The chair was the only weapon she had.
Helen dragged it across the small space, the scrape of metal legs against the floor sounding like an alarm. There was no safety chain on the door, a design flaw in a building that had once been a cyber-hotel, constructed with soundproof rooms to guarantee immersion privacy. A benefit that had now become a tactical disadvantage. There was no point in asking who it was.
She tipped the chair onto its side, wedging the top of the backrest just below the doorknob, creating an improvised barricade. She would open only a crack. A crack to see, a crack to think.
Heart pounding against her ribs, she unlocked the door and opened it until it hit the chair. Through the narrow gap, she saw the gray uniform of a delivery worker.
"What is it?" Her voice came out as a rough whisper.
The man startled, peering into the dark slit. "A delivery for Miss Helen. Is she here?"
"That's me," she said, her eyes scanning the corridor behind him. Empty. "I didn't order anything."
"But, ma'am, this is the address, and the recipient is Helen."
"Who's the sender?" she asked.
He checked his tablet. "SSL 3D Prints."
A custom merchandise manufacturer. Dangerous.
"Turn the seal," she ordered. He complied, showing her the box's biometric security seal. "Has it been screened for explosives or biological material?"
The deliveryman sighed, impatient. "Yes, ma'am. Standard procedure for all non-corporate deliveries. Can you receive it? I've got over fifty deliveries in this building alone today."
Normal. The building was full of players. Anonymous packages from gaming companies were common here. The risk was low. She removed the chair, opened the door just enough to grab the medium-sized box, and closed it again, locking it before he could say another word.
He waited outside for a moment, hoping for a tip that never came.
She set the box on her small sink, her heart still racing. With trembling hands, she tore open the seal and lifted the lid.
And nearly dropped it.
Inside, nestled in protective foam, was a perfect 3D print. An exact replica of her Star-Mite. The scratched ladybug.
Except it was destroyed.
A massive, jagged hole tore through the hull. And inside the cockpit, visible through the breach, was a small figure in an orange jumpsuit, identical to her avatar, slumped over the controls.
Dead.
The first thing that crossed Helen's mind wasn't fear. It was game logic.
I don't have insurance.
The thought was cold and immediate. If they destroyed her ship, the system would roll her back to Port Kepler. No ship. No credits for another. Back to cleaning sewers for a single sicle. Back to square one. She had no way to pay for insurance. The freedom she had just bought would be erased.
Only then did a second thought, slower, far more terrifying, rise out of the fog of logic.
The confusion hit her like a wave of ice.
Someone knew it was her in that ladybug. Among thousands of players, someone had identified her.
And they knew her real-world address.
The little soundproof room suddenly didn't feel safe anymore. It felt like a trap.
The war was no longer confined to the game.
It had found her address.