Inspired by this post from @cadaverkeys !
"But that means..."
The protagonist trailed off as the bottom dropped out of their stomach, staring at the original, unedited access logs deep in the heart of the server.
The logical part of their brain was scrambling for explanation, was building excuses and reasonable exculpatations. A frame job. Someone had stolen rival's logins and cloned their security credentials. Someone had strewn breadcrumbs to lead the protagonist to this conclusion, to break the shaky trust they'd built with their longtime rival over these past weeks of suspicion and chaos.
But they knew. Even before the protagonist turned from the airgapped workstation to face the gun in their rival's hand, they knew. Their rival tilted their head, blue light glinting off their glasses.
"But that means what?" their rival said with vicious sweetness and a curl of their lip.
The protagonist's throat locked up. They couldn't speak, couldn't breathe. They'd been wrong before, experienced that awful crash of failure and self-loathing as the consequences of their stupidity spun out in front of them. But this, this was another level of horror.
And their rival- their enemy - was there, drinking up the protagonist's reaction with a hunger writ large in the twist of their mouth.
"No," the protagonist croaked, almost as a formality. "Why?"
Their rival shrugged. "Money. Oh, you mean why you?" They stepped forward, backing the protagonist away from the workstation. "It had to be someone. And you were the obvious target. I told you years ago, you're just not cut out for this line of work."
The protagonist's pulse sang in their ears, so loud they thought their rival's voice would be drowned out. They felt dizzy, the world splintering into disparate images. The gun. That smirk. The workstation.
"It is a frame job," the protagonist breathed. "On me. I'm the one who pulled the files. I'm the one who broke in here."
"See? This is what I'm talking about! You're so damn smart - once you get over that unfortunate tendency to believe the best of people." Even mid-gloat the rival didn't make dumb mistakes. They stopped a safe distance away, they didn't take their eyes off the protagonist. "'Protagonist, you're a dweeb but you're the only one here I know I can trust.' It was so easy to bait you in. Really, I'm doing everyone a favor, removing you from the game." They gestured with the gun towards the heavy door. "Go on then. Make a break for it."
The protagonist did not run. They were stuck in place on wobbly legs, their poor stupid brain replaying the last several weeks, trying to reframe everything they thought was going on. "No," they said again. "You're not about money."
The rival clicked back the safety. The sound echoed like a thunder bolt. "I said run."
The protagonist clenched their hand in their shirt, over their racing heart. "Why are you doing this? After all this time..."
"You're really just going to stand there? God, this is embarrassing," their rival snarled. They lowered the gun barrel an inch and a half. "Go on then. Attack. Do something."
"Who got to you?"
"No one got to me!" their rival, the enemy yelled. "This was me the whole time! I'm the one that got to you!"
"Yes," the protagonist agreed, meeting the rival's eyes. "You did. You were going to shoot me now?"
Seconds ticked away in silence.
"You're that confident I'm lying?" their rival said.
The protagonist leaned back their head and closed their eyes. "I'm that confident you hate me too much to end this quickly."
"Hm," the rival said thoughtfully. "You have a point."
And then they pounced. The protagonist's skull cracked into a server rack. Everything went black - the after images of their rival's smirk the last to fade.
