Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Miles Edgeworth is twenty-two years old when he realizes that he is not going to survive.

After the conclusion of the Joe Dark killings, Miles finally made a name for himself as a ruthless prosecutor. Admittedly, yes, unsavory rumors now follow Miles wherever he goes, but he refuses to let them bother him. Miles is bringing justice upon the guilty. That’s all that matters.

Unfortunately, Miles’ nightmares of thirteen years ago only worsen with the attention, and Miles slowly understands that he is fighting a losing battle against his psyche. Maybe for now, he will continue winning cases and making a name for himself, continue pleasing Von Karma and trying to ward off nightmares. But in the long run? His guilt will eat him alive.

Sometimes, Miles contemplates turning himself in. Marching up to the Chief of Police Gant, holding out his wrists, and confessing to the murder of Gregory Edgeworth. Von Karma would probably laugh, but the guilty must be punished, and Miles would rather it be quick and over than his current, agonizing existence.

Nobody would grieve for Miles Edgeworth.

He tried once. He knocked on Gant’s office door, stepped inside, and stared at the man, trying to force the words to come out.

“What is it, Worthy?” Gant asked. Miles hates that nickname. Hates the implication he’s worthy of anything. Hates that Gant seems to know how ironic the nickname is, from the way his lips quirk up every time he says it. “Something on your mind?”

“I—” Miles said, feeling nauseous. “I would like to—to congratulate you on your promotion. Sir.”

Gant laughed so heartily that Miles could have sworn he knew exactly what Miles had wanted to say.

But that is impossible. How could he know?

Miles has just climbed multiple flights of stairs to his office, and he’s out of breath and exhausted when he collapses into his desk chair. He has a difficult case he needs to work on right away before Von Karma thinks that he’s using his independence as an excuse to slack off.

But the light of his office phone is blinking repeatedly with the words 1 New Message, and Miles sighs, picks up the phone, and presses the playback button.

“Hey, Miles!” A nervous chuckle comes from the other end of the line. “I know you’re probably really busy, but uh, I just wanted to check in, you know? There’s some stuff in the newspapers that kinda worries me, but I’m sure it isn’t true, right? I still dunno why you became a prosecutor, but that’s really none of my business, I guess. Those rumors must not be easy to handle so, I don’t know, give me a call? And tell your dad I said ‘hi’. Oh! Um, this is Phoenix. Phoenix Wright. So, uh, bye.”

Miles sits rigidly, clutching the phone so tightly it’s a wonder it doesn’t break. Wright’s voice echoes in his ears, so cheerful and yet so demeaning. Who does he think he is? Miles hasn’t seen him since the two of them were nine, and yet Wright continues to insist on contacting him after years upon years of ignored letters and calls.

I dunno why you became a prosecutor, Wright says, as if Miles would have done anything different.

Tell your dad I said ‘hi’.

Miles slams the phone back into the receiver and stands up, breathing shakily. How could Wright not know? How could he have not figured it out? Gregory Edgeworth died thirteen years ago, the statute of limitations on his case would run out in a mere two years, and Wright had the gall to assume that Miles’ father was still alive?

Miles couldn’t breathe. His vision blurred and his chest tightened in a way it usually only did when he was trapped in elevators or when an earthquake unexpectedly shakes his entire world and—and—

Miles eventually recovers from his panic enough to realize he’s curled up on the floor, leaning against his desk. Appalled with himself, he scrambles to his feet and straightens his cravat.

A Von Karma is perfect in every way.

Miles bites his tongue to stop a pained laugh from escaping.

An Edgeworth is something else entirely.

That night, Miles has nightmares.

It starts the same way his nightmares always do. The earthquake. The elevator. The bailiff attacking his father. Miles seeing the gun at his feet. He picks it up, but instead of throwing it, he points it directly at his father’s chest and fires.

His father’s guttural scream causes the world to shake all over again.

The elevator doors slide open, and Miles flees the scene of the crime like the guilty always do. He flees directly into the courtroom. He’s running late for his trial. He slides behind the prosecution’s desk and looks up at the judge who wears Von Karma’s face.

“Court is now in session for the trial of Mr. Phoenix Wright—”

Miles’ heart drops, and he turns his head to the witness stand. Phoenix stands there, still nine years old and sobbing.

“I didn’t do it,” he pleads. “I didn’t do it.”

“The prosecution is ready, your honor,” Miles says, ignoring Phoenix’s pleas. The guilty must always be punished.

“The defense is ready, your honor,” says Gregory Edgeworth. There’s no sign that he was shot just moments before, but he stares at Miles with such contempt that Miles almost falls over backwards.

Von Karma continues the trials proceedings, but Miles has left all his evidence in the elevator. He asks if he can retrieve it, but Von Karma only laughs in his face. Meanwhile, his father tears apart Miles’ witnesses before Miles has the chance to even remember what the trial is even for.

The disgust on Von Karma’s face almost matches the look on Gregory’s.

“I declare the defendant Not Guilty,” says Von Karma, pounding his gavel, and Miles’ stomach swoops, and he feels dizzy because a Von Karma is perfect in every way and cannot under any circumstances lose a trial and let a criminal go free, and his father laughs at him as Phoenix cries and—

Miles wakes up suddenly, his throat dry as he stares at his ceiling.

It was just a dream, he tells himself. You didn’t lose a trial. You haven’t failed that badly.

Yet.

Miles closes his eyes and tries to force himself to fall back asleep, but he cannot expel the image of his father’s contempt. Von Karma’s disappointment. Wright’s anguish.

I dunno why you became a prosecutor—

Miles grits his teeth and yanks his sheets off himself. It’s obvious he’s not going to get any sleep in his current condition, so he might as well try and get work done instead. He exits his bedroom and enters his kitchen.

Miles pours water into his tea pot and puts it on the stove. Hopefully tea will clear his head enough for him to be able to focus. For him to forget about a stupid nightmare.

“A Von Karma is perfect in every way,” Miles whispers to himself, combing his hair back with his fingers. As if being a disciple of Von Karma will change the Edgeworth that runs through his veins.

Defense attorneys are cowards. Cowards who let criminals go free. To be a defense attorney is to side with the guilty, to make the world a more dangerous place, to—

His tea pot starts whistling, and Miles quickly takes it off the stove. He tries to quiet his thoughts as he pours the water into a mug and places a cheap tea bag into it.

Gregory Edgeworth hated prosecutors. He hated Von Karma. He hated justice, he hated—

Even if Miles is innocent, even if Gregory Edgeworth didn’t die by his hand—Miles couldn’t have killed his father, he couldn’t have, it was just a nightmare, please—Gregory would have hated the man Miles is now. Miles could already picture it. The same contempt as in his dream. Standing on opposite ends of the courtroom. Gregory calling him a monster.

The thought causes a shiver to wrack through Miles’ body, and he grabs the counter for support. He shouldn’t care what Gregory would think of him. His father is dead, and he was a coward in life, and Miles should only care about the next case, the next trial, the next victory, the next—

The next—

Miles’ tea is dark and over seeped, and Miles dumps the liquid into the sink with a defeated sigh.

Miles completes a trial and sentences another criminal to their punishment when he spots a familiar face in the crowd. He doesn’t know where he recognizes the man from, just that his glasses seem familiar, his hair, his face, everything about him seems so—

But then the man fades into the rest of the crowd, and Miles has work to do, so he forgets about the man who looks strikingly like his father.

But the man doesn’t go away.

Miles next sees him outside the prosecutor’s offices. The man tries to speak to him, but Miles refuses to look at him, refuses to acknowledge a word he says. Miles is busy, and a Von Karma is perfect in every way, and a busy Von Karma certainly does not waste time on strangers who call out his name.

“Miles!” the man exclaims, almost causing Miles to stop short.

But he doesn’t.

Miles sees the man again in the police headquarters. Gant, of all people, is talking to him cheerfully, as if he’s greeting an old friend. He really does bear a striking resemblance to Miles’ father, but it’s been so many years since Miles has seen a picture of his father that he can’t say for sure.

Miles glances at Gumshoe, who looks as confused as he is.

“Detective,” Miles says. “Who is that man Chief Gant is talking to?”

Gumshoe frowns and scratches the back of his head. “I’m not sure,” he says. “But, uh, they’re both looking your way.”

Miles glances back at the two of them, and, sure enough, they’re both staring at Miles. Gant is wearing a smirk that could either mean something was very wrong or very right, and the other man’s expression is entirely unreadable.

“Hey, Worthy!” Gant says cheerfully. “Come over here a sec, will ya?”

Miles nods to Detective Gumshoe as farewell before approaching the two men. He’s still by far one of the youngest people in the entire building, and he feels like he’s being analyzed by each of the older men. Miles tries to keep his chin up and his composure about him, but he’s been told numerous times that he only looks younger the more serious he is.

“The strangest miracle has happened,” Gant says, clapping his hands together and beaming. “We should talk about it more in my office.”

The other man nods, and Miles can only follow Gant to the elevators. Miles forces himself to stay impassive as he steps into the small, metal box, even as his heartrate quickens and his mind is filled with the overwhelming desire to flee before it’s too late.

The stranger hesitates at the elevator door, as if he too can sense the danger.

“Oh, right,” Gant says, his jovial expression fading somewhat. “Probably don’t have the best association with these things, do you? Considering…”

“It’s fine,” says the man, and he steps into the elevator and stands to Miles’ right. Miles inhales as the doors slide shut, reminding himself that there is plenty of oxygen to spare.

The entire ride up, the stranger’s eyes keep darting toward Miles. Miles wonders if his panic is really that obvious, if even now Gant plans on telling everyone how much of a coward Miles Edgeworth truly is.

Thirteen years is plenty of time to get over a little trauma, he’ll say cheerfully to Von Karma one day. But I guess I can understand his position.

But Von Karma won’t understand, and Miles—

With a ping, the elevator doors open. Miles forces himself to wait for the stranger to get off first; he doesn’t want to look desperate.

But the stranger gets off quickly, and Miles swiftly follows him. Gant unlocks the door to his office before letting them inside and closing the door behind them.

The stranger’s eyes trail over to the massive organ sitting against the back wall of the room. Miles can’t tell if the gleam in his expression is amusement, judgement, or envy, but Miles understands. Does an office really need a massive instrument?

“Alrighty,” Gant says, clapping his hands and leading the other two to his desk. “Now that I’ve got you both here and secure, we can discuss business.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Miles says, irritated by the mystery. “Who is this man?”

The stranger grimaces, but Miles doesn’t know how his words could have offended.

Gant sits down, clasps his hands together, and leans forward, looking up at Miles with an appraising expression. “You might want to sit down for this one, kiddo.”

Has someone died? Who? Franziska? Manfred von Karma himself? There is no one else in Miles’ life that Gant would think to inform him of in the event of their death. And Gumshoe is downstairs, alive and well.

Miles sits down anyway. The stranger sits next to him.

“Well, there’s no easy way to say this,” Gant says, picking up a file from his desk and holding it out to Miles. Miles takes it but doesn’t glance at the contents.

“Sir,” Miles says. “Who’s died?”

“Died?” Gant raises his eyebrows. “No one’s died. Quite the opposite, in fact. Maybe you would like to open that file I gave you?”

“You can’t tell me the truth yourself?”

“I think it’s best to let the facts speak for themselves.”

Miles glances incredulously at the stranger beside him before opening the file. A photo of the stranger sits at the top, and Miles pushes it to the side in order to read the information beneath.

It’s a list of test results. Fingerprints, bloodwork, DNA, facial matches, medical information, all of which pointing to the identity of the mystery stranger being—

Miles drops the file suddenly, not caring that its contents scatter to the ground. He jumps to his feet, overcome with a mixture of anger and something else entirely.

“Is this your idea of a joke?” Miles demands. He always forgets proper decorum when caught by surprise. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Exactly what is says,” Gant says, not a glimmer of a smile in his eyes. “I know this might seem hard to believe—”

“Hard to believe?” Miles laughs, astonished puffs of air that don’t even begin to resemble amusement. “This is impossible. My father is dead and has been for thirteen years!”

“Miles—” says the imposter, and now that the thought has been put into Miles’ head, the similarities are becoming harder to ignore. The concern in his face, his voice—

Miles takes a step away from the desk. “I know I’m young, and I know—I know what people say about me, but I am not a fool, Chief Gant.”

“That’s funny,” Gant says, a false smile returning to his face. “Because to ignore so much hard evidence seems very out of character for you, Worthy.”

“They found his corpse!” Miles screams, unable to believe what he is hearing. “They performed an autopsy on him! They had a medium summon his spirit! Even if my father miraculous survived all that, he would be almost fifty! Not still mid-way through his thirties!”

“I can’t explain what’s going on any better than you can,” Gant says. “But we’ve performed the tests, and this man is a one-hundred-percent match with all of Gregory Edgeworth’s old records. And since you have no living relatives to speak of, I highly doubt this is an elaborate family ruse.”

“The tests were rigged,” Miles says tightly.

“I can assure you,” Gant says, with a glint in his eye that means Miles better stop talking, “they were not.”

Miles is shaking, and the ghost of his father is sitting a meter away from him, and Gant is staring at Miles like Miles is the immature child who isn’t thinking clearly.

“He has an autopsy scar,” Gant adds.

What.

“People don’t come back from the dead,” Miles says hoarsely.

“I would agree with you,” Gant says cheerfully. “But clearly strange and miraculous things still go on in this world anyhow. Why don’t you sit back down? You’re looking a bit peckish.”

Miles almost laughs again, but Gregory Edgeworth is staring at him with a concerned expression, and by now his father must have noticed his clothes, his demeanor, his occupation.

“Forgive me,” Miles says, not sure who he’s talking to.

Miles sits back down and tries to organize his thoughts.

“Unfortunately, it’s not as easy as it looks to get the proper documentation to revive someone from the dead after thirteen years,” Gant continues, as if Miles’ outburst never happened. “And people aren’t likely to hire dead defense attorneys. So while we try to sort things out, I think it’ll be best if Worthy Senior lives with you.”

“Me?” Miles asks, his ears ringing.

“If there isn’t room—” Gregory begins, but Gant holds up a hand to silence him.

“Oh, there’s room,” Gant says. “You’ve been making quite a name for yourself, haven’t you, Worthy? I’m sure you can afford an apartment with a guest bedroom.”

“I can,” Miles says. “And I do.”

“Great!” Gant claps his hands together and beams. “So glad we had this talk! Don’t worry about your current investigation, Worthy, I’ll have Payne take it from here—”

Miles sputters. That puffed-up fool? “B-but—”

“You should go and get your old man settled!” Gant stands up, which causes Miles and Gregory to stand up as well. “I’m sure you two have a lot of catching up to do, with thirteen years going by and all, so have fun!”

Without another word, Gant leads them out of the office and shuts the door behind them before Miles can even begin to get another protest in edgewise. Miles and Gregory stand in front of the door for a moment, baffled.

“Miles,” says Gregory. His expression is still soft, and his eyes are so sad, and an overwhelming feeling of shame hits Miles so suddenly that he wants to throw up.

Von Karmas don’t feel shame, Von Karmas are perfect in every way, and Miles has a reputation to uphold—

Edgeworths are a blight upon society, whether as defense attorneys or maybe-murderers, they only serve to oppose justice, no matter how hard Miles tries—

“I understand that this is probably a lot for you,” continues Gregory, unaware of the thoughts racing through Miles’ mind. “I’m sorry.”

It’s been so long since a superior has ever dreamed of apologizing to Miles. Yet another example of how undignified an Edgeworth can be.

“I’m the one who should apologize for my outburst,” Miles says coldly, staring ahead and not looking at Gregory’s face. “I apologize. Now, shall we go, or do you have any more business you wish to attend to?”

“Nothing here,” Gregory says. “Let’s go.”

Miles recently bought his car due to a rise in his pay following the Joe Darke case, but now he dearly wishes he hadn’t. At least with public transportation, he would have an excuse not to speak to his phantom father. Stuck in the car with just his father, the atmosphere is downright suffocating.

Miles is still half convinced this is all just some terrible nightmare.

“How much do you remember?” Miles asks, because small talk is hard enough with people who haven’t died and come back to life, and Miles is too tired to even attempt it with this ghost.

“Everything,” Gregory says with such frankness that Miles’ hold on the steering wheel stiffens. “Things get hazy in the elevator, but I remember being summoned by that medium and asked by the police who killed me, and the next thing I know, I’m here.” He shrugs. “If my spirit was channeled, I suppose I should remember something of an afterlife, but… I can’t remember. It’s all blank.”

Things get hazy in the elevator. What does that mean? Does Gregory remember who killed him? Or does even death not cure forgetfulness due to oxygen deprivation?

“How are you here?” Miles asks.

“I don’t know,” Gregory says. “I woke up in the cemetery, outside my grave.”

If they checked, would they find Gregory’s urn empty? Did Gregory’s cremated remains magically repair themselves? Or did some other mythical force summon Gregory’s body out of nowhere, or pull it out of a different time, but allowed Gregory to maintain all his memories?

This entire situation is so outside the realm of logic that Miles expels it from his mind. It doesn’t make sense, and it will never make sense, and Miles would do well to just not think about it.

“Your killer was found not guilty,” Miles says stiffly.

“I heard.” Gregory’s voice is neutral.

Miles opens his mouth to say more, but he’s suddenly afraid of what he might say. He shuts it again and focuses on driving.

“Who took you in?” Gregory asks. “After I was gone?”

Miles’ jaw tightens. “Manfred von Karma.”

Miles refuses to look at his father’s face, but he knows the surprise is palpable. “Von Karma?” he asks. “The Prosecutor von Karma?”

“The very same.”

“He didn’t strike me as the type to adopt—”

“I am his disciple,” Miles interrupts, not wanting there to be any confusion on the matter. “Not his son.”

“But he treats you well?”

It's an interesting question. Von Karma can be harsh at times, but there's no question that Miles is treated well. Von Karma made sure Miles was fed and taken care of and educated to the highest degree of perfection. And if sometimes Von Karma has to be demanding or harsh so that Miles fulfills his potential, well... that's just to be expected.

“Von Karma is a great man, deserving of respect,” he says.

“That doesn’t answer my question.”

Isn’t that just like a defense attorney? To keep pressing and pressing about details that are trivial to what really matters?

“Of course, he does,” Miles says, but something sits oddly within him as he says the words. He pushes the strange feeling aside. “More than I deserve.”

Gregory leaves it alone, thank God, and the rest of their journey is spent in silence. Miles leads his father into his apartment.

Gregory looks around the relatively expensive apartment and nods. “Nice place.”

“Do you have any things?” Miles asks, because it only just now occurs to him that Gregory is not holding a suitcase or bag of any kind.

“It looks like my stuff didn’t come with me, no,” Gregory says, his lips quirking up in an amused way, as if anything about this situation is amusing.

