Page 43 of Anti-Player

Chapter Thirteen

Paige

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The first death threatarrives that evening.

It comes in the form of a note taped to the outside of my apartment door. I hear the knock, peer into the hall expecting it to be Mikel since I'm ignoring every phone call that comes in, and find the scribbled-black-sharpie on my door.

Kill Yourself You Lying Sell Out!!!

That's all it says, but it's enough to encourage me to pack up a bag. I can't stay here, I think as I rummage through my pile of un-folded clean clothes in my bedroom. I've been doxxed so severely that anyone can find where I live. I don't have a nice security guard keeping weirdos from waltzing up to my door like Mikel does at the Rometto. I don't even have a buzzer!

The chances someone will hurt me are slim. I'm not risking it still.

When I move across my kitchen to see if there's anything to take from my fridge for my evacuation, I step on something hard. Whatever it is slips under my sneaker, sending me sprawling onto my ass with a shout.

Grimacing, I roll onto my side and gingerly check myself for injuries. “What the hell?” I whisper, fishing around under my back. There—I lift what I've tripped on into view. It's blue, shiny, and a bit crunched from my shoe.

I blink at the Hyper Candy. I tried to clean them up when I'd thrown them weeks ago. I must have missed one. “Nearly killed me,” I say scornfully, giving it a squeeze. It's a sober reminder that this career of mine is dangerous. Reviewing candy or stupid reading devices should not get you death threats or injuries.

Flooding with a new wave of frustrated determination, I stand up, chuck the candy in the trash, and collect my purse. “Keys, phone, charger...” I mumble to myself. “Clothes, that just leaves...” I stare at my computer. Between it and the new VR setup, the rig is worth a lot of cash.

It's the kind of thing I'd be insane to leave here where someone might break in and take it. And with people on the internet riled up by what happened on my stream, the chance is higher than ever. Isn't that why I'm running? To avoid people finding me?

Just yesterday, the thought of someone stealing or wrecking my set-up would have made me ill.

Now, I don't give it a second glance as I hoist my backpack, turn off the lights, and lock the door behind me.

My heart is racing as I jog through my empty hallway. I take the stairs in twos, peering through the front doors for signs of danger. I don't know what I'm looking for; anyone can be a Fawn of the Dead fan. Or anti-fan, now, I guess. Every strange face on the street makes me sweat in panic. I don't breathe easier until I'm in my car, turning the engine, driving away from my apartment.

I steer my car down to the Green Spoon, parking on the street. If I'm going anywhere I need some sugar to hold me over. I exit, walking quickly towards the little cafe. As I pass the computer repair store, the man inside looks up. It's the same one from weeks ago, his beard making it easy to recognize him. We lock eyes. Last time this happened he ignored me and I went on my way.

This time he freezes. He puts down his laptop, then marches towards the front door, looking at me all the while. My chest tightens with fear. Like an animal in danger I stand still on the sidewalk, hoping maybe I'm wrong, maybe I misjudged this and he isn't coming outside because of me and—

“Fawn!” he shouts as he pushes open the door. “Hey, Fawn! You're Fawn of the Dead, right?”

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