December 25, 2024 didn't feel special at first. It was just me, fifteen years old, lying on my bed with my phone inches from my face, thumb moving on autopilot as reels looped endlessly on NewTube. Edits, jokes, loud music, silence, repeat. Then one short stopped me—not because it was deep or meaningful, but because it felt human.
I commented without thinking. Something casual. Something stupid. I mentioned chest pain as a joke, half-bored, half-curious to see if anyone would reply.
People replied.
A few strangers suddenly turned into fake doctors. "Early signs of cancer," one said. Another doubled down. For a second, my stomach actually dropped. Then the creator himself replied, laughing it off, saying they were joking and I was fine.
That reply mattered more than it should have.
His platform name was flame.
He replied again.
Flame: You good though? Jam Seller: Yeah, yeah. Just bored scrolling. Divine: You talk like someone who needs a better place to waste time.
That was how it started. Not a dramatic beginning. Just boredom meeting coincidence.
He told me about a platform called Kay Nya. Not NewTube, not anything I'd heard of. Just a place where people talked. I hesitated. I'd never really talked online like that before. Games? Sure. But actual conversations? Nah. Still, I installed it.
The moment I joined, it felt less like an app and more like walking into a school halfway through the year.
The place was called the 6th Affiliate.
At least, that's what everyone called it.
There were classrooms—general halls where everyone talked at once, quieter rooms where people debated about a popular Korean manwha, creative rooms where edits were shared, and staff-only corridors I wasn't allowed to step into. Instead of real names, everyone wore platform names and short bios like badges. No faces. No ages. No real-life details unless someone chose to reveal them.
Eighty-five people were already there when I joined.
And me.
My name was Jaams lee.
Not because I sold jam. Not yet.
At first, I didn't know how to talk. I came from toxic game chats where yelling was language and insults were punctuation. So I talked the only way I knew how—loud, impulsive, sometimes rude, sometimes weirdly kind. I'd greet someone like we were already friends.
Jaams lee: Yo buddy, what's up.
Some people replied. Some ignored me. A few asked the classic question.
"Who even are you?"
I'd answer honestly.
Jaams lee: We're already friends. You just don't know it yet.
That confused people. Sometimes it made them laugh.
Names kept appearing in my screen like classmates walking past my desk. Copy. Misku. Zhou Fan. Atrelien Painter. Flame. PRB. Everyone had their own energy. Some were calm. Some chaotic. Some way too serious about debates.
I didn't debate much. I lived in the general hall, talking nonsense, cracking jokes, making noise. Noise gets attention.
Not all of it good.
Xuan was one of the moderators. If this place was a school, he was the strict prefect who somehow always noticed when I spoke.
Muted.
Kicked.
Once, almost banned.
It happened so often that people started joking about it.
"Daily Jam punishment."
But here's the funny part—I never stayed gone.
I made the halls loud. Active. Alive. People logged in and saw messages flying. Even the staff knew it. They couldn't permanently silence me without making the place boring.
That's when Divine joked that I should open a shop.
Divine: You're always handing out those jam emojis. Just make it official. Jam Seller: A shop? In a school? Divine: Exactly. Best businesses start in school.
So I did.
The Jam Store.
It wasn't real, obviously—but it felt real. I roleplayed it like a tiny stall in the corner of the hallway. I sold flavors with emojis: blueberry, kiwi, pear, strawberry. Even milk and chocolate. People paid using the platform's internal game system—owo.
OwO wasn't just one thing. It was a whole economy.
You earned owo by chatting, playing mini-games, winning battles. You could gamble it, save it, flex it. There were animals you could catch, raise, and send into battles. Each animal had stats—strength, speed, luck. Some were common. Some were rare enough to make people jealous.
Weapons existed too. Swords, bows, magical items—nothing violent in a real sense, more like chess pieces with personalities. Battles were turn-based, text-driven, full of suspense.
Divine explained it patiently, like a senior teaching a junior.
Divine: Start small. Catch animals first. Jam Seller: And then? Divine: Train them. Equip weapons. Battle others. Win, lose, repeat. Jam Seller: Sounds like life but with numbers.
I loved it instantly.
I'd borrow owo coins from Divine or Soamja, promising to pay them back after a few wins. Sometimes I did. Sometimes I didn't. They still helped. That mattered.
People started lining up at the Jam Store. Buying food for buffs before battles. Dropping by just to talk. The joke became a title.
"Legendary Jam Seller."
I wasn't staff. I wasn't special.
But somehow, I was.
By the end of the month, the school had grown. Divine's NewTube promotions worked. Eighty-five became one hundred eighty-five. New students arrived daily. With growth came jealousy. Rumors. Fake allegations.
Someone accused me of harassing a girl.
It wasn't true.