“Well, that should be rectified,” Miles says. He removes his wallet from his inner jacket pocket and hands Gregory his credit card. It’s a reckless and foolish thing to do, but Miles does not have nearly enough physical cash on him to pay for a man’s entire wardrobe, and he cannot bear the thought of following Gregory Edgeworth around and shopping. “There’s a bus stop not far from here. You should buy yourself a change of clothes, at least.”

Gregory nods. “Alright,” he says. “Do you, um, need anything? Groceries?”

“I’m fine,” Miles says curtly.

Please leave, Miles pleads in his mind, not daring to say the words out loud.

Gregory nods, as if he could hear Miles’ silent plea perfectly. He leaves the apartment and shuts the door carefully behind him.

Miles exhales as soon as he’s gone. He collapses onto his sofa and rests the back of his head against the wall, trying to reorganize his thoughts.

What does he know?

His father is alive. After thirteen years, his father’s ghost has appeared out of nowhere, has passed every medical examination confirming his identity, and is now living in Miles’ house.

Gant expects Miles to provide for his father while he figures out paperwork. It’s more than fair, Miles is Gregory’s only living family, seeing as until just now, Miles was under the impression he was the only Edgeworth left.

Miles has to live with his not-dead father indefinitely.

The thought is so appalling that Miles sinks further into the couch cushions. Maybe Gant expected him to be overjoyed by this revelation, but how could he? Miles has long since been disillusioned from his father’s career, and after everything…

“It won’t be for forever,” Miles tells himself. “It’s just temporary.”

Before Miles can rally himself into standing up and taking stock of his pantry (because he actually doubts he has enough food for two), his phone chimes in his pocket. Miles almost doesn’t look at it, afraid it’s his father, before he remembers he never gave Gregory his number.

Miles fishes his phone from his pocket, flips it open, and wearily looks at the screen.

Detective Gumshoe: Hi pal just checking in

Miles huffs. He could ignore the message. Unlike Wright, Gumshoe is at least capable of acknowledging when Miles would like to be left alone. However, Miles could use a distraction from this bizarre situation. Maybe Gumshoe can fill him in on the case, at the very least.

Miles clicks on Gumshoe’s contact and presses the call button. The ringer only lasts for half a second before Gumshoe picks up.

“Sir!” he exclaims. “Is everything alright? You left in a hurry, and then Gant tells me the case has been reassigned to someone else! You’re not fired, are ya?”

“Nothing quite so severe, Detective,” Miles says. It’s somewhat difficult to breathe, and Miles tugs at his cravat in an attempt to loosen its grip around his throat.

Gumshoe audibly exhales. “That’s a relief. But, if that’s the case, what on earth’s going on?!”

Miles hesitates, unsure of how to broach the subject in a way that wouldn’t make him sound like he had entirely lost his mind.

“There’s been an unexpected… development,” Miles says.

“Development?”

Miles has no reason to tell Gumshoe the truth of the matter. As a matter of fact, doing so might be downright foolhardy. Miles has no doubt that Gant wants to keep his father’s unexpected resurrection under wraps for the time being, and Gumshoe seems like the sort to exclaim the news loudly in a police station.

On the other hand, Gumshoe has never told anyone about Miles’ unpleasant association with earthquakes and elevators, even after multiple highly embarrassing incidents in which Miles had panic attacks in front of the detective. Maybe he could be trusted to keep Gregory Edgeworth a secret.

And, honestly, Miles needs to get this off his chest.

“Sir?” Gumshoe asks, the silence growing long, even for Miles.

“What I am about to tell you, you can’t tell anyone,” Miles says quietly, refusing to let his voice shake.

“Yes, sir!” Gumshoe says before lowering his voice. “You have my word.”

Miles sighs. “It seems… that my father is not as dead as we have previously believed.”

“What?!”

Miles explains the situation as best as he can, but he knows Gumshoe is even more confused than Miles is by the time he’s finished. Still, Gumshoe doesn’t ask too many questions and only says,

“So, how are you feeling?”

“That’s a highly unprofessional question, Detective,” Miles says dryly, as if he hasn’t just conveyed troubling details of his personal life.

“Sure, but, if I’m being honest, I’m asking you as a friend,” Gumshoe says.

Miles shuts his eyes. “I’m fine,” he says evenly.

“Really? I know I would be really overwhelmed if I was in your situation. I mean, I am overwhelmed, and I’m not even you right now—“

“Detective Gumshoe,” Miles says sharply, because he refuses to live in a reality where Gumshoe can see through him. “Don’t you have work to do?”

“Yeah, but—“

“Then I suggest you stay focused on your job,” Miles says scathingly. “Unless you want another hit to your salary?”

It’s a cruel tactic—Miles knows Gumshoes salary is already paper thin as is—but it’s the fastest way to silence Gumshoe, and Miles cannot be on this phone call any longer.

“R-right,” Gumshoe says. “Sorry, sir.”

“Thank you for your concern,” Miles tacks on before ending the call. He tosses his phone into the cushions next to him and bites his tongue to keep from screaming.

Miles better have a new case come tomorrow, or he is going to do something he will surely regret.

Chapter Text

Gregory returns to Miles’ apartment a few hours later, and Miles hastens to turn off the episode of Steel Samauri playing on his television. He shows Gregory to his bedroom and informs him he’s free to eat whatever he wishes from the kitchen. Then, Miles flees to his own bedroom, unable to bring himself to care that he’s being a terrible host.

That night, as always, Miles has nightmares. It’s not a particularly unique variation of the script; they’re in the elevator, Miles sees the gun and throws it, that terrible scream—

Miles wakes up and covers his face with his hands. He’s exhausted and trembling, and he dimly remembers that he forgot to eat dinner, too distracted by his father coming back from the dead.

Miles gets out of bed and creeps out of his bedroom, glancing both ways down the hall to make sure his father hasn’t woken up. Franziska has reported to him on multiple occasions that his night terrors are “noisy”, and his father used to be able to detect Miles stepping outside of his bedroom when he needed a glass of water.

But Gregory Edgeworth doesn’t poke his head out of the guest bedroom door, and Miles walks to his kitchen.

“Miles?” Gregory asks, standing behind the kitchen counter.

Miles jumps with a startled shout, taking a few alarmed steps backwards. Gregory raises a hand in surrender; his right hand holds a coffee mug.

“Sorry,” Gregory says. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”

Miles swallows, arching his back and trying to regain his composure. “It’s no matter,” he says. “What are you—what are you doing here?”

“I couldn’t sleep,” Gregory says, holding up the coffee mug. “You?”

“The same,” Miles says, because it’s too much to explain that Miles was only having a recurring nightmare of his father’s death before he remembered he forgot to eat. “But I’ll leave you be, my apologies—“

“No, no, you don’t have to go,” Gregory says quickly, shaking his head. “It’s your kitchen.”

“Right, well…” The clock on the wall ticks ominously, and Miles decides to cut his losses. “I was just a bit thirsty, that’s all.”

“By all means, then,” Gregory says, stepping out of the way of the fridge.

Miles feels oddly like he’s being scrutinized as he steps further into his kitchen, finds an empty glass in the cabinets, removes the pitcher from the fridge, and pours water into the cup. It only takes him about one minute, but Miles already regrets thinking leaving the seclusion of his bedroom was a good idea.

“So,” Gregory says, his voice casual. “Tell me about yourself.”

Miles swallows a cold gulp of water. “Pardon?”

Gregory shrugs with half a shoulder. “Thirteen years is a long time. A lot of things have changed.”

“I’m twenty-two,” Miles says blandly. “I’m a prosecutor.”

“At such a young age?” Gregory asks, even though he must have known Miles’ age and occupation already. It’s hard to judge his expression in the darkness of the room, but he doesn’t seem obviously upset by Miles chosen profession. “When did you pass the bar?”

“I was twenty.”

Gregory whistles. Am impressed sound. “I always knew you were a genius.”

Miles almost scoffs, even as a strange emotion wants to smother him. “Franziska became a prosecutor when she was thirteen, so I’d hardly call my youth genius.”

“And?” Gregory asks. “Even if the thought of a child already having a profession didn’t horrify me, you still achieved something incredible. I can’t imagine how hard you must’ve worked to reach that point—”

“It was nothing, really,” Miles interrupts, because now Miles is beginning to feel overwhelmed, and the words coming out of his father’s mouth are straight from a dream, and Miles doesn’t deserve them, will never deserve them, and he has to stop Gregory from saying he’s proud before it’s too late.

Gregory frowns slightly, but the gleam in his eyes doesn’t go away even as Miles hastily gulps down the last of his water.

“I should go back to sleep,” Miles says. “My apologies for disturbing you.”

“Sleep well.”

This time, Miles does scoff.

Miles returns to the prosecutor offices early the next morning and is overwhelmingly relieved when he gets assigned a new case.

The case is simple enough. A girl, Ronna Pierson was caught standing over her dead boyfriend’s body from within the apartment. The neighbor heard a struggle before pushing open the unlocked door and seeing Pierson with the corpse. The victim’s blood was on her hands, naturally, and there were no signs of anyone else entering and exiting the apartment.

“It looks like you have the information you need to make an arrest, detective,” Miles says. “I’ll continue collecting evidence.”

Detective Gumshoe nods and salutes. “Yes sir, Mr. Edgeworth, sir!”

Detective Gumshoe might be overeager even in his best moments, but he is capable of good detective work when given the chance. Miles has begun trusting him more and more to handle investigations while Miles himself prepares for his impending case against the suspect.

“Oh, sir?” Gumshoe says, turning back toward Edgeworth. “How are ya holding up?”

Miles mouth thins as he remembers who is waiting for him at home. “Perfectly fine,” he says. “Now get to work.”

Gumshoe nods and scurries off.

Miles takes note of the scarf wrapped tightly around the victim's neck before taking the witness’s testimony. A cunning defense attorney might take notice that the witness, Nate Burr, never saw the accused actually commit the crime, but Edgeworth would make sure to coach the witness on what to say to make their testimony seem airtight.

After all, judging from the evidence, Pierson is certainly guilty. He cannot allow a defense attorney to let her go free.

Miles returns home that day, completely exhausted. Thanks to their totally frantic law system, Miles spent the entire day preparing for tomorrow’s trial, which will be against none other than Mia Fey. Miles hasn’t faced her since his first trial, and he can’t help but to feel slightly nervous at the idea of facing her again. She’s acquired a reputation for being ruthless during cross examinations.

“Long day at work?” Gregory asks him, poking his head out the guest room door.

Miles covers his face with his hand and wonders if he waits long enough, his father will leave him alone. He has enough of a headache as is.

Naturally, he still feels his father’s eyes on him, so he says, “No more than usual.”

His father hums commiseratingly. “I got your mail for you. It’s on the table. Phoenix sent you a letter.”

Miles sits straight up and whips his head over to his father.

“Phoenix?” He repeats. “Phoenix Wright?”

“The one and only,” Gregory says, a smile playing on his face. “It’s good to see that you two are still friends.”

“We’re not.” Miles stands up and storms to the table. He finds the envelope with an untidy scrawl that could only belong to Wright and peers at the sender’s address. Sure enough, Phoenix Wright is written at the top. Miles bites back a million curses and instead asks, “How did he find my address?”

“Maybe he asked around?” Gregory says, stepping fully out of the guest room. His voice is laced with concern, but Miles is too busy glaring at the envelope to care. “He must want to talk to you pretty badly if he’s working so hard to find you.”

“Asked who?” Miles mutters. “Only a select number of people know my address, did he suddenly become a genius investigator—” Miles shakes his head. It doesn’t matter how Wright got Miles’ address, only that he did, and Miles cannot block mail quite as easily as phone numbers.

“Well?” Gregory asks. “Are you going to open it?”

Miles’ lip curls, and he grasps the top of the envelope with both hands and rips it furiously in half. Gregory makes a startled noise from the back of his throat, but Miles ignores him and rips the envelope and letter into quarters before dropping the pieces unceremoniously into the garbage.

“You don’t even want to see what he has to say?”

“Oh, trust me.” Miles is unable to keep the contempt from his voice. “I know exactly what he wants to say. He’s been harassing me for months now, even though he hasn’t seen me in over a decade.”

“Maybe he’s worried,” Gregory says softly.

“Maybe, he should realize that I’m not that naïve nine-year-old anymore,” Edgeworth snarls, slapping the counter in a way he usually reserved for trials, “and leave me alone.”

Gregory doesn’t say anything, and Miles takes a deep breath. He’s losing composure.

“If you see any more mail from Wright, dispose of it,” Miles says, straightening his jacket and marching to his room. “Eventually, he’ll get the hint.”

Gregory hesitates for a moment before saying, “If that’s what you think is best.”

“It is.”

The following morning, Miles wakes up with a sore throat and the overwhelming desire to bury himself deeper into his sheets and never leave his bed again. However, he knows that missing a trial would be ludicrous, especially for the sake of a cold that everyone knew was spreading in the prosecutor offices.

Miles allows himself only one groan of frustrated misery before he yanks his blankets off him. The cold air makes Miles want to shrink away, but he stands up and gets changed instead.

It is only the second morning of having Gregory Edgeworth back from the dead, and Miles is already falling apart at the seams. Typical.

Miles walks into the kitchen with as much dignity as he can muster. Fortunately, Gregory must not be awake yet; the kitchen is empty. Dropping all pretenses of wellness, Miles beelines to his medicine cabinet and finds the Cold Killer X hiding behind the painkillers. Miles grabs the bottle, skims the instructions, and takes two pills exactly as instructed. His throat only hurts more as he swallows the pills with water, but he knows he has to do something, lest he become a mess in what should be an easy trial.

Miles slumps into a kitchen chair and thinks about breakfast, but he’s not at all hungry.

“Good morning,” Gregory says, coming seemingly out of nowhere. “How did you sleep?”

It’s everything Miles has not to give into the long, pained groan that wants to bubble forth. He hopes the medicine kicks in soon, because Miles cannot handle being sick and his father simultaneously.

“I slept—” Miles begins to say, but his voice comes out far hoarser than he expects. He clears his throat and starts again. “I slept fine.”

His father’s eyebrows knit together, and Miles already knows he’s lost. “Are you alright?” he asks.

“I’m fine,” Miles says, pushing himself to his feet and filling the tea kettle with water. “Tea?”

A sudden itching sensation crawls it’s way up Miles’ throat, and before he can stop himself, a series of coughs explode out of him, rattling his lungs.

“I can make it,” Gregory says. He reaches to take the kettle, but Miles stubbornly clings to it.

“I’m fine,” he insists.

“You sound sick.”

“It’s just a cold.”

For a moment, Gregory looks horribly sad, or maybe just pitying, and there’s an earnestness in his eyes that Miles is wholly unaccustomed to. “Please,” he says gently. “Let me help you.”

Miles swallows, an action that only further irritates his throat, and looks away. “I’m fine,” Miles says again. He stubbornly places the kettle on the stove and turns up the heat. “Tea?”

Gregory’s shoulders slump. “Okay,” he says. “Tea sounds great. Thank you.”

Miles doesn’t say another word to Gregory for the rest of the morning. He makes tea, eats breakfast, and leaves before Gregory can continue to press him about his cold. Fortunately, the medicine finally starts to kick in, and Miles arrives at court looking none the worse for wear.

“Are you okay, sir?” Gumshoe asks.

“Of course I’m alright,” Miles snaps. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“It’s just that—”

“I don’t have time for your incessant worrying, so for once in your life, do your job and leave me in peace.” Miles turns away from Gumshoe and glowers at the nearby wall. “And please, remember to stick to the facts and only to the facts when giving testimony today.”

“Y-yes sir.”

An hour and a half later, Miles walks into the courtroom and catches a glimpse of an oddly familiar set of spiky black hair in the viewing gallery. Miles determinedly ignores it by averting his gaze violently to the left, but his eyes land on yet another familiar face.

Gregory Edgeworth makes eye-contact with Miles, and Miles immediately stares down at his desk. His chest tightens, whether out of rage or alarm, Miles has no idea.

How did his father learn about Miles’ trial? Why does Gregory think it’s necessary to be here? Does he want to judge Miles’ skills for himself? To confirm that Miles is no longer Gregory’s son?

His father was a defense attorney. Maybe Gregory hopes to see Miles lose. Or perhaps Gregory intends to aid the defense himself.

No matter. Gregory’s intervention or no, Miles will win this trial just like the rest, and if Gregory decides to leave Miles behind because of it, all the better.

Mia Fey enters the courtroom a moment later, looking older and far more confident than the last time Miles faced her. She stares at Miles with a deep-set look of determination, and Miles knows she has not forgotten what happened the last time the two faced each other in the courtroom.

Has it really been two years? Miles’ first case feels like it happened a lifetime ago, but Miles remembers it like it was yesterday.

The judge begins proceedings in his usual manner. Both the prosecution and the defense are ready, and after a concise but condemning opening statement, Miles calls Gumshoe to the stand.

“Detective,” Miles says, praying Gumshoe does not make a blunder that only makes Miles’ job more difficult. “Please describe the details of this case for the court.”

“Sir!” Gumshoe says, puffing out his chest. “The victim in this case is Timmy Clyde, age seventeen.  The body was found in the defendant’s apartment with a stab wound in his back. According to the autopsy report, he died from blood loss.”

“And why did you arrest the defendant, Ms. Pierson?”

“We received a call from the defendant’s neighbor and rushed to the scene of the crime,” Gumshoe says. “When we investigated, we found the defendant’s fingerprints on the murder weapon, as well as the victim’s blood on her hands. Additionally! There are no other signs of anyone else entering the apartment building besides the victim and the defendant. Nobody else could have committed the crime!”

A bit of an unnecessary declaration at the end, but concise and to the point. Just the way Miles likes it.

“Thank you, Detective.”

“I see…” the judge says, nodding. “Defense, you may begin your cross examination.”

Just as Miles suspected, Fey wastes no time before launching her counterattack. “Detective Gumshoe,” she says, slamming her hands against the desk. “You say the defendant’s fingerprints are on the murder weapon, but I’d hardly call that substantial proof. It’s the defendant’s own apartment, it’s only natural that her fingerprints would be found—”

“Objection!” Miles shouts before Fey can continue. “No other prints were discovered on the murder weapon—”

“Maybe the true culprit wore gloves—”

“In that case, by all means, Ms. Fey, procure these gloves for the court,” Miles says, smirking. When Fey’s expression hardens, he shakes his head with a shrug. “But, of course, no such evidence exists.”

“I could ask the same of you, Prosecutor Edgeworth,” Fey fires back. “What evidence do you have that no one else was in the apartment?”

Miles tuts at Fey’s desperate grab to regain control of the situation. “In this case, I’m afraid you have it backwards,” he says, tapping his forehead knowingly. “It is our lack of evidence that indicates nobody else was in the apartment.”

“Oh?” the judge asks. “What do you mean?”

“I think I’ll allow our detective to explain this for us,” Miles says. “Detective, please describe to the court the condition of the apartment upon your arrival.”

