After receiving the message, I agonized over it for a while.
This audition was supposed to be fair, at least on the surface. If one of the contestants met with an official staff member, that could be considered unfair no matter how you looked at it.
The message said that an online meeting would be fine if it was hard to come in person, and that there would be no disadvantage if I refused the conversation altogether—but honestly, I was curious.
What did they want to say?
Advice about the show? Or—surely not—something like the old-school days, slipping someone an envelope under the table?
After mulling it over all day, I decided to go.
At the very least, I'd hear what they had to say.
So, the day after receiving the message, at lunchtime—
I was standing in front of a building.
"They must be making pretty good money."
Judging by how flashy the building was, the company's profits seemed decent.
Of course, they didn't own the whole building—just one floor in that tall tower—but still, that was something.
While I was blankly staring at the building, a woman came out.
She wore thick-rimmed glasses, her hair loosely tied back, and a checkered shirt. After stepping outside, she looked around, then took out her phone and sent a message to someone.
Bzzz—
When my phone started ringing, I had a hunch. That must be the person I was meeting today.
"Yes, hello?"
[Ah, this is Lee Hyejeong, the manager. Where are you right now?]
"I'm right in front of you."
[What? Ah… huh? Ah—]
At the words "right in front," the manager glanced around, then her eyes met mine. She widened her eyes and hurried over.
"Miro-nim?"
"Yes, I'm Miro."
"Ah, haha… I see. Please, come inside."
After confirming that I really was Miro, the manager laughed awkwardly and guided me into the building.
"How did you get here?"
"I took the subway. Took about thirty minutes."
"Still, it's a relief that you live in the metropolitan area."
We chatted lightly as we got into the elevator, and a few seconds later, we stepped out onto the sixth floor, where the company offices were.
"This way, please."
The place she led me to was clearly meant for one-on-one meetings. It was probably where affiliated creators met with their managers for consultations.
"What would you like to drink?"
"Uh, just water, please."
"Alright."
After seating me in the consultation room, the manager stepped out and soon returned, carrying water and some snacks.
"…Do these meetings usually last long enough to need snacks?"
Well, if it were just a casual chat, they wouldn't have called me in.
"Help yourself to the snacks."
She poured the snacks onto the table between our chairs, handed me the bottle of water, and sat down across from me.
"You were probably wondering why you were asked to come today, right?"
"Yeah. Have any of the other contestants come in like this?"
It was pure curiosity.
If they'd called me, it meant other contestants could have been invited too.
"Ah—no. If we didn't call everyone, that would be a big problem."
"What? Then why me—"
At least the manager was aware of the issue. But then why had they called me?
"Well… before we get straight to the point, could you agree to keep what we talk about here confidential?"
"What kind of thing is it…?"
"It's nothing that would put you at a disadvantage, Miro. However, this conversation could be seen as unfair by others."
"Then I'll keep it secret. Do I need to sign a contract or something?"
"Haha… that won't be necessary. You'll sign our internal confidentiality agreement later, if you pass and sign with us."
She was already talking about a contract…
Just from the way she said it, it sounded as if my selection was practically guaranteed, didn't it?
Being treated specially felt pretty good.
It was unfair treatment—but if it was unfair treatment in my favor… was there really any need to object?
"Alright. I'm curious what this is about."
When I nodded and looked at her steadily, the manager flinched slightly, cleared her throat, and began.
"We think very highly of your potential, Miro."
"Potential?"
What was this—she had a good eye for people?
To recognize my potential already, maybe this company was more capable than I'd thought.
"First of all, your stream is entertaining. You have an innate sense for hosting, and your voice is very pleasant."
The manager began praising me.
If an average audition participant had heard this, they would've been grinning ear to ear inside.
"Your singing tone and vocal color are also very good, so you're quite distinctive."
But I knew these weren't empty compliments.
They included the strengths that 'male Kim Suhyun' always noticed whenever he looked at 'female Kim Suhyun'—a third perspective that was neither entirely one nor the other.
After finishing her praise, the manager paused briefly, then brought up the real point.
"However, the current direction of your broadcast differs significantly from what we had in mind. To be frank, we're looking for a virtual idol who receives unconditional support and love from fans."
I gave a small nod at her words.
I understood what the issue was.
My stream's atmosphere was clearly different from that of the other contestants.
