“What job should a recent college graduate get?”

That was the caption on a livestream where a group of young women danced suggestively to trending Douyin tracks. The viral phenomenon, or perhaps more accurately, a job opportunity, that’s sweeping Chinese social media is known as “group livestreaming” (团播, tuánbō). In these broadcasts, e-idols perform short dance routines in a group of five, taking turns in the center spotlight, as viewers vote in real time to keep them performing or to switch them out.

All the while, a live commentator narrates the action, praising standout moves, and thanking viewers by their usernames. Fans can even pay to dictate specific dance moves, usually for just a few RMB. There is a wide range of aesthetics to pick from: classic BL-coded thirst traps, girl groups dressed as palace maidens, or in Japanese schoolgirl uniforms. There’s always something tailored to fit your taste. Much of the appeal lies in the ability to pick a genre, then “remote control” the e-idols with just a few clicks.

With the disappearance of the Chinese mainland’s traditional idol industry, marked by the 2016 ban on South Korean entertainment and the 2021 ban on idol survival shows, homegrown idol groups have struggled to capture the same cultural force. In this vacuum, e-idol livestreaming emerged as a low-barrier alternative, offering the same fan-service appeal, but dialing it up to eleven.

And it can certainly pay off. This June, Xuan Xuan (萱萱) of the SK Girl Group (SK女团), one of the Chinese mainland’s biggest group streaming agencies, made headlines when a single viewer tipped her 903 Carnivals—a premium virtual gift worth 3,000 RMB each. The tip totaled 2.7 million RMB (around 376,700 USD), with her reported earnings that night reaching 600,000 RMB (around 83,700 USD). But stories like Xuanxuan’s are definitely outliers.

The SK Girl Group (SK女团), like many other agencies, advertises a monthly pay of 8,000 to 20,000 RMB (around 1,117 to 2,790 USD)—a number that is comparable to white-collar management positions in the Chinese mainland. But it’s far from an easy job, as e-idols are expected to memorize dozens of dance routines and work grueling hours while engaging in private chats to maintain viewer interest. From revealing outfits to suggestive dance moves, the erotic undertones are hard to ignore. Online critics often compare group streaming to “cyber strip clubs.” In some reported cases, the blurred boundaries have even led e-idols into the realm of offline sex work.

While the production quality and costume themes may differ, the content itself feels eerily homogenous. Enter any livestream and you’ll find the same recycled viral music, identical dance moves, and the ever-present narrator soliciting gifts. It’s less an idol variety show and more like virtual busking, with just enough eroticism to keep viewers hooked. If you didn’t know better, you might think you’d stumbled into a Black Mirror episode.

Alongside group livestreaming, another recent trend has been taking over Chinese social media—posting videos captioned, “I’ve forgotten what I used to do ever since becoming a delivery driver” or other jobs, like baristas, waiters, or group streamers. The video then cuts to images of the poster’s former life as a surgeon, professional dancer, news anchor, or 985 university graduate. The contrast is quite stark, reflecting the Chinese mainland’s increasingly competitive job market, where higher education no longer guarantees stable employment or decent pay. So, what job should a recent college graduate get when the algorithm offers more job security than a college degree?

Cover image via Xiaohongshu.