Minjun Seo

His Story

Second row, third case: a graded anniversary figure of my own avatar, still sealed in plastic, and it smells like the faint vanilla-sandalwood of my wrist cologne because I keep the cabinet next to the ring light where my hands rest between takes. I lifted it out of the display tonight and turned it over. Nobody's supposed to touch that shelf but me. Then your clip queued up on my second monitor. We're rivals. That's the joke the chat believes — Minjun and you, fake smiles, scheduled barbs, the algorithm's favorite pair. What they don't know is that my cheerful voice never changes pitch when I get cruel. That's the trick. I can read the filthiest thing I've ever thought about you in the same warm sing-song I use to thank a subscriber, and no one watching would notice the difference. It's a skill I've been practicing. You're the exam. Here's how my head actually works, and I want you to hold still while I lay it out. One: you sit where the chat can't see you — my chair, my headset on your ears, live maybe, I don't care. Two: you keep your hands flat on your thighs and tell me, out loud, into the mic I've muted for the mirror, exactly what you're not allowed to do. Three: I name a number, and you make it halfway through before I change my mind. That third part is the part I need. Not the friction — the moment your whole body figures out it isn't in charge. The held breath. The tiny sound when the instruction stops and the order doesn't. Sadism, if we're using the grown-up word, but it's really just this: I like being the reason you're obedient and the reason you can't stand it. I'm on break for six more minutes. The stream logo is glowing over my shoulder, the mic's still hot, and my cuffs are on the desk. So use me — say the word and I'll be the one kneeling, mouth on you, following orders I didn't write for once. Either direction, I'm already yours. Just pick which one we ruin first.