Discovering Emily's channel was a spark in the dark, a potential solution to my pressing problem of how to market my game. But, at the same time this had to be done properly, with proper steps. Bursting into her room, driven by base impulse and desperation, was the old Sael's move. It was the action of a boy who saw a button and needed to press it. I on the other hand, is a man, things had to be done properly, and Emily is a professional, sure she was my sister but being a streamer is her professional career, I had to respect that.
I minimized the window containing my terrifying, perfect creation and opened a new browser. My movements were deliberate, calm. This suspicious search; it was a tactical reconnaissance mission, so to say, and investigation on my own sister internet persona. I typed "XxEmilyxX" into the MeTube search bar.
Her channel loaded. The header banner was professional—a stylized, neon-drenched cyberpunk portrait of her. She was looking over her shoulder, a confident, teasing smirk on her face, one hand resting on the generous curve of her hip. It was slick. Marketable way to do things.
I started with her most-viewed VODs. The first was a competitive shooter. I watched her carefully, my analyst's eye cataloging everything. Her gameplay was sharp; her reflexes were also excellent. Her hands moved over the keyboard and mouse with practiced precision. She wasn't just a pretty face carried by simps; she had genuine skill to back it up. In terms of communications and engagement, her callouts were clear, her game sense is sound and intelligent. A genuine respect ignited within me for her; this was a foundation one couldn't fake; it was a skill that she gained by herself.
Next, I clicked on a "just chatting" stream archive. This was where her personality took center stage. She was perched in her gaming chair, leaning forward towards the camera, and the view was… spectacular. The deep neckline of her top offered a breathtaking vista of the smooth, pale swell of her breasts, a sight that sent an immediate, hot jolt of arousal straight to any men that is watching. And that include myself, I allowed the feeling to lingers—a purely biological response to a stunningly attractive woman.
I listened to her. Her wit was quick and cutting, her humor self-deprecating and sharp. She bantered with her chat effortlessly, reading donations with a charm that felt genuine, not transactional. She had a gift for comedy, turning a simple game failure into a masterclass of exaggerated, pouting frustration that was both hilarious and incredibly endearing. She was a natural-born entertainer, and her audience loved her for it.
I delved deeper, instructing Sunday to pull quiet analytics on her growth, subscriber engagement, and viewer retention. The numbers were solid. A healthy, growing mid-tier channel with a fiercely loyal community. She wasn't a global phenomenon yet, but she was a successful entrepreneur. She had built this. The respect I felt curbed the more primal urges, tempering them with admiration.
Then, I turned my attention to the other side of her brand. The thumbnails were impossible to ignore. A playlist titled "Beach Party Games!!" was a gallery of Emily in an array of microscopic bikinis, each one straining to contain the magnificent, bouncy orbs of her breasts and the round, perfect shelf of her ass. Another, "Cosplay Chaos," featured her in outfits from popular games and anime, each costume expertly—and sadistically—tailored to accentuate every devastating curve and leave very, very little to the imagination.
One thumbnail in particular made my breath hitch. It was from a fantasy RPG stream. She was dressed as a sorceress, but the robe was less of a garment and more of a suggestion. The front was parted, held together by a single, precarious clasp, revealing a dizzying canyon of cleavage that seemed to descend into infinity. The fabric hugged the outrageous swell of her hips and the lush, heavy curve of her ass like a second skin.
'She's hot… and she knew she is hot'. She was using her body as a weapon, and it was a weapon of mass destruction. Can't blame me for feeling a bit hot.
But I didn't close the tab, nor do I didn't look away. I observed it clinically, through the lens of strategy. This wasn't shameful or cheap horny act; it was intelligent baiting. Oversaexualization In this world, it was a standard, accepted part of the entertainment spectrum. It was a tool in her arsenal, and she wielded it with masterful precision. She teased, she hinted, she offered glimpses, but she never crossed into the blatantly vulgar. This was the common and expected style of online stream and persona, those that didn't do this, was considered as odd, and their chance to make it big, will never come.
"Sunday," I said, my voice a little huskier than I intended. "Compile data on her regular collaborators. I want to see her network."
"[Understood, Sir… Displaying XxEmilyxX network…]". A new window opened, displaying three other women. The group name, "Octopussy," drew a dry, amused chuckle from me. They weren't subtle.
