A Secret Too Hard to Tell (2)
Since his wife always came home late at night worn out from work, the two of them usually just fell into bed without much conversation.
So talking about what had been going on lately was, in a way, almost the first real conversation they’d had since he quit his job.
“Yeah, well. I ended up working with a younger guy I know at the business he started.”
“Working? You’re already working again?”
“It’s mostly sitting down, so the leg’s not really a problem. The hours aren’t that long, either, so it’s pretty easy.”
“Is that so? Then maybe the pay’s a little lower than before.”
She sounded casual enough, but Yeongho could tell his wife was a little tense.
If his salary had gone down, they’d have to squeeze the household budget that much harder.
He could feel her worry, and at the same time, the careful way she kept glancing at his mood, afraid of upsetting him.
“Nope. I’m actually making more. I got lucky and landed a pretty good job. If I’d known this would happen, I wouldn’t have stubbornly stuck with one company all those years. I should’ve been looking around and changing jobs a lot sooner.”
Her face stirred something in him, and for a moment he wanted to blurt out that he was making a ton of money now, right this second.
But it was still too early to tell her, so he made something up and smoothed it over.
His wife’s eyes narrowed a little.
“...You’re hiding something from me, aren’t you?”
How did she know?
Right. After living face-to-face for more than ten years, you could tell when something was off almost immediately.
It wasn’t that they’d had too little love or interest in each other; they’d just been too tired and busy to talk much lately.
“Uh, no... I’m not lying or anything.”
“I know. Not a total lie, just something you’re not telling me.”
Was she a ghost?
He was starting to feel scared to say anything at all.
“...Does it show that much?”
“Maybe only to me? Anyway, I know you’re not the kind of person who’d go do something shady or stupid, but—”
She studied his face from every angle, still clearly suspicious, and then went on at length.
“—you say the work is easy and the money is better, but you’re also acting like you want to keep the details hidden, so I’m a little... uneasy, you know? You’re not doing anything weird, are you?”
Weird things.
Did being a streamer who played games count as a weird profession?
After thinking it over for a moment, Yeongho shook his head.
“No. I just got really lucky and found work that suits me. I haven’t been at it long, but lately I keep thinking that, wow, it really is possible to feel rewarded while working.”
“...Really? Well, your face has been looking better lately. I thought maybe it was because you weren’t going into the office and were getting some rest.”
Maybe because she could hear the sincerity in his voice, his wife didn’t pry any further and let the suspicion go.
There were still unanswered questions, of course, but she wasn’t the type to interrogate him about every last little thing from start to finish.
No matter how long a couple had been married, they didn’t live with every thought and feeling laid bare on the table.
As long as they didn’t stray too far from the bigger picture, there had to be a basic trust that the rest would work itself out.
That was the only way a relationship could keep going without major discord, even through a hard life like theirs.
I should tell her properly soon. I just hope she doesn’t get too shocked.
With that thought in mind, Yeongho resolved to tell her about streaming in the near future, then went into the bathroom and washed his hands thoroughly.
After rubbing them dry on a towel until there wasn’t a single trace of moisture left, he sat down across from his wife and started helping sort the laundry together.
“You’ve got a bad leg. Why are you doing this?”
“Well, the leg may be like this, but my hands are perfectly fine.”
It was the kind of time they only got to spend together once a week, if that.
He still hadn’t said anything about streaming yet.
But while helping his wife with the housework, Yeongho thought about how he should bring it up later.
* * *
- Choi Pinam died again.
- Let’s just drop ChoiPpee-Name already and recruit someone who can actually play?
- Kyyaaaa, and then the Godfather wipes out two guys right away!
Choi Pinam glared at the chat and shouted, “Can you idiots shut up? Even if you put an ace-level player in my position, it’d still be hard, okay?”
- LMAOOOOOO
- You’re acting all high and mighty after getting Crown by riding a bus.
- But facts are, Choi Pinam’s actually doing pretty well lol. Don’t roast him too hard.
- Nobody expected him to make it this far as a duo squad anyway lol.
Even after the tournament, Yeongho was still running duo squad with Choi Pinam.
He’d been thinking of switching over to Legend of War as his main game, but the viewers’ missions had grabbed hold of his ankle and stopped him.
They’d piled up mission money to reach Predator, the very top heavenly-rank tier above Ace, and the total had already gone past 50,000 coins.
That was only for the one mission tied to the tier climb. Add in the bonus for win streaks and all the other odds and ends, and the amount came close to 80,000 coins.
At that point, it was too good to just swallow the loss and walk away, so he decided to invest a few more days into this stretch.
“Aaaargh!! I died again! Hyeong-nim, I’m sorry!!”
Predator was the highest tier, awarded only to the top 500 players above Ace.
The people crowding into that challenge were all monsters in their own right, the sort who’d never once been told they were bad at games.
When you were fighting tooth and nail in a bracket where most players were basically pros or trainees, it was only natural that Choi Pinam would keep groaning like a man under a curse.
- Every match is a bloodbath lol
- The fact he’s still doing this as a duo squad is legendary. Also a mystery how the win streak hasn’t broken yet.
- Probably a record that’ll never be beaten in Battleground history.
- At this rate, he might actually get to Predator from his first placement run with zero deaths?
- The game’s only been out for under ten years, who’s talking about history lol
They’d had a few close calls, but even so, they hadn’t lost a win yet today.
Yeongho checked his profile and looked over the ranked record.
[SJ DAD]
[Ace]
[RP: 4586]
Even after reaching Ace, his points had climbed another five hundred plus.