“Oh, uh, yes, sir!” Gumshoe nods. “When we arrived at the apartment, there were no signs of forced entry on the door. Additionally, the apartment is on the third floor, making escaping through the windows impossible. We searched the entire apartment, but we didn’t find anyone hiding.”

“Detective,” Fey says. “Isn’t there are a fire escape outside the bedroom window of the apartment?”

Miles objects immediately. “That window was found closed at the scene of the crime, and there were no fingerprints left behind on the glass.”

“And the door?” Fey objects. “Perhaps the reason there was no sign of forced entry was because the door was left unlocked before the crime! The killer could’ve walked in!”

The effect of the cold medicine is starting to fade, and Miles headache is begin to reform. Perhaps that is why he only smirks and does not laugh at Fey’s most recent statement.

Fey seems to notice Miles’ amusement anyhow. “Was something I said funny?” she asks frostily.

“The defense’s entire argument stands on the idea that another person was in the apartment at the time of the murder,” Miles says. “However, allow me to crush that theory once and for all. The prosecution would like to call its next witness to the stand.”

Nate Burr is a scrawny man with graying hair, waxy white skin, and poor posture, but he quietly comes to the stand without making any fuss.

“Name and occupation?” Miles asks the witness.

“Oh, so it’s true that you ask everyone that question, isn’t it?” Burr asks, curiosity brimming in his eyes. “I heard that it’s how court proceedings go, but you know, I only heard that because the couple downstairs has been having legal troubles—”

Miles hates chatty witnesses. And chatty neighbors. “Name and occupation,” Miles says again, putting on his fiercest glare.

Burr gulps. “Um, right. My name is Nate Burr, and I’m a journalist.”

“Mr. Burr—” Miles hopes he does not look too relieved that the witness only needed one more prompt to give his name. “—please tell the court what you saw on the day of the murder.”

“Oh, of course!” says Burr cheerfully. He shudders. “Although, the scene was more horrible than anything I’ve investigated before.”

“Please keep your emotions out of this,” Miles says coldly.

“Yes, yes, naturally, naturally.” Burr closes his eyes, nods once, and begins speaking. “Let’s see… it was around ten o’clock when I returned to the apartment from a dinner party… I saw this absolutely audacious looking car on the street; it was blue and black striped and wasn’t even parked in a parking spot—”

“Please, move it along,” Miles interrupts.

“Oh, right, my apologies! I heard the sound of a struggle coming from behind the door of Ms. Pierson’s apartment. When I pushed the door open to investigate, I saw the defendant, standing over the victim’s body with blood on her hands!”

“This struggle,” Fey asks, “can you describe it in more detail?”

“Of course!” Burr nods. “There was a loud crashing sound, and I distinctly heard the victim cry out ‘Ronna’ just before I pushed open the door.”

“You pushed open the door?”

“That’s right!”

Fey’s eyes flashed. “So, not only was it already unlocked when you got there, it was open as well?”

“That’s irrelevant,” Miles says, bristling. Why is this woman so damn observant? “Perhaps the defendant forgot to close the door all the way before entering the apartment.”

“Irrelevant?” Fey slams her hands on the desk and leans forward. “You don’t find it strange that the defendant wouldn’t close and lock the door to her own home before committing a murder?”

“Clearly, the crime was not premeditated—”

“And what’s the motive for this crime of passion?” Fey fires back.

“Lovers quarrels have been known to escalate,” Miles slams his hand on his own desk. “Do you have a point to this line of questioning, or are you simply trying to waste this entire court’s time?”

“If the door was already open, that opens the possibility that someone slipped inside and committed the crime.”

“And I suppose this person magically disappeared when our witness pushed open the door to discover the truth behind the struggle?” Miles scoffs. “People do not simply  disappear.”

“Please, review the autopsy report, Mr. Edgeworth,” Fey says, pulling out her own file and tapping it. “The victim survived for a few minutes after the stab wound. Meaning, the victim could’ve been crying out for help when Nate Burr heard the so-called struggle. During that time, the killer could’ve taken the opportunity to hide or escape.”

“And what of the crashing sound the witness heard?”

“At the crime scene, there was a toppled over chair,” Fey points out. “Maybe, the witness tried to stand using the chair, but ended up pushing it over instead. That’s when he resorted to calling for his lover.”

“Oh! I see!” The judge says, his eyes widening.

“This is all just speculation!” Miles protests angrily. “If the mystery culprit wanted to escape, why didn’t he leave the way he came? Witness, did you see anyone leaving the apartment as you approached?”

Burr shakes his head. “Not a single soul.”

“Additionally,” Miles continues. “Where is Pierson in all this? Did she simply watch her lover die?”

“According to my defendant, she was in the bathroom during the time of the crime,” Fey says, as if she can believe the words of a criminal. “If the court cloud please look at this map of the apartment. Where is the room nearest to the apartment entrance located?”

The judge takes the map and peers at it. “Oh! The bathroom!”

“Let me suggest an alternative scenario to the court,” Fey says. “While the defendant was in the bathroom, the culprit entered the apartment and killed the victim. However, before the culprit could escape, the bathroom doorknob began to rattle, and they had to flee further into the apartment to not be seen by the defendant. Later, when the coast was clear, the culprit would slip out the way he came.”

“How cunning!” the judge observes.

“And completely baseless,” Miles says. He smirks. “Has the defense forgotten already? The police searched the entire apartment and saw no one hiding.”

“The culprit could have slipped out before the police arrived!”

Miles shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s quite impossible,” he says. “Witness. Could you please describe to us what occurred after you discovered the body?”

“Gladly!” Burr says. “You see, when I first saw the body, I let out a startled scream. I told Pierson to stay right where she was, and I used my cellphone to call the police. Even though I was terribly frightened, I did not take my eyes off Pierson until the police arrived.”

“So, you see?” Miles says. “Your culprit could not have escaped through the front door without being seen by either the defendant or the witness!”

Fey jerks back, obviously distressed. Good. Hopefully this trial could end soon.

“Mr. Burr,” Fey asks. “Was there anything else of note in the crime scene when you saw it?”

“Of note?” Burr asks. “Not particularly. Although… it did smell rather strange.”

“Like blood?” Fey asks.

“Yes, but also it smelled… smokey? Like tobacco.”

“Does Ms. Pierson smoke?” Fey asks, bringing a considering hand to her chin.

“Oh, not at all!” Burr says immediately. “Trust me, I would know. I know everything about my neighbors.”

Fey suddenly grins, putting her hands on her hips. Miles feels his heart drop. What does she have up her sleeve?

“Your honor,” Fey says. “Before, the court dismissed the theory that the culprit could have escaped through the fire escape, because there was no evidence of them having done so.”

“And?” Miles asks pointedly.

“Well, a very interesting piece of evidence was found on the fire escape outside the apartment window,” Fey says. “A cigarette butt.”

Miles only allows himself to flinch back for a moment before saying, “That’s of no consequence. The police found a pack of cigarettes in Pierson’s kitchen!”

“And do they really belong to the defendant?” Fey points at Miles. “Nate Burr says she does not smoke!”

“He must be mistaken!”

“Did the police check the cigarettes for fingerprints?”

Miles knows his eyes must be bulging. “N-no… but it wasn’t necessary—”

“If the defendant doesn’t smoke, the cigarette on her fire escape proves someone else was there! The culprit left behind traces of his escape!”

“You don’t know when the cigarette was left there!” Miles protests. “For all I know, you planted it there yourself!”

“And I guess I also planted the box of cigarettes discovered by the police, surely left by the culprit to explain the smokey smell?”

“That’s speculation!”

“Your honor, if Nate Burr could smell smoke, someone must have smoked in the apartment recently!” Fey insists. “I can think of no other person than the culprit!”

“The cigarettes could have belonged to the victim!”

“The autopsy report does not mention any signs that the victim smokes!”

The viewing gallery burst into astonished chatter, and Miles’ headache gets worse. This is a simple case, and Fey is overcomplicating it for the sake of a Not Guilty verdict. It’s enough to make Miles sick.

As if Miles’ thoughts triggered it, Miles gets an overwhelming urge to cough. In the din of the courtroom, he quietly does so into his elbow.

“Order! Order!” shouts the judge, pounding his gavel. As soon as the court quiets down, the judge glances between Miles and Fey with a serious expression. “It seems there are signs of another person in the apartment at the time of the murder. I believe this warrants further investigation. I hope to find answers in the trial tomorrow.”

“Yes, your honor,” Miles says stiffly.

The judge dismisses the court, and Miles beelines out of the courtroom. His throat itches again, and he cannot cough like a child in front of a live audience.

He makes it all the way to the bathroom before breaking into a series of truly wretched coughs. To make matters worse, he seems to have lacked the foresight to have Cold Killer X on his person, meaning he is going to have to grin and bear his symptoms for the rest of the day as he tries to pull together more evidence for this case.

Stupid Fey. Why couldn’t she have accepted her client was guilty instead of drawing out this trial for another day? Doesn’t she know that there is no way she can win? Maybe against a lesser prosecutor she could tip the scales, but certainly not with Miles behind the bench.

Miles wipes away some of the sweat from his brow and inhales deeply, pretending the act doesn’t hurt his lungs. No matter. Fey will lose, and Miles will bring the guilty to justice. Nothing else matters.

Gregory Edgeworth sits in the viewing gallery of the courtroom and watches his adult son storm out of the courtroom. Mia Fey sighs in either relief or exhaustion, slumping backwards and glancing at the ceiling.

To a certain extent, Gregory expected this performance from Miles. Ever since Gregory returned to the living world and laid eyes on his now twenty-two-year-old child, Gregory has known that the past thirteen years have taken a toll on Miles. Miles grew up without him, under Manfred von Karma’s tutelage, no less.

And that trial certainly put the Von Karma way on full display. Everything from Miles constantly interrupting the defense down to his smug demeanor, it reminds Gregory so strikingly of Von Karma that it makes Gregory sick to his stomach. The man behind the prosecutor’s bench is so unlike the little boy Gregory once knew, and Gregory’s heart aches for the time he’s lost.

On that note, why on earth did Von Karma take Miles in? Normally, Gregory would be grateful that someone was willing to take care of his son, but Von Karma? As far as Gregory is aware, Von Karma hates Gregory with a passion. Additionally, the few times Miles and Von Karma met before Gregory’s death, Von Karma regarded him with thinly veiled disgust, and Miles was understandably frightened by the man’s intimidating demeanor. Why would Von Karma care at all about the fate of Gregory’s child?

Everything’s terribly out of place, and Gregory’s logic is operating with only a small fraction of the details. It’s hard to catch up on thirteen years of information, especially when Miles is about as informative as Von Karma himself.

Stop it, Gregory berates himself sharply, Stop comparing Miles to him.

Fey seems to be a very capable lawyer who can protect her client as well as anyone. And while Miles is a very competent prosecutor, he is not Von Karma. After her stellar performance today, Fey has every chance of proving her defendant’s innocence, and Gregory would only get in her way by trying to help.

For now, Gregory has other plans. He spent the entirety of yesterday researching the whereabouts of all his former acquaintances. The internet has improved by leaps and bounds since the last time Gregory used it, and it’s honestly frightening how easy it is to find other people. While many of his acquaintances have either died or moved away, there are a few that have remained exactly where Gregory left them.

And Edgeworth Law Offices is just a short walk away from here.

Chapter Text

Miles sits wretchedly in his office, nursing a cup of tea in one hand and massaging his temple with the other. For a brief moment, he considers taking the day off, but such laziness would be completely unacceptable in the middle of an active investigation.

Therefore, when his phone rings piercingly, Miles picks it up and says in as stoic a voice he can muster, “Prosecutor Edgeworth speaking.”

“Mr. Edgeworth!” Gumshoe says with his usual energy. Miles flinches away from the phone and gives into a couple of painful coughs.

“What is it?” he asks, sniffing.

“Woah, sir, you don’t sound too good—”

Miles resists the urge to scream. “Just give me the update on the investigation.”

“Uh, right,” Gumshoe says. “Well, sir, forensics just finished checking the cigarette box for fingerprints.”

“And?”

“Well, um, there aren’t any.”

Miles very calmly sets his tea on the desk so that he does not accidentally throw his mug across the room and ruin his favorite china. “Is that so?”

“And, uh, there are signs they’ve been wiped away.”

Bloody hell. Fey will have a field day with this tomorrow. Obviously, the cigarettes were planted by someone else, she’ll claim with a self-satisfied grin and build an argument on her half-baked theories.

“Have you found anything else?” Miles asks, his teeth gritted.

“Not yet, sir, but we’ll keep looking!” Gumshoe says with his typical enthusiasm.

“Do not tell the defense about the fingerprints being wiped away,” Miles says.

“Don’t worry! I never tell the defense anything.”

Miles knows that’s not true at all; Gumshoe has a propensity for spilling information completely accidentally. But he feels another set of coughs coming on, so he hangs up before completely giving into his cold.

“Let’s start from the top.”

Phoenix stands nervously behind Mia in the detention center, glancing at the officer guarding the door on the other side of the glass. Mia just wants Phoenix to observe the conversation with Pierson, but Phoenix remembers being in the detention center himself when he was accused of murder only a year before. Phoenix shudders at the memory.

“It’s just like Nate says,” Pierson says. Her lip trembles. She tugs at one of her numerous black braids, and her dark brown skin looks paler than usual. “Well, you and Nate. Timmy and I went to my apartment… I took of my scarf because I was too hot, and then I needed to go to the bathroom… I was planning on showering, so I turned on the water, but then I heard something going on outside!”

“Anything specific?” Mia asks.

“The shower was drowning out a lot of the sound.” Pierson shakes her head, her eyes welling with tears. “I opened the door just in time to see Timmy fall over with the chair. He said my name, so of course I ran over and tried to help him! The knife was already out of his back, so I put pressure on the wound, but then Nate came, and I jumped away because I thought the murderer came back, but—”

“He thought you were the killer,” Phoenix finishes for her.

“Right.” Pierson nods. “Oh my god… if I hadn’t jumped away, maybe I could’ve saved him, you know? I’m studying to be an EMT; I should’ve known better than to take my hands off him—”

“You did everything you could,” Mia says gently. “What about the cigarettes, do you know anything about that?”

“I was too focused on the smell of blood,” Pierson admits. “But I don’t smoke. And neither does Timmy. He hates smoking. Reminds him of his dad.”

“His dad?” Mia echoes.

“Yeah,” Pierson says. “He’s nice enough, but he does smoke a lot. Stinks up his house.”

Mia glances at Phoenix. “Well, I guess we know where to go next.”

“I don’t believe it,” Raymond Shields says, looking far older than the teenager that Gregory remembers. He enters the office lobby with a small frown but hopeful eyes.  “Gregory Edgeworth… but it can’t be.”

Gregory removes the file of test results from the trench coat he bought the other day. He hopes he’ll be able to pay Miles back when he’s a defense attorney again, although Gregory has a nasty feeling Miles might reject the offer.

“Maybe you want to take a look at this,” Gregory says. Then, just to be safe, he adds, “Please don’t eat it.”

Ray’s eyes widen at the comment, and he snatches the file from Gregory without another word. After only one minute of perusing the data, Ray drops the file and stares at Gregory with a dumbstruck expression.

“Sorry it took me so long,” Gregory says. “But I’m back now.”

Ray doesn’t hesitate before tightly hugging Gregory.

The hug only lasts a moment before Ray pulls away, laughing awkwardly, but the warmth of the touch is so startling that Gregory just stands there as Ray begins to ramble on.

“Sorry,” he says. “I spent some time in Europe, you see, they’re much more tactile there, and you know, it’s really unusual to see your former mentor back from the dead—”

“Ray,” Gregory interrupts, finally getting a hold of himself. “It’s fine.”

“Oh, and it looks like I’ve dropped all the evidence,” Ray says with a startled expression. He stoops over and scoops up the papers. “I always have been a clumsy one.”

“You’re not that clumsy,” Gregory says. As happy as he is to have a warm reception from Ray (the sort of reception he initially expected from Miles), it’s still disconcerting to see the once young boy appear to be only a few years younger than Gregory.

“Heh, if you say so.” Ray shrugs and grins. “But hey! We should catch up in my office. Or, I guess, is it your office now?”

“After thirteen years, I think you’ve earned the place,” Gregory says. “Besides, I’m still legally dead.”

Ray shivers. “To be honest, I’m pretty sure I’m dreaming right now,” he says. “But I’m not going to waste this opportunity for the world. I’d say I’d show you the way, but—”

“Unless you got renovations, I think I can find my way through my own offices,” Gregory says dryly.

“That’s what I figured.”

Gregory follows Ray to his office, and Gregory is extremely relieved that hardly anything about the law offices have changed. Admittedly, the furniture and décor are different than they were the last time Gregory’s been there, which only feels like a few days ago to him. However, when Gregory enters his former office, none of the furniture has been changed at all.

“You know, Ray,” Gregory says, glancing down at his desk. There’s a coffee stain that didn’t used to be there, but otherwise, it’s the same desk Gregory’s worked at for a decade. “You could’ve done something with the place.”

“And disgrace your memory?” Ray asks, shaking his head. “I don’t think so.”

There’s a picture frame on the desk, and Gregory picks it up. It’s a picture of Gregory and eighteen-year-old Raymond from when they were investigating the Masters’ case.

“I looked up what happened to Masters,” Gregory says, feeling a heaviness in his heart. “His name was never cleared, was it?”

Ray’s face falls. “No, I’m afraid not. After the chaos immediately after… well…”

There’s an odd expression on Ray’s face, something similar to shame, and Gregory frowns. “I’m sure you did everything you could.”

“I visit him every day I can,” Ray says, taking off his hat and bowing. “The prisoners love his baked goods.”

Gregory manages a small smile. “I’m glad to hear it,” he says. “And who knows? There’s still a year left before the statute of limitations runs out. Maybe something will break the case wide open.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Ray shakes his head. “I’ve been keeping a sharp eye out for anything regarding that case, and I haven’t found anything.”

“But you haven’t given up,” Gregory says. “And that’s what matters.”

Ray’s face splits into a wide grin, and he bows again. “You have no idea… how much that means to me, sir.”

There’s a stack of newspapers sitting on a chair in the corner of the room, and Gregory approaches them and picks one up. It’s dated for a few days before. “You like staying up to date, huh?”

“Oh, actually, I had a feeling you might come back from the dead, so I saved them all for you, heh,” Raymond says.

Gregory glances at Raymond with a severe look, and Raymond raises his hands in surrender. “Just kidding!”

“I assume the real reason you keep an eye on the news is for Masters?” Gregory asks, picking up another paper. Maybe he should read these for research purposes.

“That’s definitely one of the reasons,” Ray says. “Um, maybe you shouldn’t look through those—”

But it’s too late. Gregory picks up the third paper to reveal the front page of an issue from February, 2015. A month ago. A picture of a menacing man takes up half the page, but it’s the title that catches Gregory’s eyes.