I fought alone. With words. With logs. With patience I didn't know I had. I won—but the experience changed me. I started watching people more closely. Analyzing patterns. Smiles that didn't reach eyes. Silence that meant plotting.
That's when I met Sona.
She didn't talk much. Didn't shout. Didn't accuse. She just… stayed.
For the first time, the noise softened.
By January's end, my level was fifteen. Rank seven. PRB was still acting weird. Divine still laughed. Xuan still muted me. And somewhere in the background, names like Arron and Zenkai began appearing more often.
I didn't know it yet, but the school was already splitting into sides.
And this was only the first month.
By the time people realized the Jam Store wasn't a joke, it was already too late.
Someone would walk into the general hall and type something normal, like asking about the manwha, and five messages later the conversation would somehow turn into food.
Copy: I'm broke. Jam Seller: Emotionally or owo-wise? Copy: Both. Jam Seller: 🫐🥝🍓 Half-price today.
And just like that, another customer.
OwO wasn't just a side game anymore. It became the school's unspoken second curriculum. Everyone pretended they were here for debates and edits, but the truth was simple—numbers were addictive. Coins. Levels. Rankings. Watching your name climb felt like winning silently.
Divine noticed how clueless I was at first.
Divine: You still haven't battled properly, have you? Jam Seller: I press buttons and pray. Divine: That explains a lot.
He dragged me—politely—into explaining it properly. Battles weren't just luck. Animals had personalities, stats that actually mattered. Some were fast but weak. Some were tanks. Weapons boosted certain traits. A bad match-up could humiliate you. A good one could make you look like a genius.
Divine: Don't rush. Read the stats. Jam Seller: Stats don't scare me. People do. Divine: Then this game was made for you.
My first real animal wasn't rare. Not flashy. Just dependable. I named it something stupid and immediately felt attached. Training it felt weirdly personal—like watching something grow because I paid attention.
The first battle I won made me grin at my phone like an idiot.
Jam Seller: I WON. Copy: Against who? Jam Seller: Doesn't matter. History remembers winners.
The hall laughed.
Losses came too. Embarrassing ones. Times I borrowed owo, lost it instantly, and pretended it was part of a long-term strategy.
Jam Seller: Tactical donation. Soamja: You're never paying me back, are you? Jam Seller: Spiritually, I already have.
Somehow, people kept lending me coins.
That's when I realized something important—I wasn't popular because I was strong. I was popular because I was present. Always there. Always talking. Always reacting. The school felt quieter when I wasn't.
Xuan noticed that too.
He muted me again.
Five minutes later, the hall slowed down.
Someone typed: "Where's Jam?"
I came back.
Muted again the next day. Kicked once. Never banned for long.
People started joking that I was unkickable.
That was the moment the Jam Seller title stopped being a joke and started feeling like status.
With status came attention. With attention came eyes that didn't like what they saw.
Whispers started. Private rooms buzzing quietly. Screenshots taken out of context. People smiling in public, questioning in private.
I noticed it because I watched people.
I always had.
At fifteen, I didn't have control over much in real life. School, family, expectations—none of that listened. But here? Here I could read tone, timing, silence. I could tell when someone wanted something. I could tell when someone was lying.
That scared people more than my jokes ever did.
One day, a message popped up from someone I hadn't talked to much.
Sona.
Sona: You're loud. Jam Seller: Professionally. Sona: You're not fake though.
That line stuck.
We talked slowly. No noise. No audience. Just words. She didn't ask who I was. Didn't push. Didn't analyze me like a puzzle.
For the first time since joining, I wasn't performing.
Meanwhile, PRB was being PRB.
PRB acted dramatic, exaggerated everything, leaned into jokes so hard they looped back into comedy.
Someone typed the phrase one day.
"PRB is gay ❌ Gay is PRB ✔️"
The hall exploded.
Even PRB laughed.
Divine shook his head.
Divine: This school is doomed. Jam Seller: Not while the Jam Store stands.
By mid-month, the ranking board updated.
Level fifteen.
Top seven.
My name sat higher than people who had been here longer. People who took things seriously. People who hated that.
That's when the accusation dropped.
Sudden. Loud. Ugly.
I didn't panic.
I collected messages. Context. Timelines. I spoke once, clearly, without jokes. Without noise.
Silence followed.
The accusation collapsed.
Some apologized.
Some didn't.
I remembered the ones who stayed quiet.
The school kept growing. New students flooded in from NewTube. Faces blurred. Names stacked. Somewhere in that crowd, two names appeared more often than coincidence would allow.
Arron.
Zenkai.
They watched more than they talked.
I kept selling jam.
Kept battling.
Kept laughing.
But now, I was watching too.
January ended with fireworks on screens and silence behind them.
I didn't know who was a friend.
I only knew one thing for sure.
The second month wouldn't be fun anymore.