But unlike the earlier tiers, Predator was a rank you climbed by cutoff in leaderboard points, so he still had a few more steps to go before he could claim it.
“What was the Predator cutoff again?”
- Seems like you need at least 4700.
- 4800 is definitely safe, but 4700 might leave you right on the edge?
- Now there’s really not much left.
At the viewers’ answers, he roughly tallied up how many matches were left.
At this point, even a win only gave him fifty points or so at best.
By his estimate, he’d need at least three more wins, and if he was being generous, maybe five, to reach Predator.
Unless something unexpected happened, he’d probably clear it tomorrow.
“All right, I’ll wrap it up here for today and finish the remaining points tomorrow.”
- T_T
- Go to bed well~
- Today was insane as always~
- I’m gonna go watch the replay before I sleep lol
- Get in there, old man~
Before signing off, he checked the viewer count and saw it had passed 9,000.
There was no question the audience had jumped after the tournament.
The peak had gone beyond 15,000, and now the numbers had settled and held steady at around 10,000.
If he could keep this up, he’d have no problem calling himself one of those so-called major-streamer types.
He’d grown so fast that it still didn’t quite feel real.
At this point, even saying that personal streaming was an unstable job with irregular income had become something of a joke.
Even if the viewer count stopped growing here and started falling instead, as long as Yeongho didn’t go around doing anything antisocial or morally bankrupt, he’d be able to make a living as a streamer for a good while yet.
It’d probably look good to my wife if I pointed that stuff out, but...
To argue his case confidently, the truth was that Yeongho himself still didn’t know enough about the streaming business.
And sure, if he threw himself into streaming during this growth streak, he might stay hot for five or ten years.
But nobody could promise he’d still be in this industry even after he passed fifty.
You could say he just needed to earn quickly in the meantime and set up his old age, but when had life ever gone exactly according to plan?
By that logic, even being a popular streamer was still an unstable profession.
If I became a partner streamer, things would probably be a little better.
Thinking that, his eyes drifted to his smartphone without meaning to.
It reminded him of Assistant Manager Seo Yunju, the platform representative, mentioning a partner contract during the day.
Partner streamers and regular affiliated streamers had major differences in revenue, from payout ratios to event support.
But the reason Yeongho’s thoughts had brushed against a partner contract wasn’t simply because of the money.
Being a partner streamer meant becoming an official face of the platform, which also meant the company would be able to support him in a number of ways.
If I were a partner, would they help out with smaller things like this too?
From what he’d heard, the company issued business cards, and since Ppajijik was a subsidiary of a group anyone would recognize, it would make it much easier to sell the idea to his wife.
There was a world of difference between saying, “I’m just streaming over there so I can make a living,” and holding out a business card and saying, “I’m a broadcaster under a formal contract with the company.”
To someone who didn’t really understand what a streamer was, the second one was obviously better.
And maybe he could even ask for a meeting directly with someone on the company side.
What if he could let his wife see them discussing the broadcasting business?
She might not be familiar with being a broadcaster, but company staff were no different from ordinary office workers.
Just seeing him in the same room with people like that might go a long way toward softening the sense of unfamiliarity and easing her resistance.
Even if my wife opposes this line of work, I’m not going to quit right away.
He couldn’t call the future stable, but it was still a business that was going well right now.
He promised himself he’d do his best at streaming for as long as he could.
He just didn’t want a pointless disagreement with his wife to turn into discord at home.
These were only thoughts he was turning over because it would be nice to have more cards to play when it came time to persuade her.
Assistant Manager Seo Yunju had said she’d try pushing the partner contract through and asked him to wait.
Considering how she’d already handled the affiliation contract even though he hadn’t met every condition, he figured there was a good chance she’d bring good news again this time too.
Of course, he’d heard partner contracts were a lot stricter, so even if it didn’t happen as quickly as he hoped, he’d already decided not to be disappointed.
“All right then, Hyeong-nim. I’ll see you tomorrow!”
“Yeah. Thanks for your hard work.”
He had plenty on his mind, but after finishing the usual post-stream cleanup routine, Yeongho came home and stepped through the front door—only to run right into his son, who was inexplicably pacing nearby.
“...Dad, you’re back.”
“Yeah, Jaemin. Why are you standing around by the door?”
“Well, I... I have something to tell you.”
“Hm? What is it?”
“I watched your stream.”
At his son’s words, Yeongho wasn’t all that surprised.
He still hadn’t officially told the family about streaming, but at least his daughter Seonhui already knew because of her connection to Choi Pinam.
And he’d figured Jaemin might hear about it from Seonhui too.
He had asked Seonhui to keep it secret from their mother for now, and as long as Jaemin was careful about that part too, he didn’t think there’d be any real problem.
“Oh. You saw it too, huh? Do you... feel weird or uncomfortable about Dad doing streaming work?”
“Huh? No, not at all. I actually think it’s amazing and really cool.”
“Oh, really? Haha...”
Hearing his son’s sincere praise made Yeongho feel both bashful and strangely proud.
But the warm mood only lasted a moment.
Jaemin’s expression hardened, and after sneaking a careful look at him, he spoke with great caution.
“Um... when I said I had something to tell you, that wasn’t what I meant.”
“Hm? Ah, right. Then what is it? Just say it.”
“Could you, um, fight me... seriously? Like, one-on-one...?”
How was a father supposed to react to a serious challenge to a fight from his own child?
To clearly decode the meaning hidden inside that sentence, Yeongho had to stand there with his mouth slightly open and his brain working at full speed.