Dark Rumors of Demon Prosecutor with the Conclusion of Joe Dark Killings

Gregory snatches the paper and quickly skims the article. As he expected, Miles Edgeworth was the prosecutor on the case, sentencing a serial killer to death. The article speculates on the nature of the evidence and claims that some of it could be forged.

“Yeah, about that…” Ray says. “I know this is going to be hard to hear, but…”

“Miles is a prosecutor.” Gregory picks up the entire stack of papers, drops them to the ground, and collapses into the chair. “I know.”

Raymond’s face is suddenly quite grim, and he stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Not just any prosecutor… he’s a disciple of Von Karma.”

Gregory looks again at the words Demon Prosecutor and massages his eyes beneath his glasses. “Yes, I know that too. I’ve been staying at his place while the authorities try to sort out my paperwork.”

“Then, you must already know…”

“That he’s not the same boy I left behind in that elevator?” Gregory asks dryly, trying to keep some of the sharpness out of his voice. “Yes, I deduced that for myself.”

“He’s not your son anymore,” Ray continues. “He’s abandoned everything you stood for. Von Karma sees him as a son—”

“Miles would disagree with you on that last point,” Gregory interrupts.

“And?” Ray asks. “I’ve tangled with him before, Gregory; the man is ruthless. He’s like a little Von Karma clone.”

“Yes, I saw one of his trials today.” Gregory drops the paper with the damning title into his lap and rests his head against the back of the chair. “And seeing as he has a two-year win streak, I’m sure he is determined to never lose his perfect record.”

Ray’s expression becomes uncharacteristically harsh. “I just can’t believe he would turn against everything he taught you.”

Gregory raises his hand to silence him. “However,” Gregory says pointedly. “No matter what he may believe, Miles is still my son.”

“Biologically, sure—”

“No.” Gregory sits up and looks Ray in the eye. “I don’t know if Von Karma forced his ideals upon Miles, or if Miles came to his conclusions on his own, but I do know that either way, he is my son, and nothing will ever change that, and I will do what I can to help him.”

“Help him?” Raymond raised an eyebrow. “Prosecute innocents?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gregory says. “Help him. You don’t live with him, Ray. He woke up sick this morning and went to court anyway. I know he has nightmares, and I know Von Karma has not treated him with any amount of gentleness while I was away.”

“Well, that much is obvious,” Ray says. “It’s Von Karma…” Ray’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Yes,” Gregory says dryly. “Oh.”

“Sir, if I had known Von Karma was treating him poorly…”

“I know,” Gregory says. “I’m not blaming you in any way. Nor do I have any evidence except for my intuition. All I ask is that you take some compassion on Miles, even though you may be understandably angry at his actions.”

“Easier said than done,” Ray says, but there’s a certain degree of shame in his voice.

“In any case, you are not Miles’ father, and naturally, you don’t have any obligation of care toward him,” Gregory says. A rush of emotion almost overwhelms him, and he shakes his head. “But let’s change the subject. What else have you been up to while I’m away?”

Ray fills him in on his life. Apart from keeping up the law offices and traveling, Ray regals him with tales of failed romance and a few genuine lifelong friendships. While Ray talks, Gregory continues to skim the newspaper in his lap for any relevant news he might want to know about.

Gregory flips to the fourth page of the paper when his eyes land on yet another familiar name. Except this one’s from this morning’s trial.

Timmy Clyde

Gregory frowns and reads further. Apparently, Timmy had gotten into a bad car accident. While he survived with only a few broken bones, his mother was not so lucky. She died instantly.

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” Ray asks.

Gregory glances up from the paper and folds it up. “Oh, yes, of course,” he says. “Something about a mishap at Gourd Lake?”

“Renting boats from the place is so hard,” Ray complains. “The old geezer keeps talking about noodles, and I just wanted to know if I could afford the boat…”

Miles arrives home in the late evening. He’s found a new witness in the victim’s father, who is willing to testify to Pierson’s character, as well as why his son might have had cigarettes. It doesn’t explain why the box was wiped away, or the cigarette butt on the fire escape, but nobody can prove that the cigarette butt came from those same cigarettes, or when it was even left on the fire escape. Miles still has the winning logic.

Gregory isn’t home. Miles lets out a brief sigh of relief that dissolves into another set of wracking coughs, and he immediately beelines to the kitchen for more medicine. His condition has only gotten worse as the day wore on, shivering has joined his headache and congestion. Miles is too afraid to check his temperature, though. He’d rather assume he has a cold than know he must prosecute while truly sick.

Manfred von Karma has never taken a sick day, and for not the first time, Miles wonders if Von Karma has ever gotten sick in his life. Surely, he hasn’t gone to court with a violent illness before. With all the shouting that goes on, he would be a public health hazard. But, naturally, a Von Karma is perfect in every way. Never becoming sick certainly falls into that category.

Just another reminder of the disappointment Edgeworth will always be.

Miles downs two pills and puts water on the stove for yet more tea when he hears the doorknob rattle. Miles straightens, half-wondering if Von Karma is making an uncharacteristic house call instead of confronting Miles in his office, before realizing it is likely only Gregory.

Miles still turns around and faces the door in as dignified a manner as he can manage, and the door swings open to indeed reveal his father, who carries a folded newspaper in his right hand. Miles can only catch a snippet of the front page, but he recognizes it as the issue from February. The one that boldly declares the dark rumors of a Demon Prosecutor.

“Miles,” Gregory says, nodding. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be back yet.”

“I only just arrived myself,” Miles says, turning away again to hide his rumpled state. The Cold Killer X hasn’t worked its patented magic yet, and Miles wants so badly to collapse in a ball of misery.

“You’re not looking well,” Gregory says, not missing a beat. “And you weren’t looking too good at the trial either—”

Miles bristles. As soon as he saw Gregory in the audience, Miles knew the trial would come up, but Miles didn’t expect Gregory to mention it so soon.

“If this is about my methods, I would suggest you mind your own business.”

“I wasn’t referring to your performance.” Gregory shuts the door behind him and takes off his hat. “I was talking about your health.”

Oh.

“Yes, well, the same applies there.” The kettle whistles, and Miles collects it before the shrill sound can make his headache too much worse. “As I said this morning, I’m fine.”

“Okay,” Gregory says quietly, his voice defeated. Miles hears him sit on the sofa, the cushions wrinkling into one another softly. “So? How did today’s investigation go? Got any new information on those cigarettes?”

“There’s a witness with illuminating information,” Miles says vaguely, because Gregory might live in his home, but that will not change the fact that his father was (and will always be) a meddling defense attorney.

“And forensics? With the box?”

Miles turns toward Gregory with a hard expression. “I don’t see how this is any of your business.”

“I’m curious,” Gregory says, not shrinking away from Miles’ glare. “And I think Fey’s client might be innocent.”

Miles scoffs. “Oh, well, naturally, you do. I don’t know what else I expected.”

“The facts don’t line up all the way.”

“You’re only buying into Fey’s desperate drivel. All of the evidence points to Pierson.”

“Then the defendant’s fingerprints were found on the cigarettes?” Gregory asks.

Miles is many things, but he is not a liar, so he settles for fuming.

“Judging by your sudden silence, I’m going to take that as a no. Whose fingerprints were there, then?”

Miles slams his hand on the counter. His own kitchen has never felt more like the witness stand. “One, forensics couldn’t identify any fingerprints. Two, stop badgering me like I’m a witness.”

Gregory begins to nod, but he pauses, keeping his head tilted upwards. A strange expression crosses his face. “You seem awfully angry about unidentifiable fingerprints…”

Miles barks out a disgusted laugh and turns away.

“Miles,” his father says. “If you’re hiding important information from the defense—”

“I’m not hiding anything,” Miles says. “If required of me, I will tell the whole truth in court.”

“But you didn’t tell the defense that the fingerprints were wiped,” Gregory states, matter of fact.

How does he— Did Gumshoe tell him? Was Gregory able to deduce the truth that quickly?

“The wiped fingerprints change nothing, and Fey will let the guilty go free if I give her the ammunition.”

“They change everything! They’re proof that someone else was trying to tamper with the crime scene.”

“They could’ve been accidentally wiped away!” Miles snaps. “The evidence points to Pierson; she is the one in the defendant’s chair; she is guilty.”

And the guilty must be punished.

“You don’t know that,” Gregory says quietly.

“Yes, I do,” Miles spits. He storms out of the kitchen, his tea forgotten. He can’t stand to be in the same room with the defense attorney any longer.

Gregory almost chases after his son, but he knows the action will not be welcome. Instead, he leaves the apartment immediately, careful to lock the door behind him, and fishes the notebook filled with relevant information from his trench coat pocket. He finds the address for Fey and co. Law Offices before waving the nearest taxi over.

When he arrives at the building, it’s already nine o’clock. The chances of Fey still being in her office is so slim that Gregory half-considers turning around and trying again in the early morning. Still, Fey ought to have the truth as soon as possible so she has more time to prepare, and Gregory has already come this far.

Gregory enters the building and takes the stairs to Fey’s offices. When he finally reaches the door that has the plaque displaying the words Fey & Co, Gregory tries the doorknob. Naturally, the door is locked, so he knocks on the door rapidly.

“Ms. Fey?” he asks. “Are you still in there?”

Gregory leans toward the door and strains to hear something. He can’t, so he tries again, knocking with more vigor.

“Ms. Fey?” he asks more loudly.

This time, to Gregory’s gratification, a thump comes from within the room and is immediately followed by a young voice cursing. It doesn’t sound like it belongs to Mia Fey, and if the door weren’t still locked, Gregory might have assumed he’s accidentally stumbled upon a burglary.

“Who is it?” asks a young voice.

Damn. Gregory must sound awfully suspicious without even giving his name or reason for coming to the office so late.

“I’m a defense attorney.” Gregory isn’t sure if he wants to reveal his name. “I want to talk about Fey’s current case.”

“Defense attorney?” the voice asks. Suspicious. Good. “What’s your name?”

Gregory closes his eyes and exhales. Here it goes. “Gregory Edgeworth.”

There’s a small, almost excited sounding gasp, And Gregory braces himself for angry rejection. Instead, the doorknob rattles, and the door swings open to reveal a young man who looked to be around Miles’ age. His spiky black hair is askew in every direction, and his t-shirt is rumpled horribly.

“Mr. Edgeworth?” the man asks, awe in his voice. He stares at Gregory with wide eyes, and his face splits into a wide grin. “Oh my god! It’s been so long! How have you been?”

This… is not the typical response to seeing a dead man. Gregory would know.

“I have been…” How does Gregory put this? “…worse.”

The man, who Gregory swears he’s seen before, laughs nervously and scratches the back of his head. “Yeah, I get that. Um, do you wanna come inside?”

“That would be lovely, thank you,” Gregory says. The young man steps aside, still beaming, and Gregory steps into the offices. There’s a stack of textbooks and strewn papers on the sofa in the lobby, and there’s a dent in the pillow, like someone has recently used it.

“Do you… live here?”

“Ha, no,” says the man. “I was just… doing homework… and maybe fell asleep.”

Gregory picks up a piece of paper and sees poorly scrawled notes on evidence theory. Multiple question marks surround the note on submitting evidence to the police, as well as a remarkably funny doodle of a judge asking if his gavel is permissible evidence.

“Are you studying to be a lawyer?” Gregory asks.

“Yep!” the man says. “I’ve always kind of wanted to be one, but then I wasn’t sure I was cut out for it, but then some things went down, and Miles showed up on the papers and, um, speaking of Miles… I don’t want to pry, but what happened? You guys left so suddenly. And he never answered any of my letters.”

Gregory looks up from the notes and stares intently at the earnest man. His spiky hair. Strangely shaped eyebrows. Hopeful optimism in his gray eyes.

Letters.

The pieces slot into place.

“Phoenix?” Gregory asks. “Phoenix Wright?”

Phoenix’s eyes widen, and he laughs nervously again, rubbing the back of his neck. “Oh, I-I guess I forgot to introduce myself, huh? Yep! I’m Phoenix Wright. I guess you wouldn’t recognize me. Sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” Gregory says. He places down the sheet of paper and raises a hand to his chin. “So, nobody told you?”

Phoenix’s face falls. “Told me what?” he asks. “Is it about why you moved? I guessed something really terrible might have happened, but my mom just said that Miles had to move. I think she might have intended to tell me the truth when I got older, but then…”

Phoenix looks away, and Gregory’s heart goes out to yet another little boy who lost his innocence too soon.

“I’m sorry,” Gregory says.

“Don’t be,” Phoenix says. “It was a car accident. Really sudden. And I had some relatives so it’s fine. But, uh, anyway! What happened?”

Gregory hesitates. How does he explain that he died and then somehow came back?

“It’s… a little difficult to explain,” Gregory begins. “I was, hm, I was shot. And Miles had to live with someone else while I recovered.”

Phoenix frowns, like he can sense the lie by omission. “Who did he live with?”

“I don’t really think it’s my place to say,” Gregory says, because as much as Gregory appreciates Phoenix’s concern for his son, Miles has made it abundantly clear he wants nothing to do with him. “He’s not really keen to answer your letters.”

“But—” Phoenix scowls. “Something’s wrong! I just know it! All the rumors about him being some sort of demon prosecutor? That’s not the Miles I know!”

No. Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth is a far cry from the nine-year-old Gregory left behind thirteen years ago.

“A lot can happen in thirteen years,” Gregory says, swallowing down a lump of emotion.

“I mean, obviously.” Phoenix slumps. “I’m just… I’m really worried. People don’t change that much without a reason. Right?”

Gregory hesitates before saying, “He’s not reading your letters. I appreciate what you’re trying to do, but hounding him isn’t going to do anything. I think he’s starting to feel harassed.”

“Oh.” Phoenix looks away. “I’m not trying to harass him. Not in a creepy way. I just… I really want to talk to him.”

“I understand,” Gregory says heavily. “Really, I do.”

“I guess I should lay off on the mail.” Phoenix exhales shakily. “Especially if he’s not reading it.”

“That might be best,” Gregory says as gently as possible. “But you’ll have the opportunity to see him in the court room.”

Phoenix laughs. “If I pass the bar.”

“You will.”

Phoenix swipes at his eyes and gives Gregory a wobbly smile. “Thanks,” he says. “But, uh, you didn’t come here to talk to me, right? You said you wanted to talk about the Chief’s case?”

“Oh, yes,” Gregory says, clearing his throat and blinking out some of the mist in his own eyes. “Is Fey here?”

“No… she went back to her apartment. I told her I’d lock the place up when I was done with my homework.”

“And then you fell asleep,” Gregory says dryly.

“Heh. Yeah.” Phoenix shrugs with an awkward grin. “I can try to call her, though? She’s got an angle for the case, and she’s amazing, but I’m sure she’d appreciate the help! Especially when against Edgeworth… uh, sorry.”

“No, I understand,” Gregory says. “But I don’t want to disturb anyone.”

“Do you want to tell me what you know, and I’ll pass the message?” Phoenix offers. “I’m basically her assistant.”

Gregory smiles wryly, thinking of a younger Ray. “Sure. Do you know about the fingerprints on the cigarettes?”

“Ugh, the detective in charge wouldn’t say anything, apparently,” Phoenix says, rolling his eyes. “Mia thinks that means they weren’t able to find anything. And we found the same cigarettes in the victim’s home. Pierson says Clyde’s father smokes.”

“It’s not just that,” Gregory says, lowering his voice. Some more puzzle pieces began to slot together. “The fingerprints were wiped. And… I think I might have an article that could be of some help to you.”

Gregory hands Phoenix the newspaper. Phoenix frowns at the title. “About Miles?”

“No,” Gregory says.

He takes the paper and flips to the page with the article on the car accident. Phoenix peers down at the words and skims the contents. His eyes widen.

“You’re not saying… this might have something to do with the case?” Phoenix asks.

“I think it’s a possibility,” Gregory says grimly. “And if you truly believe in your client, then it’s one you should seriously consider.”

Phoenix nods seriously. “I’ll call the chief. Thank you for this. Can I keep the paper?”

“Of course,” Gregory says, tipping his hat. “I better head back. Thank you for hearing me out.”

“No. Thank you for coming.” Phoenix beams before his face falls again. He places the paper down on the lobby desk. “And, uh, I’m sorry that you got shot.”

Gregory barks out a laugh. It’s the most bluntly genuine condolence Gregory’s received so far, and it’s honestly a breath of fresh air compared to the typical tiptoeing around the strangeness of the situation.

Phoenix looks a little confused as to why Gregory is laughing, and Gregory takes a few deep breaths and pulls himself together.

“That’s quite alright,” Gregory says, unable to stop himself from smiling. “Thank you.”

As soon as Mr. Edgeworth leaves, Phoenix fumbles with his phone and calls Mia. Mia answers on the second ring, which is a huge relief. Sometimes, she leaves her phone between her couch cushions or something, and contacting her is a huge nightmare.

“Hey, what’s up?” Mia asks.

“Uh, I just got a visit from Mr. Edgeworth,” Phoenix says. “You know the cigarette box you made such a stint about this morning? It turns out the fingerprints are wiped! And he gave me a newspaper about our victim, Timmy Clyde. Apparently, he got into a car wreck that, um…” Phoenix swallows a sudden rush of emotion in his throat. “…killed his mom. So, you know, that gives Phil Clyde motive, right? Revenge for his wife?”

“Oh my god,” Mia says. Then, a fraction of a second later: “Wait. You said Edgeworth told you all this?”

“Yeah!” Phoenix says. He’s honestly still a little in shock that he’s gotten to see Miles’ dad after all these years, even though it really shouldn’t be that surprising. If Miles was a prosecutor, it would make sense that his dad would be invested in his cases. “Pretty nice of him, huh?”

“A little too nice…” Mia says. “I mean, he’s the prosecution on the case! And he would protect his record with his life. What is he doing trying to help us?”

Phoenix sucks in an awkward breath. “Oh, um, I didn’t mean Miles Edgeworth, sorry.”

“You didn’t?” Mia asks. “Who were you talking about, then?”

“Who else?” Phoenix smiles awkwardly for the millionth time that night, even though Mia couldn’t see him through the phone. “His father, Gregory Edgeworth. He’s a defense attorney, so I understand why he might be sympathetic to our cause—”

“Hold it,” Mia says, a little bit of her courtroom voice coming in. “A man came to the offices claiming to be Gregory Edgeworth? Phoenix, that’s impossible.”

“But it was definitely him,” Phoenix insists. “Sure, it’s been a while since I’ve last seen him, but I’d never forget that patented Edgeworth glare! Miles is practically a spitting image of him!”

“You must have been mistaken.” Mia’s voice is confident but serious. “Were the lights on?”

“Well, I had a lamp on.” Phoenix is beginning to feel uneasy, and he sits down. “But why are you being so insistent on this? I know who I saw, Mia.”

