I was murdered by my best friend. 

That night, a celebratory party was planned for me and my partner. We had just won the Duos’ World Tournament for Gunners’ Royale, an immensely popular online first-person-shooter. Two champions, twenty million dollars shared equally between us. I was twenty-five years old, and life had never looked brighter and more promising.

Until that night. 

I was just about to leave for the party when the doorbell to my apartment rang. I opened the door to see my partner, Kyle Bodkin, standing with a champagne bottle in his hand and a broad smile on his face. He, like me, was dressed in a fancy suit—Armani, I presumed. He was even wearing white gloves, and I thought to myself someone had come prepared, too prepared even. 

“There’s my favorite sniper,” said Kyle, entering my apartment even before I asked him to come in. That was cool. We were close, almost like brothers, after all. Meanwhile, I was thinking about whether I should employ someone to answer the door for me at the mansion I would be living next month. What could I say? I felt good. I felt happy. 

“What are you doing here? We were supposed to meet at the party,” I said as I closed the door behind me. 

“Wanted to talk some stuff before all the partying and getting wild,” said Kyle, walking across my small living room and taking out two glasses from the kitchen shelf. He poured champagne into them and came back to where I stood to hand me one. 

“What is it? Shoot,” I said as I took one of the glasses, grinning a little at my lame pun at the end. We were gunners, the best shooters in the world, or at least in the world of gaming. 

“First, a toast,” said Kyle, lifting his glass.

“I was going to drive to the party,” I said, hesitating a little.

“Come on, it’s only one glass, and it’s a freaking champagne, not a scotch,” said Kyle, waving me off.

What the hell. I shrugged and slugged the entire glass in one gulp. I saw that Kyle did not drink his, but I did not think much of it at the moment. 

“To the world’s best sniper,” said Kyle with a smile.

“To the world’s best spotter,” I said, lifting my empty glass. 

“I cover for your ass, I think I deserve more than just a ‘spotter,’” said Kyle, putting down the full glass on the coffee table. How long was he going to stall here? The part was about to start. I was about to call him out to empty his when my legs gave away and the world swayed in front of me. 

“Whoa, you all right there, buddy?” said Kyle, not reaching for me to help or anything. 

“This champagne is really strong,” I said, or I wanted to. Instead, my tongue had turned into a stone, and I gagged, first confusedly, and then desperately. 

Holding my throat, I fell, or rather crumbled, face down. I wriggled around just barely to turn my head with my cheek pressed against the floor. Kyle still had not moved to help me up. He was standing, staring me down, while I lost any and every sense of my body and sank like a rock into a bottomless pit. And then I could no longer see him as he walked out of my view and started walking around my apartment. 

“What’s happening,” I grunted inaudibly. 

“What was that? You’re wondering what’s happening right now?” came Kyle’s voice from somewhere. My ears rang, and my vision was getting blurrier by seconds. I knew I was about to pass out—even worse, I was dying. 

My cloudy, dull eyes then caught the empty wine glass lying on the floor. I remembered that Kyle never drank the champagne. 

I understood how. But not why. 

“Why?” I called out desperately. I could feel my breaths becoming shallower and more broken.

Then Kyle’s face appeared out of nowhere, at nose length in front of my face. 

“Did you ask why? Is that what I heard?” whispered Kyle next to my ear. His voice sounded so distant, and cold. 

“As far as I’m concerned, I wasn’t here. No fingerprints, no security camera, no phone call, message, anything.”

Kyle got up and I could see him lifting up the champagne bottle. 

“Your history of bipolar disorder was extremely helpful. Thanks for sharing that with me, by the way. All right, here’s what happened this evening. You were happy yesterday, and you were sad today. So you threw the pill into the champagne and went out with a style. You, my buddy, are a tragic hero, who died as the world’s best professional gamer.”

Some sort of instinct was telling me that my last breath was coming nearer. But Kyle still did not answer my question. 

“Why?” I breathed again, not even a grunt this time. Just an airy gasp escaping my body.

Kyle, however, took the cue and answered nonchalantly, if not cheerily. 

“As to why, simple. Money. Ten million dollars is good money. Twenty million, now, that’s just more money.”

I cursed bitterly as my last breath left my body, and I blacked out.