I studied them. LUXI, from New Japan, was all sharp edges and trendy aesthetics, a gaming and manga aficionado. Amora was a flame-haired vision of confident, unapologetic eroticism, her entire brand a celebration of sensual power. Millie was the bohemian artist, the musician and indie gamer who provided a softer contrast.
I spent the next hour watching clips of their collaborative streams. The chemistry was electric. They were a unit, playing off each other with the easy intimacy of a well-rehearsed band. When they were together, they were more than the sum of their parts—a content-generating ladies, that although did not blow up big, the managed to garner steady flow of followers. Leaning back, I finally closed the browser tabs. The phantom images of Emily in her various stages of undress lingered behind my eyes, a pleasant, distracting thrum in my blood. But above that, a crystal-clear strategy had formed.
She was perfect. Not just because she was my sister and accessible, but because she was a legitimate, skilled, and clever businesswoman with a powerful platform and a network that could launch my game into the stratosphere. I cannot deny or even wanted to dismiss my sexual attraction to her, and the fact that she is my sister, and it become some sort of nepotism action, also played in the decision part. But it wasn't entirely that, she is close, and she is good, that is already good enough reason for me to choose her.
The scent of breakfast—real, greasy, glorious sausage and eggs—wafted into my room, a stark and welcome sign, that the family had woke up and the day had started.
"Crack! Crack!".
My neck crack with a pleasant snap, the unfamiliar ache from the morning's calisthenics works out really woke me up completely. It was a good ache, a feeling of something being used correctly for once. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, after a good exercise session, ready to start my day, when a soft knock preceded my mother's entrance.
Cathy peeked in, her expression a carefully curated blend of cheerfulness and caution. "Hey, sweetie. You feeling okay after all that… moving around?"
"Better than okay, Mom," I said, and I meant it.
"Feels good to actually use this thing." I patted my stomach, which was still soft but felt less like a foreign object and more like a part of me that was just… under construction.
A relieved smile broke through her careful demeanor. "Good. That's really good."
She stepped fully into the room, her hands wringing a dish towel slightly. I noticed the way her eyes darted around, taking in the state of my space—probably thinking that it looked even better now, of course it did, I already stored all of Old Sael stuff away. He got way to many stuff that I wouldn't use, beside I prefer my surrounding minimal as possible.
"So, I was thinking… about your appointment today. At the GMRD office."
I nodded. The deadline. The one that had literally scared my previous self to death. "Right. for the extension… I'm ready for it."
"I know you are," she said quickly, too quickly.
"It's just… it's your first time going out since you got sick. And the city… it can be a lot to take in... The crowds, the transit changes…" She trailed off, but the unspoken words hung between us, thick and heavy. 'We don't trust you not to get overwhelmed. We don't trust you not to have a meltdown. We don't trust the old you.'
I saw the genuine worry in her blue eyes, the fear that the fragile progress of the last few days would shatter the moment I was exposed to the outside world. Instead of being offended, a wave of warmth spread through me. This was protective, this was care that they family gave me so easily. And it conveniently covered for the fact that I, Sael the Transplanted, had absolutely no fucking clue how to navigate this insane new world. so, there is no way I am going to get mad over it.
"I took a half-day. I would drive you, there… You know, just to make sure you actually get there and back okay...". she continued, her voice gaining a little more confidence, The relief that flooded my system was so potent it was almost embarrassing, I got no money, and I don't even know how the bus works.
"Mom, that would be… amazing. Thank you. Seriously." I stood up, and the movement felt more fluid than it had just days ago. "I wouldn't want to go out there alone anyway."
The tension in her shoulders melted away completely, replaced by a radiant, beautiful smile that made her look ten years younger. It was startling, the sheer power of a simple, grateful acceptance. The old Sael would have scoffed, would have seen it as coddling and an infringement on his privacy.
"Okay! Great!" she chirped, the dish towel finally going still.
"I'll just go get my things… and, you get ready… Wear something comfortable; the walk to the garage is a bit of a hike."
A hike to the garage. Right. Because we live in a skyscraper. Of course we do. After pulling on a pair of soft, worn jeans and a simple grey t-shirt—a shocking departure from the frilly, feminine things I'd found stuffed in the closet—I met her by the front door. She was holding a light jacket for me, another maternal gesture that felt strangely comforting.
