I Want to Be a VTuber

Chairman Jo Seokhwan of NewLike Group.

A man who had taken over the weakened company from his father after a series of management failures, transforming it into one of the top five conglomerates in South Korea. With his polished appearance and unblemished reputation, Seoyeon knew only the most public aspects of his life.

There was, however, one widely known personal detail: his late wife had been Baek Seoran, once hailed as Korea’s “Nation’s Little Sister” and a celebrated actress. Tragically, she had passed away not long after their marriage, leaving him to raise their children alone.

"But why is a conglomerate chairman here?"

Seoyeon couldn’t help but feel tense.

And she wasn’t the only one—Ji Yeon was visibly stiff beside her.

Who wouldn’t be? They had come to visit a friend, only to be greeted by a man of such stature.

What made it worse was his silence as he invited them inside.

"Hey, Ju Seoyeon, did you mess up somehow? No, actually, you did mess up. You practically pummeled Jo Seohui during the shoot."

"I didn’t pummel her!"

"Didn’t you? She was rolling on the ground half the time."

Seoyeon sighed inwardly. It was hard to argue with Jiyeon’s blunt assessment.

She hadn’t hit Seohui, per se. She had merely thrown, rolled, and tossed her a few times. Over and over again.

If Seoyeon had actually hit her, Seohui wouldn’t just be recuperating at home—she’d likely be in the hospital.

"Seohui really threw herself into that performance," Seoyeon thought to herself.

Perhaps she had let her emotions get the better of her during the scene. Without Jiyeon stepping in, who knows how far her acting might have escalated?

The thought sent a shiver down her spine.

Now, seated in the grand living room of the Jo residence, Seoyeon and Jiyeon found themselves face-to-face with Chairman Jo.

Their usual greeter, the friendly housekeeper Han Seoyoung, was silently tidying up the room.

The tension was palpable.

"Is he going to confront me about what happened to Seohui?"

Seoyeon’s mind raced with all the possible things he might say.

This wasn’t just about a scene—it was a potential disaster waiting to unfold.

Chairman Jo’s piercing gaze didn’t help matters. Feeling uneasy, Seoyeon shifted her focus upward, avoiding his eyes—a telltale sign Jiyeon had come to recognize whenever Seoyeon felt guilty.

Finally, the silence was broken.

"I’ve heard much about you, Ju Seoyeon," he said calmly.

His measured tone made Seoyeon’s stomach churn.

"Heard much about me?"

What exactly had Seohui told her father?

Was it about that time she refused to drop formal speech? Or the incident during Hyper Action Star? Or maybe yesterday’s chaotic shoot?

Whatever it was, nothing came to mind that painted her in a particularly positive light.

"Feel free to speak casually," Seoyeon offered, trying to ease the mood.

"Very well," Chairman Jo replied, his voice softening slightly as he cleared his throat.

"I’ve been keeping an eye on you—not just as Seohui’s father, but also as the chairman of NewLike Group."

That statement made Seoyeon freeze.

The intensity of his gaze reminded her of another figure: Kang Taejin, the executive director of GH Group.

But the similarity ended as quickly as it began. Chairman Jo’s expression softened into a faint smile.

"However, it seems another group already has its eyes set on you. So, I’ve held back."

"Another group?" Seoyeon echoed, confused.

"GH Group. You seem to have a close relationship with them."

The mention of GH Group caught her off guard. Was their relationship really that close?

True, GH Group had shown interest in promoting her as one of their representatives, but Seoyeon hadn’t felt anything particularly concrete yet.

Her thoughts briefly drifted to her upcoming projects, specifically the much-anticipated Mine—an opportunity she couldn’t afford to miss.

Chairman Jo’s next words pulled her back to the present.

"You’ll be working on a film together soon, correct? Seohui will also be part of the cast."

"Hmm," Seoyeon replied noncommittally, unsure where the conversation was headed.

"What’s wrong?" he asked with a faint chuckle. "Seohui once grumbled to me about how you always insist on being so formal with her."

Seoyeon blinked, stunned.

Why would Seohui mention something like that to her father? Their relationship didn’t seem particularly warm, yet this felt oddly intimate.

"Anyway," Chairman Jo continued, "I’m aware of the OTT film GH Group is producing. It’s an interesting choice not to release it in theaters, though there must be reasons for that."

Seoyeon nodded vaguely. OTT releases often reached international audiences faster than traditional theatrical releases, after all.

Still, a question lingered in her mind: "Does he dislike GH Group?"

Given the rivalry between NewLike and GH, it wasn’t an unreasonable assumption.

Both companies were pillars of Korea’s cultural industry, competing fiercely in areas like film, drama, and advertising.

Chairman Jo’s voice brought her back to the moment.

"If the opportunity arises, I hope you’ll consider doing an advertisement for NewLike Group in the future."

"Of course, I’d be happy to," Seoyeon replied with an awkward smile.

His polite yet unreadable expression made her uneasy.

Despite her sensitivity to others’ emotions, she found it difficult to gauge his.

"And now, speaking as a father rather than a chairman," he said, his tone shifting.

Gone was the imposing businessman. In his place was a man wearing a faintly self-deprecating smile.

"To be honest, I’ve harbored a bit of resentment toward you, Seoyeon."

"R-Resentment?" Jiyeon interjected, startled. She turned to Seoyeon with wide eyes, silently demanding an explanation.

Seoyeon was just as surprised—or so it seemed.

"Could Seohui’s condition be worse than I thought? Did I really overdo it yesterday?"

Chairman Jo elaborated.

"This goes back ten years."

His eyes grew distant.

"Back to when The Moon That Hides the Sun was in production."

Seohui had desperately wanted to audition for that project.

