sleep tonight, but a short Just Chatting before bed had lately become a habit. My recent routine was simple: climb the Project A ladder through the morning and afternoon, then, in the evening, a light two hours of Just Chatting before I slept. Talking with the fans was always fun.

"Ah— hello~"

All that Eunha looked like people saying my name, but it was short for Eunha, hi. My streamer name really was Eunha anyway, and it didn't make a bad broadcast greeting, so I just used it.

"Eunha~ Good to see you all."

These days, turning the stream on meant a steady five hundred viewers—pretty solid growth. Still smaller than before, but considering I'd been a famous pro gamer back then, five hundred viewers now was honestly more than I deserved. I'd reach Diamond soon enough, and once I started streaming Project A in earnest, the channel would only grow from here.

"Ah, Anonymous, thank you for the dollar. Yeah. The outing was actually to get my school uniform fitted."

"I told you, I don't have a boyfriend."

Why were these people so curious about my personal life? I didn't have so much as a single grain of rice's worth of interest in getting a boyfriend, but if I said I had one, how would they react? Ugh. I didn't even want to imagine it.

"Um... please ease up on the 'fake dad' thing. That's a little much."

It felt like a shot at someone's parents, and the word itself was just weird.

I was still talking with the viewers when a single donation arrived and cracked the warm mood wide open.

Ah. This again.

"Anonymous, thank you for the four dollars. I still don't plan on turning on cam."

Lately there had been a sharp rise in people asking me to turn the camera on, and in those sideways questions about whether I ever meant to. At first I'd thought plenty of them might simply be curious about my face, and I'd declined politely, but after the question came dozens of times, it started to feel uncomfortable.

Honestly, if I meant to grow the stream big, there was no reason not to show my face. I knew better than anyone that my looks weren't ordinary. But I was seventeen now, about a month away from starting high school. I already stood out this much. The moment word got around school that I streamed... ugh. I didn't even want to picture it.

My plan for high school was to get through it as quietly as a corpse. Friends? Me, who had spent every spare day at soccer and the PC bang—there was no way I could start hanging around with girls now. Hanging out only with the boys would start rumors for no reason, so the right answer was to keep to myself and play dead.

"A hand cam?"

Hand cam. On internet broadcasts, cam usually meant a setup that put the streamer on screen from the face down through the upper body. A hand cam meant a camera that showed neither face nor body—only the keyboard and the hands. That much... might actually be fine?

"Hmm... I think up to a hand cam would be okay?"

I still hadn't shaken the old habit of lurking the Project A community, and even though the place was plainly a gaming forum, it was one of the communities that talked about me the most. The reason was simple. I'd said on stream that I lurked there often, and that community had hated Yangjeon more than anyone. I was one of their own, and I was the person who had thoroughly crushed the one they hated most, so from their side there was no reason to dislike me. Now and then someone resented me for talking about streamers instead of the game, but those minority opinions got buried. Forums have always run on headcount.

Anyway, a rumor had been circulating there lately: that I was getting boosted.

No supportive replies got written, but after that post, quite a few people started quietly doubting my skill. Well—if you considered that my real identity was a twenty-one-year-old man, and a former pro gamer at that, was it halfway true? Either way, a hand cam would be a clean way to blow a suspicion like this apart. I'd said it before: controversy only stays tidy if you kill it the moment it appears.

"Then I'll try turning on a hand cam once I hit Diamond and start streaming Project A."

Was promising a hand cam really that wonderful? I liked it because it felt as if my viewers genuinely liked me for myself. The fans of pro gamer Galaxy—Choi Eunha—had turned into beasts that bit and tore without mercy the moment I slipped. Affection this pure, aimed at me, was more welcome than I knew how to say.

I was smiling at their reactions, about to keep talking, when—

"Ahem...!"

A dry cough reached me from outside the earphones. Startled by the sudden ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠sound, I pulled them out and turned, and there was my brother, plate in hand, standing with a thoroughly awkward look on his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠face. A very... flustered one.

"Hyung? N-no, o— Oppa? When did you come in..."

I hadn't heard a thing.

"...Uh. I came to... bring you some fruit."

No way. Did I miss the knock because of the earphones?

"...I'll leave it here."

Ah.

I wanted to die....