“Phoenix…” Mia hesitates for a long moment, the same way Mr. Edgeworth did earlier when Phoenix asked what happened to him. “Gregory Edgeworth… he died thirteen years ago.”

Phoenix blinks. Died? What?

“That can’t be right.” Phoenix laughs nervously, but nothing about this is funny. “I just spoke with him, Mia. And I would know what he looks like—”

“And when was the last time you saw him?” Mia interrupts, putting on her courtroom voice.

“Well, um, I guess…” Phoenix’s heart plummets all the way into his stomach. “I was nine. So, about thirteen years.”

“That’s what I thought.” Mia sighs. “I’m sorry, Phoenix. I don’t know who you saw in the offices, but it couldn’t be him. My own mother… well… forget about that. Just trust me when I say he’s definitely dead. It was a big case and everything.”

“Case?”

Phoenix suddenly remembers what not-Edgeworth said to him barely half an hour before. “I was shot.”

“He was murdered,” Mia said. “They had a suspect, but the court found him not guilty.”

Kind of ironic, Phoenix does not say, that a defense attorney’s murderer is found not guilty.

“Oh.” Phoenix throat feels abnormally dry, and he covers his eyes with his free hand. He can’t decide if he wants to cry or just sit in numb shock. His conversation with not-Edgeworth has sent him from relieved joy to total horror and confusion. “I promise I believe you Mia, but… the not-Gregory… he said things. He recognized me as Miles’ friend.”

“Friend?” Mia asks, her voice taking a gentler but obviously curious tact.

“Oh, um—” The urge to cry is definitely winning now. Phoenix bites his lip. “It was a long time ago. Like I said… nine.”

“Look…” Mia pauses again, but Phoenix can hear noise on the other side of the line. “I’m going over to the offices. Let’s review what we already know with the information this mystery stranger gave you. Even if he lied to you about your identity, hopefully he genuinely wants to help.”

“Yeah,” Phoenix says, swallowing. “Okay. Sounds good.”

“I’m really sorry you had to find out this way, Phoenix,” Mia says quietly.

“No-no! It’s all good.” Phoenix laughs weepily and scrubs his hand across his eyes. “Figures there’d be a lot of death in this business, right?”

“I’d say you’ll get used to it, but—”

“That’s horrifying,” Phoenix shudders.

“Don’t worry,” Mia assures him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Chapter Text

His alarm batters loudly against his eardrums, and Miles feels like he’s been beaten to hell and back. The pain in his head is dull but constant presence, his sinuses are so congested that it’s almost difficult to breathe, and his entire body aches.

Miles peers at his alarm. It’s six in the morning, which is a necessary time for Miles to get dressed, eat breakfast, prepare himself for his trial, and go to the courthouse. Right now, however, Miles loathes his alarm with a burning passion.

With all the strength he can muster, he slams his hand against the clock to make it shut the hell up. The room now devoid of sound, Miles collapses further into his pillows and hums miserably. He can barely string coherent thoughts together; the idea of getting out of bed is so unbearable that he very nearly rolls over and closes his eyes again.

No… the trial… Miles has a trial… he needs to stay awake…

“Miles?”

Miles opens his eyes again (he doesn’t remember closing them) and blinks at his father standing in his doorway. He looks worried, as he so often does, but maybe it’s just pity. Nobody expects to see the demon prosecutor in such a horrible state.

“What—” Miles clears his throat. “What are you doing in here?”

Gregory steps further into the room. “I heard your alarm go off, but you didn’t come out of your room.”

“Maybe—” Miles coughs, and he forces himself to sit up. He’s freezing but he tries to keep his expression neutral. “Maybe I was getting dressed.”

“It’s been twenty minutes,” Gregory says. “You’re usually out in five.”

Miles frowns. Twenty minutes? But his alarm just went off…

His eyes drift to his clock. Sure enough, a glowing red 6:23 taunts him.

“Shit,” Miles whispers. He’s running behind schedule.

“Language,” Gregory says automatically. Miles glowers, but Gregory lifts up a hand and rests the back of it against Mile’s forehead. “Miles, you’re burning up.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Miles swats his father’s hand away and stands up. “It’s just a cold.”

Gregory’s frown deepens. “You can’t go to trial like this.”

“I can, and I will,” Miles insists, beginning to walk out of his room. It’s difficult to keep composure when his entire body wants to wallow in its misery, but he somehow makes it to the medicine cabinet in the kitchen.

“Miles—”

“No,” Miles says forcefully. He grabs some medicine that helps with fevers—he needs more than mere cold killer X—and slams the cabinet door. “This is my home, and I am allowed to go to court if I feel that I’m able to.”

“And are you?” Gregory grabs Miles’ arm and spins him toward Gregory. Miles freezes, alarmed by the sudden contact. “Are you able to go to court like this? Because where I’m standing, you look like death.”

Miles swallows, and he imagines he’s facing yet another detective who sees him as a mere child. “Sir,” he says. “I think you’ll find I’m more than capable of handling myself. Once the medicine kicks in, I’ll be more than fine. Now, if you would please unhand me, I would appreciate it.”

Gregory’s eyes widen, and he lets go of Miles. Miles takes a minute step away and opens the pill bottle. He wants to break into another set of coughs, but he’s already embarrassed himself enough. Instead, he swallows his medicine and glances at the already prepared tea on the counter.

“You made tea,” Miles observes.

“I thought you might like it,” Gregory says. He sighs. “Look, I can’t tell you what to do. But I really don’t like this.”

“You don’t have to like it.” Miles almost ignores the tea entirely, but his throat is so sore that he knows he needs it. He picks it up and resists the urge to hunch his shoulders. “It’s my life.”

“You’re right. It is.”

Miles feels significantly improved by the time he reaches the courthouse for the trial, although he’s hardly at peak condition. Hopefully, he will reach his verdict swiftly and be permitted to retreat into his office for the rest of the day.

The trial begins as it usually does.

Defense ready. Prosecution ready.

Opening statement? Ronna Pierson is very clearly guilty. The defenses postulating does not change this irrefutable fact.

First witness? Phil Clyde, father of the victim. Occupation? Works for an insurance company.

“Mr. Clyde,” Miles says, ignoring the piercing stare Fey gives him from across the room. “Please testify as to the cigarettes found in the defendant’s apartment.”

Phil Clyde is a serious kind of man. His black hair is slicked all the way back, and his fair skin sharply contrasts with the purple rings beneath his eyes. Still, his smile is polite enough, although it reminds Miles a little bit of Chief Gant’s overly cheerful grins.

“Gladly,” he says. “Anything to bring my son’s killer to justice.”

Phil glances over his shoulder where Pierson is sitting. Pierson gives him a glare she hadn’t bothered to give Nate Burr the day before.

“You see, my son is a very easily stressed young man,” Clyde says. “I saw him with a pack of cigarettes, and he’s even smoked a few in my house. It helps him with the stress, you see… But I had no idea his lovely Ronna was the cause for his distress.”

“That’s interesting, Mr. Clyde,” Fey says as soon as the judge gives her permission to cross examine the witness. “Because according to Ms. Pierson, you were the one who enjoys smoking.”

“Well, of course, she would say that, wouldn’t she?” Clyde asks. “Seeing as she’s the one on trial for murder.”

“Ms. Fey,” Miles says irritably. “What are you insinuating?”

“According to the autopsy report, there was no sign of damage to the victim’s lungs,” Fey says, tapping the file on her desk. “Additionally, Mr. Burr attested to Pierson not smoking. However, our witness here has been seen smoking the same brand of cigarettes as the ones found in the crime scene!”

Miles objects immediately. “This is preposterous! You cannot prove that the cigarettes in the crime scene belong to the witness! They could’ve easily belonged to the victim!”

“If those cigarettes belonged to the victim, then why were the prints on the cigarette box wiped?!” Fey fires back, slamming both her hands against her desk.

Miles physically jerks back, and a startled series of coughs force their way out of his system. The court is in an uproar again, fortunately, and by the time the judge is done calling for order, Miles has recovered.

“Prosecutor Edgeworth,” the judge says. “Is this true?”

How does Fey know? Did Gumshoe tell her? If so, Miles is going to make him regret it in his monthly review.

Miles grits his teeth. “Yes… Your Honor. In our investigation… there were signs the fingerprints had been wiped.”

“Your Honor,” Fey continues. “I believe Phil Clyde intentionally waited for the victim and defendant at the defendants apartment, snuck in behind them, and when the defendant went into the bathroom, that’s when he made his move!”  Fey points at the witness. “Phil Clyde! You killed your son, Timmy Clyde!”

“WHAT?!” Clyde roars, slamming his fist against the witness stand.

Miles once again objects. “This is all conjecture! You don’t have any proof!”

“I would like to request that the witness testify as to what happened on the day of the murder!” Fey insists. “If he’s as innocent as you claim, there should be no issues with his testimony!”

Miles cannot believe that Fey is being this insistent. Why on earth would Clyde kill his son? With the only evidence being a few cigarettes? Ridiculous.

But Fey is right. Miles already coached Clyde through his testimony for the day of the murder, in case Fey goes on a field day. The testimony is flawless, and perhaps it will shut Fey up.

Miles forces himself to smile. “The prosecution has no objections, Your Honor.”

“V-very well,” the judge says. “Witness! Where were you at the time of the murder?”

Clyde nods and takes a deep breath. “Of course. At eight o’clock, my son and the defendant went out for dinner. I don’t know exactly where. I certainly didn’t know he would be going to the defendant’s apartment. I, of course, stayed at home.”

“Interesting,” Fey says. “Whose car did they take? To dinner?”

“Pierson picked my son up,” Clyde says. He smiles. “I don’t like my son driving my car.”

“And why’s that?”

“It’s rather expensive. I don’t want him to crash.”

Fey hums. “Could you describe your car to the court—”

“Objection!” Miles has no clue where Fey is going with this line of questioning, but it’s either a complete waste of time or a trick to get the defendant found not guilty, and Miles is not having it. “The witness’ car is completely irrelevant!”

Fey objects almost as soon as the words are out of Miles’ mouth. “On the contrary!” she protests. “The car is crucial to this case!”

“Is that so?” the judge asks. His eyes are wide. “I cannot see how it can be relevant.”

“Trust me, Your Honor,” Fey says with a confident smile.

“Very well,” the judge sighs. “Witness, describe your car for the court.”

“It’s a very expensive model,” Phil repeats. “It has blue and black stripes, custom painted, you see. I take very good care of it. It’s my pride and joy.”

Miles’ heart drops. Somehow, he feels worse than he did before, which is impressive, considering his cold.

Fey beams. “That’s funny,” she says.

“Ms. Fey?” the judge asks.

Fey pulls a picks up a piece of paper. “Recall what Mr. Burr said to the court yesterday. He saw a blue and black striped car outside the apartment building on the evening of the crime!”

Phil shouts in alarm. Miles clenches his fists and leans against his desk.

“Mr. Clyde,” Fey continues. “I thought you said you stayed home that night. So why is your car at the scene of the crime!”

Miles objects. “You don’t know that it’s the same car—”

“Mr. Clyde just testified that it’s custom painted!” Fey protests. “I’m sure Burr would recognize the car if shown a photo of it.”

Miles cannot think of a good counterpoint to that, and he says nothing as Fey destroys his entire case.

“Your Honor, I believe Mr. Clyde followed Pierson and his son to their dinner date and to the apartment. As I said before, he waited for the perfect opportunity to sneak into the apartment. He took the victim’s scarf, which was lying on the counter, and tried to strangle the victim. When that didn’t work, he took a nearby knife and stabbed the victim in the back. The defendant heard the noise and went to exit the bathroom, he fled through the fire escape, accidentally leaving behind a cigarette butt.”

“How do you explain the lack of fingerprints on the crime scene?!” Miles protests.

“Simple,” Fey says. “The crime was premeditated.”

“And the cigarette box? The wiped fingerprints?” Miles grasps. “If this crime was premeditated, why on earth would Clyde be smoking and leave behind such incriminating evidence?!”
              “This is all speculation, but judging from the cigarette butt, Mr. Clyde must have been smoking as he stalked his son into the apartment building,” Fey says. “If I had to guess, his son could smell the smoke as he snuck in and saw his father coming. This clued Clyde into the incriminating nature of his smoke smell, so he quickly wiped down his own box of cigarettes and left it behind in the apartment.”

Miles wants to protest, wants to claim it’s ridiculous, but the look on Phil Clyde’s face says otherwise. He’s enraged, but not the way a father falsely accused of killing his own son might be. He looks like a man cornered.

“What of motive?” Miles says, reaching for his last bastion. “What motive could Clyde possibly have for murdering his own son?”

Fey holds up a newspaper. With a jolt, Miles recognizes the large font on the front cover.

Dark Rumors of Demon Prosecutor

His father had that same newspaper the night before. His father knew about the wiped fingerprints. His father thought the defendant was innocent.

His father had betrayed him.

Rage grips Miles’ chest, and he wants to laugh. Instead, he grins bitterly. “Striking at my reputation, Ms. Fey? I’m afraid that does not count as real evidence in court.”

“On the contrary, Mr. Edgeworth,” Fey says. “I’m not concerned about the front-page article. Rather, the article on page four. Care to read it for us?”

Fey tosses the paper across the room, and Miles barely catches it with sweat soaked hands. It’s already turned to the proper page. Miles peers at the title.

“Tragedy strikes in car accident,” he reads, “Mother dies on impact.” He silently reads further, and his chest squeezes when he realizes who the one responsible for the wreck is.

Timmy Clyde.

“Timmy Clyde got into a terrible car accident a couple months ago,” Fey says. “One that killed his mother.”

“You can’t be suggesting—” Miles says, even though he knows the truth is not on his side.

“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting,” Fey says. She glares at Phil Clyde. “Mr. Clyde! You killed your son as revenge for the death of your wife!”

Miles holds his breath. Waits for Clyde to deny it. Waits for this nonsense to end so they can resume prosecuting Pierson for her crimes.

But Clyde’s eyes fill with hate, and he seethes in Fey’s direction.

And suddenly, Miles knows he has lost.

“You!” he spits. “How could you know?”

“So, it’s true?” Pierson asks, speaking for the first time in the proceedings. Tears spill down her cheeks. “Mr. Clyde… you killed Timmy?!”

“You little bitch,” Clyde snaps, causing Pierson to flinch back. “It’s your fault for dating that treacherous child of mine. What right does he have to find love after what he did?”

“He never meant to get into that wreck—”

“It makes no difference!” Clyde shouts. “He killed my wife, so I killed him! He doesn’t deserve happiness!”

“You’re wrong!” Pierson shouts. “He was so sorry; he wanted to make things right, and you-you just killed him!”

The court dissolves into chaos, and Miles just stands, breathless. He barely hears as the judge calls for order. He barely hears as the judge declares the defendant not guilty. Phil Clyde is arrested on the spot. Miles watches with his ears ringing.

The defendant is innocent.

Not guilty. Not—

Guilty.

Miles failed. Miles has one job as a prosecutor, and he’s let it go to complete and utter ruin. He’s let a defendant go free. He let the defense win.

The defendant is innocent. Which doesn’t make sense, because everyone in the defendant’s chair is guilty, Miles knows this, everyone in the defendant’s chair is guilty and the guilty must be punished—

The trial is over, and confetti is flying everywhere, and Miles collects his evidence and marches out of the room. He isn’t sure if it’s the shock or his illness that’s making it hard to think, but he doesn’t care.

Innocent. Not guilty.

Dark Rumors of Demon Prosecutor—

“Miles!”

Miles grinds to a halt when he hears Gregory Edgeworth’s voice behind him. He slowly turns around.

“You,” Miles says, his voice a low whisper. “Why are you here?”

Does he want to gloat? Rub Miles’ loss in his face? Does he want to brag about how he was right all along, that somehow Pierson is innocent, that Miles failed—

“I’m worried about you,” Gregory says. “You left the courtroom kind of fast, and I know you’re not feeling well—”

“Worried about me?” Miles laughs breathily, which only causes him to cough. Gregory takes a step toward him, but Miles takes multiple steps back. “You’re worried about me?”

“Of course, I am—”

“If you’re so worried about me,” Miles interrupts. His rage builds up the more he thinks about it. “Why the hell did you betray me?”

Gregory freezes.

“Don’t play dumb with me.” Miles digs his fingernails into his palms. “I know you went to Fey. I know you told her about the fingerprints. Gave her the newspaper.”

“Pierson was innocent—”

“You must have had a good laugh together, didn’t you?” Miles hisses, unable to stand it. “Poor, gullible, Miles Edgeworth. The poor Demon Prosecutor! He thought he could twist this case, but he trusted the wrong person—”

“You were withholding crucial evidence, Miles!” Gregory finally snaps. “Did you really think I could look past that?”

Out of habit, Miles raises his voice and says, “She was guilty—”

“No, she wasn’t!” protests a completely different voice.

Miles blinks as Phoenix Fucking Wright enters the prosecutors lounge with a determined scowl. He glances at Gregory with a wary expression, but he levels his glare at Miles.

“Wright,” Miles says frostily. “What are you doing here?”

“I… I… wanted to talk to Mr. not-Edgeworth,” Wright says. “So, I followed him here. But I can’t stay quiet! Ronna was innocent! Clyde confessed! How can you say otherwise?”

Miles sputters. “You don’t get to lecture me on the meaning of guilt and innocence—”

“I know better than anyone what it’s like to be falsely accused of murder!” Phoenix protests. Tears spring to his eyes. “Why is it so hard to believe in anyone’s innocence?”

“Because people aren’t innocent!” Miles roars. “You’re only arrested if there’s evidence against you, and if there’s evidence against you, then you’re—”

“Sometimes the evidence is deceiving,” Gregory says.

“You don’t get to talk to me!” Miles takes another step away. “Do you think I want you here? Do you think I want you to moralize to me about how everyone is to be trusted, and how I’m corrupt—”

“I didn’t say those things—”

“I know you’re looking for him,” Miles continues. For some reason, he feels the urge to cry as well, and he blinks furiously. “I know you’re looking for that stupid, naïve little boy who used to idolize your every action—”

“Oh, Miles—”

The pity in Gregory’s face only makes the burning rage in Miles’ chest grow. “But he’s dead! He died right there in the elevator with you, and unlike you, he is never coming back!”

Silence rings between the three of them. Miles sniffs, the congestion in his sinuses worsening, and he stares resolutely between Wright and his father, refusing to look either of them in the eye.

“You know what? You’re right,” says Wright coldly. Gregory stays quiet. “You have changed. Because the Miles Edgeworth I knew would have never been so heartless, and merciless, and cruel as you.”

“Phoenix—” Gregory says quietly, as if Wright has said something Miles has never heard before.

“I wanted to help, but I guess you’re perfectly happy the way you are.” Wright turns away before sending one final glance over his shoulder. “Sorry for bothering you.”