When I nodded, the manager—who had been gauging my reaction—continued.
"So, we'd like to make you a proposal."
"A proposal?"
"Would you be willing to completely overhaul your broadcast atmosphere? Pull it out by the roots and rebuild the foundation from scratch."
At that, I frowned slightly.
I made no effort to hide my displeasure.
Seeing my expression, the manager flinched again, took a sip of water, and continued.
"O-of course, it would be difficult at first. But once you pass the audition and release music, your incoming viewer base will grow significantly. At that point, your current atmosphere could actually become an obstacle."
She didn't say it outright, but the implication was clear.
If I promised to change my broadcast style here and now, gradually uprooting my existing viewers and reshaping the atmosphere, I'd pass the audition.
I closed my eyes and thought.
From a long-term perspective, replacing the water entirely was the logical choice.
But setting growth aside, I didn't think the current atmosphere was that bad.
Sure, it could be excessive at times—but was it really bad enough to rip out by the roots?
I could probably tone it down just by cutting off a few people as examples.
It would be nice if all my viewers loved me, sure—but I find a bit of friction more fun.
If everyone just agrees with everything I say, what's the fun in that? My stream is more entertaining when there are people squirming uncomfortably, too.
Especially since my content is nothing more than me talking off the cuff.
Should I just say no?
If I did, I might fail the audition.
But even if I failed here, I was confident I could grow steadily—slower than the audition winners, perhaps—but still become a proper broadcaster in time.
But did it really have to be that way?
Wasn't there a way to have both?
Just like how I carry the memories of both male Kim Suhyun and female Kim Suhyun.
Was there really no way to be greedy enough to take both the audition pass and my current viewers?
No—there was.
I opened my eyes and met the manager's gaze directly.
The woman in the checkered shirt and thick-rimmed glasses lowered her eyes slightly when I looked straight at her.
I unintentionally seized the initiative.
Did she have some bad memories from her school days or something?
I didn't know—but either way, it was good that I'd gained the upper hand.
"May I ask how many total people you're planning to accept? Even just your personal estimate."
I asked with a faint smile.
The manager thought for a moment, then nodded slightly and held up her hand with all five fingers spread.
"We're thinking around five."
"Five, huh… Then having one troublemaker wouldn't be such a problem, would it?"
"Pardon? A troublemaker?"
What I was about to propose—something halfway between a suggestion and a tantrum—wasn't really something the manager herself could decide on. Still, she'd probably pass the idea up the chain, right?
"Viral marketing."
Viral marketing.
In short, marketing that makes viewers spread the word on their own.
"Wouldn't it be good to have at least one person who causes the occasional incident to draw attention? I don't mean staging trouble on purpose—but when you're around playful, rowdy viewers, sometimes you can't help but slip up."
I was aware I might sound a bit cheeky. After all, she was the person in charge of audition participants. But I couldn't help it—I wasn't delivering a rehearsed pitch, just speaking off the cuff like I do on stream.
"Hm… but wouldn't that negatively affect the other winners? In the end, you'd all be one group. If one person's fandom is, well… too aggressive."
Despite her careful tone, it was a solid, hard-hitting point.
"On the contrary, some of the more intense people among the new viewers might end up settling into my channel instead… maybe?"
Even as I spoke, I felt like I was forcing the argument.
My viewers going into other winners' streams and acting the same way they did in mine?
Just imagining it made my head spin.
My confidence wavered partway through, but my resolve was already set.
"…Would it really be that difficult?"
"Yes. I could soften the atmosphere a bit, but uprooting it completely would be hard. And honestly, this way is more fun to watch."
"I see… Alright. I'll bring it up with the higher-ups."
"Y-yes… thank you."
And just like that, the meeting with the manager ended—short, and vaguely unsatisfying.
"Ha… did I screw that up?"
As I left the building, I habitually tapped the cigarette in my pocket, debating whether to light up. I'd had good momentum, but it was definitely a bit of a stretch.
I'd spoken seriously, but boiled down, wasn't I basically saying: I don't want to change my stream, but please let me pass the audition anyway?
That really did sound like a kid throwing a fit.
Would my viewers ever know how much effort I was putting in behind the scenes?
Of course, today's conversation was confidential, so I couldn't talk about it on stream—but I still wished they'd appreciate it somehow.
…Though, to be fair, I still hadn't prepared any actual content for today either.