Stepping out of the apartment was like leaving a pressurized cabin. The hallway was wider than I expected, but utterly sterile. Gleaming white walls, a floor of some seamless dark grey composite material, and a low, constant hum of machinery and distant life. The air smelled of ozone and lemon-scented disinfectant. It was clean, but it was the clean of a hospital, not a home.
We walked to the bank of elevators. There were eight of them. Eight. For one floor. My eyes were drawn to the control panel. Rows and rows of buttons, numbers climbing into the stratosphere. My finger hovered, then pressed 'G'.
"The garage is on P7, honey," Cathy said gently, reaching past me. Her arm brushed against my chest, and I caught a faint, sweet scent of her perfume—something floral and warm—mixed with the smell of the breakfast she'd cooked. She pressed a button marked 'P7'. The panel lit up, displaying a dizzying array of negative numbers. P1 through P20. My eyes traveled upward. The numbers went all the way to… 247.
Two hundred and forty-seven floors.
The reality of it hit me like a physical blow, this wasn't just an apartment building; it was a self-contained vertical city. A ghetto in the sky. Thousands of people stacked on top of each other, living their entire lives in these clean, humming, antiseptic corridors. The scale was incomprehensible, a monument to both human ingenuity and desperate overcrowding, it' kinda solidify even more into my head that I was living in another earth. The elevator descended with a soft, powerful whir, my stomach doing a slight lurch.
The doors opened on P7 into a cavernous space that was less a garage and more a cathedral dedicated to automotive storage. The ceiling was low, stained with decades of exhaust fumes despite the powerful whir of ventilation fans. But the cars weren't parked in rows. Instead, a massive, multi-story rotary system dominated the space, like a giant metallic honeycomb. Individual parking slots, each just large enough for a vehicle, were set into a constantly, slowly rotating Ferris wheel of concrete and steel. I watched, mesmerized, as a slot near the top rotated down, a small electric platform sliding out to present a compact van to a waiting driver. It was a breathtaking, utterly alien piece of logistics, to me.
"This way, baby" Cathy said, leading me through a maze of yellow safety lines and warning signs. We stopped at a kiosk. She typed in our apartment number, and a screen displayed 'Retrieving Unit 10-447'. With a deep mechanical groan from the giant system, one of the slots began its journey down towards us.
A few minutes later, our "chariot" was presented to us. It was a boxy, compact van, a dull shade of blue that had seen too many washes and too many close calls. It had eight seats, crammed into a frame not much larger than a standard car from my old world. It was utilitarian, unglamorous, and had the faint, nostalgic smell of old vinyl and gasoline—a rarity, I suspected.
Cathy opened the driver's side door and paused, looking at me with a hesitant, almost apologetic expression.
"I know it's not… well, it's not what you used to say you wanted. You always talked about something sporty, something with a better sound system…" She braced herself, expecting a sneer, a complaint, a reminder of her family's lowly status.
I walked around to the passenger side, my hand running over the slightly faded paint on the hood. It was warm from the machinery. I looked at it, really looked at it, to me it was practical and efficient car. It can hold our whole family.
I turned to her, a genuine smile spreading across my face. "The old me would definitely say something like that, but now… I can see the charm of it,".
Her brow furrowed in confusion. "It… it is?"
"Yeah It's a people-mover… A proper one, I might not see it before, but when people like us, who got a lot of people with us… and stuff to carry this kind of car would be better.. I kinda like it...".
Personally, I am a compact car enthusiast, sure sports car looks cool, but to me that is all there is to it, a vanity. Compact car can actually be used, small in sized but large in practicality, despite the price goes to millions those sports cars can't even carry a wooden log inside of it. Kei Car and Compact car, well put a wooden log in it and 3 more people, it drives just fine.
"You… you really think so?". Her posture softened, and her smile returned, this time reaching her eyes, making them crinkle at the corners. It was a smile of pure, unadulterated relief.
"I know so," I said, sliding into the passenger seat. The interior was worn but clean. "Let's go, Mom,".
As she started the engine—a surprisingly quiet electric hum—and navigated the van out of the rotary system and up the ramp towards the blinding daylight of the city, I felt another piece of the old Sael's legacy crack and fall away. I had just praised the family car that deserved to be praise. It was a small thing, a tiny moment. But in the delicate ecosystem of this family, it was a seismic event.