As Wright walks away, a strange emotion stirs up in Miles’ stomach. Wright’s words stung, but they mostly leave Miles with an overwhelming feeling of relief. No more letters. No more phone calls. No more Wright.

Gregory is still standing in front of Miles, looking like he has something to say. But Miles is still ill, and he feels like hell itself, and he has failed, and the defendant is innocent, but the defendant can’t be innocent, and a Von Karma is perfect in every way and right now Miles’ every imperfection is destroying everything—

“I need to go,” Miles says. “Goodbye.”

“I love you, Miles.”

Miles’ chest freezes. Gregory stares at him with a strange kind of intensity. It’s not anger, or disappointment, but Miles… Miles doesn’t know what to do with it.

It has to be some kind of trick.

“Don’t play games with me,” Miles hisses.

Before Gregory can say another word, Miles turns on his heel and flees.

Miles sits in his office and tries his hardest to remember how to breathe.

Innocent. The defendant is innocent. There’s no denying this indisputable fact.

Innocent. Not guilty.

If Pierson is innocent, who else has sat in the defendant’s chair without bearing guilt? Who else has Miles looked upon without remorse, without mercy, and punished them unjustly?

The idea is staggering. Defendants are all guilty, and the guilty must be punished. That is his creed. That is his creed, and his logic has been crushed by a single blow of the judge’s gavel.

Miles shivers, likely due to his illness, but he doesn’t have the energy to make tea. Nor does he wish to. Drinking tea after such failure, after such a turnabout of everything he’s stood for, feels wrong. Feels unjust.

The guilty must be punished, after all.

These thoughts and more race through Miles’ mind as he hears a hard rap on his door. Two knocks. Strong and quick. Certainly not Gumshoe, his knocks are much faster and far more plentiful. Anyone else would announce their identity along with the knock, which means—

Maybe, if Miles stays silent, Von Karma will think he’s not in his office. But… no. The door’s unlocked, and Miles knows that Von Karma will open it himself if Miles does not speak within the next ten seconds.

Miles stands up, clears his throat, prays he does not sound too obviously unwell, and says, “You may come in.”

The door swings open without another moment of delay, and Manfred von Karma steps inside the room, his cane tapping the floor more damningly than the judge’s gavel. Miles doesn’t know how he received the news so quickly, unless the entire prosecutor’s office is in a frenzy over Miles losing his two-year win record.

“Sir,” Miles says. He feels dizzy, and he wants to rest his hand against the desk for support, but he knows that will not be tolerated.

Von Karma does not say anything at first. He approaches Miles until only two feet of distance stands between them. His expression is cold as he regards Miles with obvious disappointment.

“You look disgusting,” says Von Karma. “Are you always this unsightly when I’m away?”

“No, sir,” Miles says quickly. He gives a small bow. “I’m merely feeling a bit under the weather, but it’s nothing I cannot handle.”

“Is that why you lost this morning?”

Miles expected this, but the accusation in Von Karma’s tone still makes Miles’ stomach swoop.

“The defense fought remarkably well, and—”

“I did not come here for your excuses, boy. All defense lawyers’ parlor tricks should pale in comparison of the Von Karma way.”

Miles bows his head again. “Yes, sir. I’m truly sorry for my failure.”

Von Karma scoffs. “To think I put so much effort into you, only for you to fall so quickly.”

“The defendant was innocent,” Miles says before he can stop himself. He clamps his mouth as soon as the words come out, biting hard on his tongue in the process.

Von Karma doesn’t say anything. Miles sniffs back some congestion, which only makes him feel smaller in Von Karma’s enormous shadow. Why, oh why, couldn’t he have just kept his mouth shut? Talking back to Von Karma never pays off. Ever.

“Innocent?” Von Karma asks. “And how can you know that? People will say anything to hide from their due punishment. Are you suddenly omniscient as well as foolish?”

Well, Miles dug his grave. He might as well lie in it.

“The true culprit confessed.”

“Bah! Confessions can be forced. You should have had the evidence to prove that confession null and void. If you can’t, you are worthless as a prosecutor.”

Von karma is right, of course. Confessions can be forced. Perhaps Fey had a nasty piece of blackmail on Clyde. But if that was the case, why would Fey need to use so much evidence? What blackmail could possibly be worse than being convicted for filicide?

Von Karma snaps his fingers, yanking Miles back to attention. “Your hesitation does not comfort me. If you’re so insistent on believing in the defendant's guiltlessness”—he says the word with amused disgust—“then perhaps this office is too grand for you. I’m sure some defense attorneys will welcome you in the gutter. Perhaps that hopeless fool at Edgeworth Law Offices?”

“That won’t be necessary, Sir.” Miles hardens his resolve, but the foundation of his faith still feels shaken. “I will not fail again. You have my word.”

Von Karma regards him with a calculating expression, clenching and unclenching the top of this cane. “Perhaps it was too much to expect you to perfectly uphold the Von Karma name,” he says. “But I do expect you to not let another mark stain your record again, or I may begin to wonder why I gave you a chance at all.”

Miles bows, hot relief mixing with the cold shame in his chest. “Thank you, sir,” he says. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, he coughs twice into his elbow. “I swear… I’ll do everything in my power to ensure the guilty face justice.”

“Naturally.” Von Karma turns and begins to walk away from Miles before pausing.

What on earth could he want now? Miles is trying his hardest to stay standing, but he desperately wishes Von Karma would hurry up and leave.

Von Karma keeps his back to Miles as he says, “Chief Gant gave me some… absurd news the other day.”

Miles clasps his hands behind his back, trying his hardest to maintain composure against what is surely coming. “Oh?”

“He says that your father, the defense attorney, has come back from the dead and is now living in your home.” Von Karma doesn’t move a muscle from where he stands. “Is this true?”

At least Gant told him first. Von Karma would never have believed Miles otherwise.

“Yes sir,” Miles says breathily. “It’s a temporary arrangement.”

Von Karma’s entire body goes rigid, and he grasps his right shoulder. Miles waits for him to call both him and Gant insane.

But Von Karma only leaves the room without a word, slamming the door violently behind him.

Miles collapses into his seat and releases a painful set of coughs that make his lungs burn. His entire body is clammy. He curls up in his seat, presses his face into his hands, and breathes shakily.

Miles returns home fully expecting to find the house devoid of any signs of his father’s existence. After the fight earlier today, Gregory surely won’t want to stick around, and Miles is sure Gregory has at the very least found a friend in Fey. Not to mention, Raymond Shields will no doubt be delighted to give his former mentor a place to stay.

But when Miles unlocks and opens the door to his apartment, Gregory sits on the edge of his sofa, both hands clasped together as if in prayer.

Miles stands, dumbstruck in the doorway. Gregory stands up and opens his mouth as if he’s about to say something, but he closes it again.

“You’re still here,” Miles observes.

Gregory’s eyebrows furrow the same way Miles’ do when he looks in the mirror. “Where else would I be?”

“I was under the clearly mistaken impression that you wanted nothing more to do with me,” Miles says. Miles’ anger and betrayal begins to bubble back to the surface. He enters the apartment and brushes past Gregory. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day, so I think I will call it an early night.”

“Have you eaten?”

Miles sputters. Of all the inane, irrelevant things to say—what difference does it make whether or not he’s eaten?

“What difference does it make?”

“I haven’t seen you eat a proper meal the entire time I’ve been here—”

“Which, I will note, has barely been three full days.”

“Miles, please.” There’s a pleading note in Gregory’s voice. “Just eat something.”

Even if the idea of eating didn’t make Miles’ stomach churn, Miles would have refused to eat out of spite. However, Miles is not lying when he says, “I’m not hungry.”

“I know you’re sick, but you still need to eat.”

“I don’t see why you care.”

“I’m your father,” Gregory says. “Of course, I care.”

Miles thinks of a ten-year-old Franziska forgetting to eat because she was too busy studying all day. It was Miles who put a sandwich in front of her and forced her to eat something. At the time, she was not much impressed with her little brother’s antics.

Miles knows Gregory won’t give up, so he storms into the kitchen, makes himself a pathetic-looking peanut butter sandwich, and enters his bedroom with a huff. The door slam is probably a little melodramatic, but Miles cannot bring himself to care.

Why does Gregory care so much? And why… why does it make Miles throat tighten and eyes burn?

It must be yet another symptom of his illness. Miles is really starting to hate it.

Gregory is worried.

He sits in the guest bedroom of Miles’ apartment and tries to figure out his next steps. Clearly, Miles wants him to find his own place as soon as possible. That much is a given.

But outside of finding a place to live, what is Gregory going to do about Miles? The man acts like he’s never been shown love in his entire life, which is devastating, because in Gregory’s memory, it was barely a week ago that Miles, still small and full of optimism, declared Gregory was the best father in the entire world.

“It’s only a trial,” Gregory had said amusedly. “You’ve seen them before.”

“I love watching your trials,” Miles replied, a look of pure excitement on his face before he forced his face into a more solemn expression. Gregory was never sure why Miles felt the need to act like a fully grown adult, but Phoenix and Larry had encouraged Miles to crawl a little bit out of his shell, at least. “I’m sure you’ll show that Von Karma what true justice is.”

“Now, don’t be rude,” Gregory said mildly. “Just because his ideologies are different from mine, it doesn’t mean we should treat him poorly.”

“But he’s so rude to you!” Miles protested, crossing his arms. “Shouting Objection before you can even finish your questions for the witness. It’s… it’s… incorrigible.”

Gregory smiles at the memory, even as a heavy weight presses down on his chest. Miles had been so excited for that day, and then it all went so horribly wrong…

“Von Karma is a great man, deserving of respect,” adult Miles had said, his tone carrying a rehearsed lilt.

What had Von Karma said to Miles, for Miles to consider his younger self to be stupid and naïve? If anyone other than Miles said those words, Gregory might have slapped them in the face. Miles, who seems surprised that Gregory wants him to eat, wants him to take a sick day.

“Oh, Miles,” Gregory whispers into the darkness of his bedroom. He feels so useless. “What did he do to you?”

Gregory glances at his watch. It’s almost midnight; it would behoove him to try and get sleep. Gregory isn’t sure of how successful he’ll be. His nightmares had gone from a standard reliving of the elevator to a far more gruesome scenes of Manfred von Karma murdering Miles and forcing Gregory to watch. Miles’ age varied. Sometimes, Von Karma choked the life out of a nine-year-old Miles, and sometimes, he shot the adult Miles in the heart.

Hopefully, the nightmares won’t be a permanent fixture of Gregory’s evenings, but they proved to be a great deterrent for sleep. Gregory would prefer his brain stop interpreting his worries about Von Karma’s treatment of Miles in such unpleasant ways.

Gregory takes off his glasses and massages his eyes exhaustedly. At the very least, he should lie down and pretend he intends to sleep. It will be better than nothing.

Gregory places his glasses on the bedside table and is about to lean back into the pillows when a piercing scream rings from Miles’ bedroom.

Before Gregory is fully aware of what he’s doing, he bursts out of the guest bedroom and sprints to Mile’s door. His heart feels like it isn’t beating, and Gregory does not hesitate before pushing Miles’ door open and running into the bedroom.

“Miles?” he asks, his voice high-pitched and panicked.

The room is devoid of intruders, and Miles sits in bed, staring at the wall and breathing rapidly. His eyes dart to Gregory before shutting tightly.

“Miles?” Gregory says again, not sure what to do. It’s obvious Miles woke up suddenly and unpleasantly from a nightmare, but this is mostly unfamiliar territory for him. Sure, when Miles was small, Gregory would comfort him, assure him the nightmare wasn’t real, and help him fall back asleep. But Miles isn’t small anymore. Any help might be wholly unwanted or rejected.

Miles expression crumples, and he covers his face with his hands. His shoulders shake.

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, his voice choked on what sounds like a mixture of emotion and phlegm. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

Gregory can’t leave Miles like this. He steps further inside and stands next to Miles’ bed, but Miles looks up at him and shrinks away, as if Gregory’s figure is intimidating.

“I’m sorry,” he sobs again. “I was only trying to… please…”

Gregory sits down on the edge of the bed, hoping he’ll be less intimidating that way. He hushes Miles as gently as he can.

“Shh, it’s okay, shh,” he says. He reaches up to run his fingers through Miles’ hair but hesitates and lowers his hand again. “You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Laughter mixes with Miles’ sobs, bubbling out as a sad, choked sound.

“Can I hug you?” Gregory asks cautiously.

“I don’t need your pity,” Miles says between sobs. “I’m… I know you don’t…”

“It’s not pity,” Gregory insists. “I only want to help you. I promise.”

“I—” Miles hesitates, trembling. He suddenly seizes Gregory’s shirt with his fist, not looking directly at Gregory. “I, please, I need to know… I need to know you’re not…”

Gregory takes the invitation to slowly wrap his arms around Miles and pull him close. Miles doesn’t resist and only releases an anguished, gasping sob as Gregory begins to rock him back in forth. It’s harder and more ungainly to cradle Miles now that he’s twenty-two and not nine, but the principle remains the same.

“Just tell me if I need to let go,” Gregory says, unsure if the cry was one of true distress, but Miles clings even more tightly to Gregory’s shirt.

“Don’t go—” Miles’ voice hitches “—I’m so sorry, Father, it’s my fault, forgive me, please forgive me—”

Gregory hushes him again, running his fingers through Miles’ hair with one hand and rubbing his back with the other. Miles’ feels unnaturally hot in Gregory’s arms, almost certainly due to his fever. Gregory presses down the instinctive worry and focuses on comforting his son.

“Everything’s fine. It wasn’t real, baby. It was just a nightmare.”

Miles only shakes his head, releasing Gregory’s shirt in favor of pressing his hand against Gregory’s chest. “Forgive me,” he gasps.

“There’s nothing to forgive. I’m fine,” Gregory whispers, knowing Miles is expecting to find a gunshot wound in his chest. He doesn’t know why Miles’ is apologizing so profusely, but survivors’ guilt is to be expected from such a situation. “I’m here.”

“You won’t be.” Miles barely seems present as he sniffs and coughs and buries his face into Gregory’s shoulder. “When you know.”

Know what?

“Nothing will make me leave you,” Gregory promises. “Nothing.”

Miles shakes his head.

“I love you, Miles,” Gregory says softly. “Nothing will ever change that.”

Miles doesn’t say anything after that, shaking and clinging tightly to Gregory, and Gregory continues to cradle him until Miles eventually falls asleep in his arms. As gently as he can, Gregory lowers Miles back into bed before standing up.

Unsurprisingly, Miles looks much younger when he’s asleep. Without his permanent glare, his tear-streaked face actually looks like it belongs to a twenty-two-year-old. An admittedly very distressed twenty-two-year-old.

But what was it that Miles was apologizing for? Somehow, Gregory doubts its for his underhanded tactics behind the prosecutor’s bench. His last few coherent sentences implied that Gregory doesn’t know whatever it is. And, judging from the way Miles wanted to confirm Gregory was alive, the nightmare likely related to what happened in the elevator.

Gregory would ask, but he’s certain that Miles won’t tell him what he was talking about. Gregory will be very shocked if Miles even acknowledges that tonight happened at all.

Before leaving the room, Gregory gently rests his hand on Miles’ forehead and tries to gauge his temperature. Miles doesn’t seem to be too hot; he might even be slightly cooler than he was this morning. In any case, his condition isn’t catastrophic.

Gregory presses a quick kiss on Miles’ temple before leaving the room. He prays Miles might have some good dreams for once.

Chapter Text

Miles wakes up the following morning in a state of utter mortification.

He only remembers bits and pieces of last night, but even he can recall losing all sense of composure and sobbing like an infant all over his father. Miles wants to blame his illness. But if his illness is responsible for such an uncharacteristic lack of decorum, why is the feeling of his father’s embrace so thoroughly burned into his mind? If Miles didn’t know better, he’d think that he wants to be hugged again.

But that’s absurd. Last night’s events were a result of a stressful day, truly horrible nightmares, illness, and a lapse of judgement. It will not happen again. Miles won’t allow it.

Miles’ throat is still sore and uncomfortable, and he rolls over to peer at the time on his clock. He breaks into a startled bought of coughs when he sees that it’s 10:00 am.

Why didn’t Miles wake up with alarm? He should have woken up hours ago, should be at work by now, but here he is, still in his bed and in a state of abject misery. Miles unceremoniously rolls out of bed and beelines to his closet—

“Miles?” asks Gregory from the other side of the door. Miles is really beginning to hate that man. “Are you awake?”

“Why the hell—” Miles coughs again, but he knows trying to hide the hoarseness in his voice is impossible. “—did you not wake me up?”

“I called the prosecutor’s office,” Gregory says, not sounding remotely concerned about Miles’ predicament. “I told them you were too sick to come in today.”

Miles freezes and turns toward the door slowly. He glares daggers, even though there’s no way Gregory can see him. “You what?”

“I’m not sorry.” Because of course he isn’t. “You’re sick. You need to rest.”

“How many times do I need to tell you?” Miles hisses. “I’m fine—”

Miles’ statement is interrupted by yet more coughing, and this time, the coughs are violent enough to cause Miles to fall to his knees.

“You’re not fine,” Gregory says. “I already have tea made for you for your throat. But please, just take the day to rest. There’s nothing wrong with taking a sick day.”

There is everything wrong with taking a sick day, and Von Karma will not look kindly on Miles taking a day off immediately after his failure. However, if Miles is being completely honest with himself, he cannot picture himself getting any productive work done in his current condition. Maybe it is better that Miles take time to recover, and then he can come back with all the fresh ferocity of a prosecutor who wants to bring the guilty to justice.

“Fine,” Miles bites out. At least his father isn’t bringing up the truly embarrassing events of last night. “Fine, I’ll rest.”

The sigh of relief on the other side of the door is truly obnoxious. “Thank you.”

Well, if Miles isn’t leaving the house, he might as well not change into proper clothes. Normally, he might be concerned about embarrassing himself in front of his father, but Miles had already degraded himself as far as he could the night before. There’s no point in acting the picture of proper decorum in front of the man whose shoulder he blubbered into.

Miles shuffles into the kitchen, wordlessly takes the tea from his father’s hands, and curls up on his living room sofa. Exhausted and truly beyond caring (nobody will believe Gregory if he tells anyone), Miles finds his remote and turns on the television before belatedly realizing none of his Steel Samurai DVDs are in the video player.

Miles stares at the ‘no disc’ screen of the television and wretchedly sips his tea. It does sooth his throat, which is a small mercy.

“Here’s some medicine,” Gregory says, handing Miles the same pills Miles took the morning before. He glances at the television and frowns. “Is there something you want to watch?”

If it’s possible, Miles is sure his feverish face has gotten even redder. It’s one thing to watch the Steel Samurai in his father’s presence and pretend there’s nothing at all strange about it. It’s another thing to actively request his father find the DVD box set in the television console.

“It’s nothing,” Miles mutters.

“Mhm,” Gregory says dryly.