Jo Seohui had earned the moniker “Princess of Daily Dramas” at the time, making the Moon That Hides the Sun audition a natural step in her budding career.

For her, the role was a stepping stone, a chance to follow in her mother’s footsteps and make a name for herself in prime-time television.

Chairman Jo’s calm voice broke through the air.

“Seohui wanted nothing more than to become an actress like her mother. Landing a role in a prime-time drama was the fastest way to succeed, and The Moon That Hides the Sun was a perfect fit.”

He paused, giving Seoyeon a measured look.

“But I knew the reality. I saw the cast and the director and realized... Seohui would get crushed.”

“Why?” Seoyeon asked, unable to mask her curiosity.

“Because Park Jungwoo was playing the male lead.”

The mention of Park Jungwoo caught Seoyeon off guard. She stared at Chairman Jo, startled.

“At the time, Seohui wasn’t at a level where she could match Park Jungwoo’s skill. She might’ve passed the audition, but during filming, she would’ve struggled terribly.”

There was a flicker of regret in Chairman Jo’s expression, or perhaps relief.

“My daughter didn’t inherit much of her mother’s talent.”

His words were matter-of-fact, almost clinical. It was clear he didn’t mean them maliciously, but they still carried a sting.

To him, Seohui wasn’t the shining star her mother had been. She was someone better suited to managing connections and maintaining control—qualities more akin to his own nature.

“I thought... if she received harsh criticism in a major drama, she might reconsider being an actress.”

Seoyeon remained silent, her lips pressed into a thin line.

Chairman Jo’s words felt heavy, even as he continued to speak.

“But then you came along and completely derailed my plans.”

His voice was steady, but his gaze sharpened as he looked at Seoyeon.

Seoyeon’s mind replayed what she knew of the events that followed.

After losing the audition to her, Seohui had been furious. She’d confessed as much during a past conversation.

“Why did I lose to someone like that?” Seohui had said bitterly.

It wasn’t just a loss. It had been a blow to her pride.

Chairman Jo nodded as if reading Seoyeon’s thoughts.

“But then Seohui saw your performance in the drama.”

He paused, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“And for the first time, she felt something. A spark. Seeing you play Yeonhwa Princess, standing against the sunset in the final scene, parting with Seoil...”

Seoyeon felt her chest tighten. That final scene had been one of her most emotional moments as an actress.

For Seohui, it wasn’t just a performance. It was a mirror—a glimpse of the starlight her mother had once exuded.

It was something she could never have achieved, had she been cast in the same role. And she knew it.

Chairman Jo’s voice softened.

“Had it not been you, had she lost to someone else... I think she might have quit acting. The harsh criticism, the inevitable comparisons to her mother—it would’ve been too much for her to bear.”

It was a bitter acknowledgment.

Few people knew Seohui’s connection to her late mother, Baek Seoran. Even fewer knew of her status as the NewLike Group chairman’s daughter.

But in the industry, the whispers were enough to create comparisons that cut deep.

Chairman Jo leaned back slightly, his gaze distant.

“In a way, I suppose I have you to thank for keeping her on this path.”

Seoyeon stiffened at his words. It was clear that he hadn’t wanted his daughter to continue acting. He’d hoped for a different outcome, one that didn’t involve her following in her mother’s shadow.

Something about his tone pricked at Seoyeon’s pride. Without thinking, she said:

“It sounds like you’re not very supportive of her career.”

“Seoyeon,” Jiyeon whispered urgently, tugging at her sleeve.

Seoyeon ignored her, holding Chairman Jo’s gaze.

He let out a quiet laugh, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.

It was an unexpected reaction, and for a moment, Seoyeon was taken aback.

“Have you ever read any articles about my late wife?” he asked.

“No.”

Seoyeon shook her head. She hadn’t needed to look her up. Most of what she knew about Baek Seoran was from brief mentions in passing.

Seoyeon had deliberately avoided digging deeper, partly out of respect for Seohui and partly because it felt unnecessary.

“If you get the chance, you should. You’ll understand better.”

There was a hint of sadness in his voice as he added:

“There’s a lot written there. More than I’d care for.”

For the first time, his polished demeanor cracked, revealing a hint of vulnerability.

The moment passed quickly.

Chairman Jo straightened, gesturing toward the door.

“We should go. My daughter is waiting. It’s about time she finishes up.”

“Finishes what?” Seoyeon asked, confused.

Before Chairman Jo could answer, Jiyeon’s eyes widened in realization.

Then, with a mischievous grin, she said, “Oh, this is going to be fun.”

They followed Chairman Jo through the expansive house. Seoyeon quickly realized they weren’t heading toward the familiar pajama-party room.

Instead, they approached a soundproofed area that Seoyeon hadn’t noticed before.

The setup looked professional, like a recording studio.

Chairman Jo knocked twice.

When there was no response, he motioned for silence and opened the door carefully.

Inside, Jo Seohui was seated amidst a sea of equipment—cameras, monitors displaying chat messages, and a full-body motion-capture rig.

She froze mid-sentence as her gaze locked onto the figures standing at the entrance.

“Ohohoho! Yes, yes, yesterday’s workout was a bit intense, but I’m perfectly fine! So, that’s all for today’s stream, and next time I’ll—”

Her words died in her throat as she saw Seoyeon, Jiyeon, and her father staring at her.

For a moment, no one spoke.

Seoyeon’s brain quickly pieced together the scene: streaming setup, motion-capture gear, chat scrolling on a monitor.

Seohui wasn’t just recuperating—she was streaming.

In full VTuber mode.

“Oh.”

Seohui blinked, her face a mix of horror and embarrassment. She was still bandaged and wearing patches from her injuries.

Seoyeon took one look at her and promptly collapsed backward.

Because sometimes, the unexpected “red pill” could leave a viewer utterly stunned.