Please, just leave, Miles thinks miserably. “Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“You haven’t eaten breakfast yet.”

Miles glares at Gregory. Gregory stares firmly back. They maintain eye contact for approximately thirty seconds before Miles coughs, blinking in the process.

Damn it all.

“Fine,” Miles huffs. “I’ll eat something.”

“I can make it for you.”

“That will not be necessary.”

Miles places his tea on the coffee table and stands up. He makes his way to the kitchen, takes a banana, and places a Steel Samurai DVD in the player as covertly as possible. Gregory watches him with a mild expression from the kitchen table, reading a newspaper.

Miles eats his banana as quickly as possible, disposes of the peel, sits back down on the sofa with his tea, and presses play on the first episode of season one of Steel Samurai. If he’s going to take the day off, he might as well spend it binging the entire series from the start.

Gregory is kind enough not to say anything when the Steel Samurai theme starts loudly playing from the television. Miles turns the volume down a few notches to mitigate his headache.

Miles is perhaps three episodes into the show, barely after the rivalry between the Steel Samauri and Evil Magistrate has properly been established, when Gregory stands up and places down his newspaper.

“I’m going out,” he says vaguely.

“To speak with Fey, I presume?” Miles asks, more of a guess than a shining example of perfect logic. Miles’ head is too muddled to put too much work into his deductions.

“There’s someone else I wish to speak to, actually.” Gregory puts on his trench coat and hat. “I’ll be back. Is there anything you’d like me to get for you?”

Miles hesitates before clearing his throat. “I seem to be low on rice,” he says cautiously. “If you wouldn’t mind fetching some.”

“Rice.” Gregory nods. “Got it.”

He leaves a few moments later, and Miles is finally left alone in his apartment. The revelation makes him feel an odd chill. But why? Surely, he hasn’t come to enjoy his father’s company. The incessant nagging is enough to drive anyone up the wall, and Miles’ patience is so frayed he’s already snapped on multiple occasions.

The chill is just his fever. Nothing more. Besides, Gregory will return, hopefully with rice, and Miles can continue to be irritated by his presence after. There is nothing to be worried about.

“Detective Badd,” Gregory says. “It’s good to see you again.”

Badd is largely unchanged after thirteen years. There’s a few more lines on his face, more gray in his hair, but nothing incredibly alarming. The thing that seems to have changed the most about him is his coat, which is now littered with holes. He doesn’t look too alarmed to see Gregory, but Badd has never been all that expressive to begin with.

“Mr. Edgeworth… Chief Gant told me you might be lurking around,” Badd says, but Gregory can see a satisfied shine in his eyes. “What brings you here?”

“Curiosity,” Gregory admits. “I actually have a favor to ask of you.”

“A favor?” Badd removes his mirror from the inside of his coat and inspects his reflection. “What sort of favor?”

Gregory glances both ways to make sure nobody’s overhearing. The only person who is even looking in their direction is the large detective who follows Miles around. “I was wondering if I might be allowed into the evidence room.”

“And why… would you want to go there?”

Gregory sighs. There’s a reason he went to Badd for this over anyone else. “I would like to look at the old DL-6 case files.”

This time, Badd’s eyes widen and body tenses in alarm. He puts his mirror away with an even deeper frown than usual. “DL-6… are you sure that’s a good idea?”

“I think a man has the right to learn about his own murder,” Gregory says seriously. “But Chief Gant seems like too much of a stickler to let me go looking through the evidence.”

“I doubt you’ll find anything new… it’s been a cold case for thirteen years.”

“I would just like to see it for myself.” And maybe find a clue as to why Miles thinks he’s at all responsible for what happened in there.

Badd sighs. “Fine. I’ll escort you. Besides…” Badd inspects his half-eaten lollipop. “…if anyone can find the truth, it’ll be you.”

Gregory exhales in relief and feels a truly genuine smile form on his face. “Thank you, Detective Badd.”

Badd turns away. “Don’t mention it.”

Gregory follows Badd to the evidence room, and he finds curiosity winning over once again.

“Have you worked with my son on any cases before?” he asks.

“The prosecutor?” Badd asks, taking the stairs instead of the elevator. Gregory doesn’t know if he did it on purpose, but he’s grateful all the same. “Yeah, I have. Kid solved the death of a friend of mine… would’ve made a fine detective.”

“Is that right?”

“Can be a bit of a brat, though… him and that horse crop wielding sister of his. He had to have been nineteen or twenty when they took over that investigation. He got all offended when I called him a kid.”

Horse crop wielding sister? Gregory supposes that must be a reference to Franziska von Karma; he vaguely remembers seeing her carry a crop around even as a two-year-old. If Miles was twenty at the time, did that make Franziska thirteen? What was she doing in a murder investigation?

Come to think of it, Miles did say Franziska became a prosecutor at thirteen. What a troubling thought. Didn’t Von Karma want his daughter to have a childhood?

“Did you see him with his mentor?” Gregory is unable to keep the worry out of his voice.

“Von Karma?” Badd glowers. “Only once, when Von Karma foisted the kids upon us, but … the girl obviously had more sway over her father. It’s interesting, though…”

“What was?”

“It’s no secret… most detectives don’t like Von Karma. Man doesn’t respect us, so we don’t respect him. Gumshoe came to me wondering if we could charge him for child abuse.”

Gregory stops in his tracks. “What?”

Badd stop as well, a single hand in his pocket. “Gumshoe’s not the first to suggest it. You don’t see Von Karma with his daughter often, and there’s no signs of physical abuse, but when they’re together, his choice of words can be… harsh, at times. Unfortunately, there’s not nearly enough evidence to pin him with, and there’s no way the kids would testify against him. It only takes a conversation to see how much they revere the man.”

“So you won’t even try?” Gregory asks, irritated. “Maybe if you talked with them, they’d surprise you.”

“We have tried,” Badd says. “Out of respect for our old partnership… I spoke with your son after the Yew incident. Asked him if Von Karma treated him right. I’m sure you can guess what he said.”

“Von Karma is a great man, deserving of respect,” Gregory recalls quietly.

“Exactly… the girl literally attacked us for even suggesting her pops might not be treating her right… And any attempts from Gumshoe to broach the subject to Edgeworth has resulted in less than savory results.”

“Unfortunate…” Last Gregory checked, the rest of Von Karma’s family would be overseas and unavailable to ask. “But you said something was interesting specifically about Gumshoe’s suggestion?”

“Oh, right.” Badd chomps off the last piece of his lollipop and fishes another one from his coat pockets. “Gumshoe’s a spirited detective, but not always the best at putting two and two together. That’s why… when he does notice something, you got to pay attention.”

“What did he notice?”

“Apparently, he was in the same room as Edgeworth and the Von Karmas. He said he was a bit distracted at the time, long story, but… Von Karma said something to your boy that even got Gumshoe’s attention.”

Gregory had really hoped Badd wouldn’t confirm his suspicions, but now that he is, Gregory finds he needs to know more, no matter how much it might enrage him.

“What did he say?”

“Hm… something like… ‘a worthless person like you doesn’t have the right to claim perfection’… mind you, that’s Gumshoe’s paraphrasing, but he apparently said it pretty loudly, or Gumshoe wouldn’t have noticed.”

A worthless person like you… The words make Gregory’s blood boil. How dare Von Karma say such a thing to Miles, especially when Miles is doing everything in his power to uphold Von Karma’s teachings?

“That’s not all…” Badd says. “Gumshoe kept listening to the conversation after that, and after the daughter convinced her father to let them keep investigating, Von Karma said it’s ‘more interesting’ if your son becomes a genius prosecutor…. Gumshoe asked me what that meant, but obviously, I can only speculate…” Badd sends a meaningful look in Gregory’s direction, and Gregory’s heart sinks.

“You think Von Karma wanted Miles to become a prosecutor because of Von Karma’s history with me,” Gregory says slowly. “Dramatic irony?”

“It’s possible,” Badd says. “Edgeworth has a very low regard for defense attorneys… it startled me at first, but with that context…”

Gregory closes his eyes and tries to press down the fury at the idea of his son being used in such a way. He fails, and he clings tightly to the stair rail to stop himself from punching something.

“If it’s any comfort… he seems fed and well-provided for. Not to mention not dead, which is a miracle considering how much he seems to enjoy pissing off the wrong people.”

“That’s… something, I suppose,” Gregory says, although the idea of Miles’ making enemies at such a young age is far from comforting.

“Right, well…” Badd shrugs with a single shoulder and swipes his key card to open the door to the evidence room. “Let’s get this over with.”

The evidence room is completely unchanged from when Gregory last saw it, filled to the brim with dust that probably hasn’t been touched in decades. Badd leads Gregory further into the room, pulls open a drawer, and removes a box labeled DL-6.

“Here it is… not sure what you expect to find, though,” Badd says, placing the box on a nearby shelf. “They resorted to a spirit medium for a reason.”

Gregory opens the box and removes the file sitting at the bottom. He opens to the autopsy report and skims the contents. Victim: Gregory Edgeworth. Time of Death: December 28, 2001 from 9-10 pm . Cause of Death: shot to the heart.

A photo is clipped to the autopsy report, and Gregory removes it and inspects it closely. Badd looks over his shoulder and makes a quiet ‘huh’ sound.

Gregory’s body lies slumped against the elevator wall. His chest is stained red, and a little bit of blood dripples from his mouth. Completely dead.

“That’s… disconcerting,” Gregory says, lifting his hand to his chest, where a bullet scar now is. “…Did Miles see?”

“Hard to say.” Badd removes his lollipop from his mouth and fishes a piece of paper from the files. “Think it says so here, but… both the kid and the bailiff were found unconscious in the elevator. Oxygen loss. They didn’t remember anything when they came to.”

Gregory frowns. If Miles doesn’t remember anything, why does he have such terrible nightmares? Undoubtedly, the five hours trapped in the elevator would be traumatizing, but why does he suggest that it’s his fault that Gregory died? Is it just survivor’s guilt? Does his brain make up images of what could have possibly happened? Or do Miles’ repressed memories come to the surface through his dreams?

“Something’s strange about this photo…” Gregory mutters, inspecting it closely. He turns to Badd. “How many times was the murder weapon fired?”

“Twice,” Badd says.

“I take it the second gunshot is this bullet hole in the elevator door?” Gregory asks, pointing to the hole in question.

“That’s the prevailing theory,” Badd says. “There’s just one problem. The second bullet was never found.”

“So, what? You can’t prove that it was shot in the same incident?”

“That’s just how it is,” Badd says. “We couldn’t prove when the hole in the elevator door was produced or how without the bullet. It could’ve been fired with a different gun.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gregory says, bristling. “It’s simple logic. There wasn’t a hole in the elevator when we went in. If there were two bullets missing from the weapon, wouldn’t it make sense that it was caused by the same weapon?”

“It just didn’t make sense,” Badd says. “None of it did. We had your son and Yogi describe the scene for us. He said that the Yogi was to your right, closest to the elevator. If he shot you in that direction, there’s no way the bullet would go through the door.”

“He couldn’t have moved?”  Gregory suggests. He remembers Yogi attacking him, but he can’t think of any reason why Yogi might go to the other side of the elevator to shoot him.

“They found him passed out near the elevator doors as well,” Badd says. He points to the space next to Gregory’s dead body. “We just couldn’t figure out how the bullet hole would be created. Additionally… judging from yours and Yogi’s locations… you would think the shot would be fired only a few inches away from your heart.”

Gregory’s heart sinks. “But you couldn’t find any gunpowder burn on me?”

“Exactly.”

Miles was sitting across from them in the elevator. Gregory doesn’t know how Miles could’ve possibly gotten hold of a gun, and there’s no way Miles would ever intentionally shoot anyone, but if there had been an accident… it would explain Miles’ actions last night.

No. It’s not likely that an accidental shot would get Gregory in the heart. Likelier than not, if Miles fired the gun, Miles is responsible for the hole in the elevator door.

But that still doesn’t explain where the second bullet went.

“I guess I can see how Yogi got Not Guilty,” Gregory says thoughtfully. “Who was his lawyer?”

“Robert Hammond.” Badd scoffs. “He argued that Yogi wasn’t of sound mind, and that if nobody can even remember the incident, there’s no way to prove Yogi was responsible.”

Well, that is certainly one way to prove a client innocent. Gregory personally prefers to get a Not Guilty verdict without questioning the client’s mental state.  Gregory flips to the suspect data. Yanni Yogi. Thirty-five years old at the time, which means now he should be forty-eight. His fiancé… committed suicide due to the incident.

“How horrible,” Gregory murmurs. “I can’t imagine the pain he must’ve been through.”

“That’s your killer you’re feeling sorry for,” Badd points out.

“We don’t know he’s my killer,” Gregory says. “And besides, the death is tragic regardless.”

“Sure… but if he’s not your killer, who else could it be?”

Gregory starts to tuck the papers back into the file and purses his lips. “I don’t know.”

“Not only do you lose a trial, but you take a day off the day after?” Franziska demands over the phone. “You are a stain on the Von Karma name!”

Franziska’s words are certainly harsher than Miles’ mentor, but Miles cannot bring himself to be too hurt by them. Certainly, the horror of the failure bubbles back to the surface. But it’s hard to be intimidated by the child he’s known since she was a toddler.

“Franziska… I was never a Von Karma to begin with,” Miles says, sniffing.

“You are a disciple and therefore reflect us in everything you do!” Franziska snaps. “And Von Karmas do not take the day off!”

“Yes, well, I happen to be sick, and I’m afraid it might have hindered my performance yesterday,” Miles says. The idea of Franziska going to court when sick is appalling. “Isn’t it better to keep your perfect record and take a few days off than let illness stain your reputation?”

“Hmph,” Franziska says. “I would not let a trifling illness impact my performance. But, in your case… I suppose you should use the rest. But you had better come back more perfect than ever!”

“Indeed.” Miles suppresses a weary smile. “It seems you’ve finally beat me, now that I’ve lost my first trial.”

“Well, there is no question that I have always been the best.” Franziska sniffs. “But I do not like this defeated attitude of yours, Miles Edgeworth. One loss is not the end of you. Plenty of prestigious prosecutors have stumbled.”

Miles hesitates. “The defendant was innocent, Franziska.”

“Don’t say such ridiculous things.” The discomfort in Franziska’s voice is swiftly replaced with indignation. “You know better than everyone that the only way to maintain perfection is to ensure that all the guilty are punished.”

“And if the investigation wasn’t perfect?” Miles asks. “If the truth was hidden? Might it not… might it not be better to lose and ensure that the real truth comes to light?”

“…Either you are doing a poor job of consoling yourself, or your illness is more serious than I thought,” Franziska says. “Have the perfect rest, Miles Edgeworth, or I will come and ensure that you are taking proper care of your person myself.”

“I could say the same to you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Franziska snorts. “Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

Franziska hangs up, and Miles puts down his phone with an exhausted sigh. Naturally, the exhale makes his lungs ache, but he accepts yet another sign of his ailing body and returns to watching television.

That conversation could have gone far worse. Miles cannot blame Franziska for disregarding everything he says. He’s not even sure of what he’s saying himself, and uncertainty is the first step to losing an argument. That much is common sense.

Miles is half-way through season two of Steel Samauri when Gregory returns to the apartment, holding a grocery bag. His expression is markedly more solemn than before, and Miles bites back the urge to ask what happened.

“Thank you for the food,” Miles says instead.

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Gregory says, somewhat distantly.

Miels frowns. This behavior is unusual, and unusual behavior usually is caused by a problem of some sort. Miles needs to find out what it is.

“Who did you visit?”

“Oh, um, Detective Badd,” Gregory says, taking off his coat and arching his back. “I had some things I wanted to discuss with him.”

“I didn’t realize you were well acquainted with him.”

“Oh yeah, we worked together on my most recent… hm, well, I guess final case,” Gregory says.

Miles pauses the television and tries not to perk up with too much interest. “The IS-7 incident?”

“Indeed. I’m honestly surprised you remember its name.”

“The trial lasted for a whole year,” Miles says. “And after all your delaying, Masters was still declared guilty of Dover’s murder.”

“What?” Gregory’s eyebrows shoot up. “That’s not what happened.”

What on earth? Surely, Gregory couldn’t be trying to lie to hide from his embarrassment?

“I read the case files only two years ago,” Miles says. “They stated very clearly that Master’s was convicted of murder on that day.”

“But he wasn’t,” Gregory says. “He was convicted of being an accomplice.”

Miles blinks, confused. “But I remember the case files clearly. Are you suggesting they were falsified?”

Gregory stares into the middle distance for a moment before asking, “Who gave you those files?”

Miles bristles. “Von Karma, but—”

“He must’ve changed them before giving them to you,” Gregory says. “It was the one trial he didn’t reach perfection in.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Miles stands up and blinks away the dizziness in his vision. “Why would he do such a thing?”

Gregory sighs. “Look, I don’t want to argue about Von Karma right now.”

“If you don’t want to argue about him, then stop flinging ridiculous accusations around!”

“Fine. I don’t know what happened to the files,” Gregory says. “But ask anyone else who was involved, and they’ll tell you Masters is in prison for being an accomplice.”

Miles wants to continue to argue, but Gregory’s statement is not one to be taken lightly. It’s not likely to be a bluff if Gregory’s content with Miles asking anyone involved what truly happened. Well, anyone except Von Karma, it seems.

But Von Karma strove for perfection. Why would he give Miles inaccurate information? Did he truly not notice?

“I see,” Miles says softly because that’s all he can think of to say. He lowers himself back into the sofa cushions and hopes he does not look too unsettled.

“Well, in any case, it looks like IS-7 is in the past,” Gregory says. “Badd told me a bit about your exploits. Something about solving Faraday’s murder?”

“Ah, yes,” Miles says. He tries not to think of the little girl left fatherless by the incident. “It seems that being a lawyer is a more dangerous profession than it might initially seem.”

“Try your best to stay out of trouble?”

“I can make no promises.”

“Figures.” Gregory sighs. “Well, are you feeling better, at least? Can I get you more tea?”

Chapter Text

Miles takes the next day off as well, deciding that Von Karma’s opinion of him isn’t likely to sink lower than it already has. Gregory continues fussing over him in a truly ridiculous manner, making tea at least three times a day. Unfortunately, he makes tea almost exactly the way Miles likes it, so Miles doesn’t have a good reason to reject him.

Fortunately, Miles feels well enough to go to work on Monday, so he returns to his office and enjoys his newly restored health. Gumshoe enters to congratulate him heartily on his recovery before informing him that there’s a new case that’s been assigned to him. Multiple witnesses clearly saw the murder, the suspect’s prints were on the weapon, and they even had motive. A truly open and shut case.

Slowly, Miles’ life begins to slot back into place.

Von Karma wants Miles to redeem himself, so Miles sticks to ‘easy’ cases. Cases where there can be no room for doubt who the killer is. Any cases where there is room for doubt, where defense attorneys can press and exploit the weaknesses in the evidence, Miles leaves behind. His confidence has been shaken since the most recent trial, and he does not know what he will do if another defense attorney proves a defendant not guilty.

It is the duty of a prosecutor to put criminals to justice, but if the defendant isn’t a criminal… But such an idea directly contradicts the Von Karma creed, which Miles has upheld for a large portion of his life.

Miles will stick to certain cases, for now. He will do his best to ascertain the truth later.

Gregory stops pestering Miles about his work. Gregory aids Shields at Edgeworth Law Offices, Miles goes to his own office, and they return to the apartment and share small talk. Gregory sometimes makes dinner, and Miles cannot pretend he’s not grateful for the help. Even if the delicious food simultaneously fills him with warmth and an enormous grief that opens a gaping hole in his stomach.

It’s all… terribly confusing.

Around a month after Miles’ sick leave, Miles is investigating the crime scene of yet another open-and-shut case when none other than Raymond Shields and his father walk up to him.

“Mr. Shields,” Miles says as civilly as he is able. “This is a surprise.”

“Aw, no hug for Uncle Ray?” Shields asks, stretching his arms wide. Miles makes a disgusted noise from the back of his throat, and Shields lowers his hands. “In any case, we’re the defense attorneys on this case. We thought we might try to have a look around.”

Miles opens his mouth to say that under no circumstances will any defense attorneys be meddling with his crime scene, but he catches his father’s eyes. They’re so… determined. Like he truly wishes to believe in his client’s innocence.

“It’s not enough that I share the evidence with you?” Miles pushes back anyway, crossing his arms.

“Sorry, Prosecutor Boy,” says Shields. “My partner and I would rather confirm the facts ourselves.”

Miles feels himself tense. He knows Shields is trying to use his father against him, but a part of Miles is still exceedingly angry with his father for sharing evidence with Fey and causing Miles to lose the trial. Even if the defendant turned out to be innocent…

Ronna Pierson was innocent.

“Fine,” Miles bites out, determinedly not looking at his father. “But know that your client is guilty, and I will be watching to make sure you don’t tamper with the evidence.”

Shields claps with a condescending smirk. “Great!” he says. “I would have it no other way.”

“Thank you,” Gregory says with a forceful sort of warmth.

“No need to thank me,” Miles says. “I’m only ensuring that this trial is done properly so the proof of the suspect’s guilt can be properly revealed.”

“The truth is a very important thing,” Gregory says vaguely.

Miles frowns. “…Indeed.”

Somehow, Miles’ simple case quickly becomes a convoluted frame job that stretches on for three days. In the process, Shields proves the defendant innocent and produces another stain on Miles’ record.

Miles isn’t sure he minds. Apart from the existential terror of his foundational ideologies being pulled up by the roots, something feels… bizarrely right about this new way of approaching things. Miles prosecutes the most likely suspect. Most of the time he wins. Sometimes the police are deceived, and the defense proves their client’s innocence. A team effort to arrive at the truth.

Miles berates himself as soon as these thoughts cross his mind. How are the guilty meant to receive justice if Miles allows himself to doubt the guilt of every defendant that comes his way? Miles will lose his edge and his proficiency if he continues to think this way.

Miles is still altogether conflicted on how he should feel about his second loss of his career, so he leaves the courtroom that day with a somewhat muddled sense of defeat and satisfaction.

“Great work today, sir!” Gumshoe says with a salute. “Sorry for missing the contradiction in the evidence.”

Miles closes his eyes and exhales, barely stopping himself from snapping. “Apparently, it can’t be helped.”

“Right, well, from now on, we’ll continue doing our best to only arrest real criminals!”

“I truly wish you the best of luck, Detective.”

Gumshoe nods again and opens his mouth to say something else, perhaps an entreaty for Miles to take him out to lunch, when they both hear a cane tapping against the polished tile floors. Gumshoe’s eyes widen, and Miles turns his head to see Von karma enter the lobby.

“Detective,” Miles says mildly. “Perhaps you would like to return to the police department?”

“Uh, o-oh, if you’re sure, sir—”

“I think you’ll find I’m quite certain on the matter.”

Gumshoe casts a nervous glance in Von Karma’s direction before nodding and fleeing the room out another door.

Miles takes a few steps forward to meet Von Karma and bows. It’s far easier to face his mentor now that Miles is actually a picture of health. At least now, he won’t have to repress the urge to cough.

“Two losses in two months,” Von Karma says before Miles fully comes out of the bow. “I do not find this promising.”

“The—” Miles cuts himself off before he dares claim the defendant was innocent. “—fault is mine. I was careless.”

“Obviously,” Von Karma says. “I watched today’s trial. You were soft.”

Von Karma watched? He must have been in the section of the audience behind Miles, and the thought makes Miles nauseous. Von Karma rarely has time to watch trials. Why would he bother to attend an insignificant case?

“If I may…” Miles ventures, “I’m surprised you took the time to watch the trial.”

Unsurprisingly, Von Karma only scoffs. “What I do with my time is my business. Yours is to ensure you uphold the Von Karma name. Something you seem to have forgotten.”

Miles doesn’t know what to say. He cannot easily say that a piece of him wishes to see innocent defendants go free so that the real criminals can be caught. Such words go against everything Miles has been taught, and they will surely not be appreciated by Von Karma. But if Miles agrees, and then loses another trial, where will he be then? Von Karma will not tolerate failure indefinitely.

Von Karma seems to notice Miles’ uncertainty, and his face twists into something similar to disgust. “It’s that defense attorney you’ve been living with, isn’t it? He’s been twisting your mind.”

Miles’ gut twists, and he clenches his fists. “I believe that may be an exaggeration of the facts—”

“And who are you to tell me what the truth is?” Von Karma demands, “Have you never lost a trial in nearly forty years? That is nearly twice as long as you have been alive, boy.”

Miles knows there is no good answer to the question, especially considering his recent losses, so he stays silent and waits for any further lecturing. Von Karma is very disappointed in his performance, that much is abundantly clear. Shame begins to creep into Miles’ chest. Von Karma gave Miles everything after his father died, and how does Miles repay him? With failure after failure.

“Von Karma!” says a loud voice from across the lobby. Miles jerks slightly in surprise as his father strides into his room. Shields is not with him.

Von Karma’s harsh expression becomes suddenly surprised, then enraged, and then entirely unreadable. He grasps his cane tightly and turns toward Gregory, who stops only a few feet away from Von Karma.

“Gregory Edgeworth,” Von Karma says. “I was under the clearly mistaken impression that you were dead.”

“And I was under the clearly mistaken impression that you would be retired by now,” Gregory says in response. His voice is almost colder than Von Karma’s. Miles has never seen him so angry before. “But I guess life is full of surprises.”

“Your extended holiday—” Von Karma spits the word out like a curse “—must have confused you. This is the prosecution lobby. I’d inform you of the location of the defense lobby, but I’ve never stepped foot in there.”

“There’s no mistake,” Gregory says. “I came to see my son. The good detective happened to bump into me and told me he was still in the lobby.”

Gumshoe… told Gregory about Von Karma? Why would he do such a thing?

Von Karma scoffs. “I am not done speaking with him.”

“Is that right?” Gregory asks. “Well, I’ll make what I have to say quick.” He turns to Miles and says, “Great work out there today. You nearly gave Raymond a run for his money.”

Miles blinks. Is he gloating? Miles cannot think of any other reason the defense would congratulate him on losing.

Fortunately, Von Karma scoffs before Miles has to formulate an appropriate response.

“Nearly is not good enough in court,” he says. “Perfection is the only way you win trials.”

“Winning means nothing if the defendant is innocent,” Gregory counters. He crosses his arms. “Miles exposed the flaws in Raymond’s logic and made the truth all more apparent in the end. That’s what I call a successful trial.”

“Bah! That’s the attitude that caused you to lose against me.”

“I think you’ll find it’s also the attitude that caused me to give you your first penalty.” Miles jolts. Penalty? Such a thing is to be expected every so often in a prosecutor’s career, but Von Karma? Receive a penalty? It’s unheard of.

But, if Gregory’s word is to be trusted, Von Karma received one thirteen years ago.

Rage flashes across Von Karma’s face, but he doesn’t deny it. He turns around and starts to stride away, but he pauses before reaching the lobby doors.

“Edgeworth!” he says in a commanding tone, causing Miles to straighten in attention. Gregory’s frown deepens at the address.

“Sir?” Miles asks, almost certain the call is for him.

“Enjoy the defense attorney’s company while it lasts,” he says. “But even his convictions are weak enough to know that the guilty must be punished.”

Miles’ insides feel like they’ve been doused in ice as Von Karma leaves the lobby. His horror must show on his face, because Gregory’s glare has faded into concern.

“Miles?” he asks. “Are you okay?”

“You didn’t need to intervene,” Miles says. “He was only instructing me. That is his right as my mentor, you know.”

“Gumshoe said he looked angry,” Gregory says, not looking remotely apologetic. “I was worried.”

“Detective Gumshoe should learn when to mind his own business.” Miles bristles in irritation. “I was fine.”

Miles can tell Gregory doesn’t believe him, but Gregory doesn’t push the issue. Miles cannot decide if this is infuriating or a relief.

“In any case, I really am proud of the way you conducted yourself during this trial,” Gregory says. “Shields was impressed too.”

“Do you typically congratulate the prosecution for losing?” Miles asks dryly. “Perhaps that’s why you kept winning your trials. The prosecution enjoyed your compliments.”

“Very funny.” Gregory rolls his eyes. “But yes, I like spending time with prosecutors who care more for the truth than winning. Faraday and I were rather well acquainted back in the day... but, well, I guess that’s in the past.”

Miles doesn’t say anything. He isn’t sure how he should respond, and he’s distracted by the idea of his father knowing Faraday. The concept isn’t outlandish, yet the thought never really occurred to him. How many other senior members of the prosecutor offices and the police force worked with his father in the past? How many have been comparing Miles to Gregory since the day Miles stepped into the courtroom?

Furthermore, Von Karma’s words follow him for the rest of the day. Enjoy the defense attorney’s while it lasts… the guilty must be punished…

Miles has never told anyone about the content of his nightmares, but Von Karma behaves as if he knows. When he was nine, Miles thought maybe prosecutors had a special ability to sniff out criminals, to see the guilt in someone’s eyes, to find out the truth just by glaring at someone the right way. Now, Miles knows it’s not quite so automatic, but he’s never been able to shake off the feeling that Von Karma knows exactly what Miles dreams of every time he closes his eyes.

And if Von Karma knows… then it is obvious what he is insinuating.

It’s just a dream, Miles tells himself once again in the safety of his own home. I would never kill my own father. Could never.

Miles glances at Gregory, who is watching the news in his living room. Gant recently updated them on the situation, clapped his hands cheerfully talking about complicated paperwork and unprecedented situations, which told Miles everything he needed to know about how long it’s going to take for Gregory to be legally alive again. Gregory offered to live with Shields, but Gant was bizarrely insistent that Gregory stay with Miles. Something about family needing to stick together. More likely, Gant likes knowing exactly where and how he can contact Gregory when something comes up. Shields is certainly a more unpredictable entity.

But regardless, this will never last. In the same way that Miles will never survive in the long term, Gregory will one day find out the truth and want nothing more to do with Miles.

But what even is the truth? If it’s just a dream, Miles should have nothing to be afraid of. But that comment from Von Karma… what if he knows something Miles doesn’t? What if the dream isn’t just a dream after all, what if—

“You’re staring,” Gregory says, turning off the television. “Something on your mind?”

Miles clears his throat and glances down at his open book sitting on the table. “It’s nothing.”

But it isn’t nothing, and that night, Miles wakes up from another nightmare involving ‘Not Guilty’ verdicts and elevators and guns, and he makes a decision before someone else makes it for him.

“Father,” Miles says that morning during breakfast. He stands from the table. “There is something… you need to know.”

Gregory puts down a newspaper from 2012 and looks up at Miles attentively. “I’m listening.”

“For the past… the past thirteen years… I’ve been having the same dream—well, I suppose it’s more accurate to call it a nightmare—every night.”

“Thirteen years?” Gregory’s voice is hushed.

“It… we’re in the elevator,” Miles explains stutteringly. He will not have to provide a great amount of context; the events are far more recent for Gregory. “My memory stops when the bailiff starts attacking you for his air, but… in the dream… there’s a gun at my feet.”

Gregory’s eyes widen, and he stands up as well. “Miles—”

“Let me finish,” Miles interrupts. It’s getting harder to breathe. He’s half convinced he’s in a nightmare right now. “I don’t know if it’s a piece of evidence or if it fell from the bailiff’s belt, but I… pick up the gun and throw it and—and— a shot rings out, and I hear a horrible scream, and I wake up.”

“It’s just a dream,” Gregory says. He sounds almost frantic. “Miles, it’s just a dream.”

“But how do I know it’s not?” Miles demands, his voice rising in pitch. “The bailiff was declared not guilty; you don’t remember anything; and I—children repress traumatic memories, it’s quite common, which means it’s not at all impossible that I—I murdered you.”

“You didn’t kill me,” Gregory repeats. He takes a deep breath and says more softly, “Please, take deep breaths and look at me. You didn’t kill me.”

“You don’t know that.” Miles takes a step back. Miles has never explained the dream out loud, never confessed to his guilt, but now that he has, he feels his crime begin to wrap around his neck. It’s not enough to confess to his father. He should turn himself in, he should—

“I do,” Gregory protests. “Please, just pause, breathe, and think about it.”

But Miles can’t think. His vision is blurring, and it’s becoming harder and harder to breathe, and Miles knows that soon reality will settle in with his father, and his father will want Miles dead or worse, and—

Miles flees.

Miles somehow manages to make it to the stairwell of the prosecutor’s offices before having a full-blown panic attack. He sits, gasping for breath, trying to make sense of his racing thoughts even as he is sure his life is ending with every tremor in his body.

Out of the corner of his vision, Miles sees someone approach, and Miles shrinks away in horror. Could this day possibly get any worse?

“It’s okay,” says the person calmly. “It’s okay, Miles. It’s just me. Your father.”

Miles looks up. Gregory Edgeworth sits next to him, holding his hands up placatingly.

“You’re going to be okay,” Gregory says gently. “Tell me what you need.”

Miles doesn’t know what he needs. It’s no secret that Miles has panic attacks, and most people in the office just give him a wide berth of space after earthquakes. Gumshoe tries to help in his own way, which is often by finding Miles a glass of water.

“I…” It’s hard to force the words out. “I don’t know.”

“That’s okay,” Gregory says. “Why don’t you focus on taking deep breaths with me? In and out.”

Miles inhales sharply, but his breathing hitches. “Why are you—I killed you—”

“You didn’t kill me, Miles.” Gregory’s expression stays patient. “Please, trust me on that.”

It takes an eternity for Miles’ heartrate to slow and his breathing to calm, but Gregory does not leave for even a fraction of a second. As soon as Miles feels well enough to stand, Gregory helps him up the stairs to his office.

“I didn’t realize your office was so high up,” Gregory huffs on the tenth flight. “Are you doing okay?”

“I’m fine,” Miles says, even though he’s exhausted and out of breath from his panic attack.

They make it to the office, and Miles collapses onto his sofa, realizing belatedly that he left his suitcoat at home. He’s only wearing his undershirt and vest, and he feels both cold and naked, especially when his far fancier suit is hanging on the wall above him. Gregory makes an amused face when he sees it.

“Nice office,” Gregory says.

“You say I didn’t kill you,” Miles says tersely, never having been one for small talk. “How do you know?”

“The chances of you throwing a gun and the accidental shot piercing me directly in the heart is so low that it’s not even worth considering,” Gregory says.

“But the chance is still there. It’s still a possibility.”

“I reviewed the evidence only a few weeks ago,” Gregory says. He sits down next to Miles. “Two shots were fired on the scene.”

Miles freezes. “What?”

“If you look closely at the picture of the scene, you can see a bullet hole in the elevator glass. And while they could never find the bullet, I’m willing to bet everything that if there’s truth to your dream, that’s where the bullet from your accidental shot went.”

A second shot… Miles never realized that there were signs of another shot being fired at the scene. But if that’s the case, where did the bullet go? And—

“But there was a scream.”

“Chances are, it’s just your brain jumping to conclusions,” Gregory says. “Or someone screamed when they heard the gunshot. And, while I believe I fell unconscious even before you threw the gun, I suppose it’s not impossible I was half-conscious and screamed when the real killer killed me.”

Miles’ mouth feels dry. He cannot fathom it. A second bullet. Not guilty. It’s too good to be true. This entire time… this entire time it really was his mind playing tricks on him. And yet, as wonderful as the news sounds, Miles isn’t sure he can fully believe it. There’s still a chance that Miles killed his father, and the bailiff shot the door in an attempt to get it to open. Or… or…

“I know your mind is running through a million possibilities right now,” Gregory says. “But Miles, even if you accidentally killed me, it doesn’t matter.”

Miles stares. Gregory’s expression is serious; he doesn’t seem to be joking.

“You were nine, and scared, and if it’s true, then it was an accident,” Gregory continues. “It was an accident, and I forgive you, and I still love you.”

“But, if it’s true, then I’m guilty of murder, and that’s…”

Gregory’s eyes widen before they flash with pure rage.

The anger is swiftly replaced with a truly sad expression, or perhaps it’s only pity, but Miles still feels his heart stutter and his lungs tighten

“It was an accident,” Gregory repeats. “If anything, I’m the one who should be guilty of nearly sentencing a man for a crime he didn’t commit, but you were only trying to protect me, and if I died in the process, then I wouldn’t even dream of prosecuting you, because you never meant to hurt me.”

“Accidental murder is still murder,” Miles says quietly.

“I don’t care.”

Miles’ throat tightens. “You’re a fool,” he says. A foolish fool with foolhardy sentiments, as Franziska might say.

Miles spends most of the rest of the day doing clerical work, knowing that he’s not in the state of mind to get any true work done. Gregory stays with him, offering assistance when needed. Not that Miles ever really needs it, but… well, if the man is going to stick around, he might as well make himself useful.

It’s approaching the end of the workday when Gumshoe barges into the office with two paper coffee cups in his hands.

“Sir!” he says, his chest heaving. “I heard there was some drama down at the prosecutor’s offices, so I came right away!”

“You’re only seven hours late,” Miles observes dryly. “And there’s no need to be dramatic. There was hardly any drama at all.”

“Well, sir, nobody’s seen you in just your vest before, and then your dad apparently chased you down,” Gumshoe says, handing Gregory a coffee cup and handing the other one to Miles. It’s still hot to the touch. “I think they were just spooked.”

“Naturally,” Miles sighs. “Thank you for the drinks, Detective.”

“It’s no problem!” Gumshoe says with another salute. “Investigating without you just isn’t the same, you know.”

“I’m sure it’s not.”

“Guess what I heard today,” Mia says, entering the lobby to her office. Phoenix sits up from the couch, practically buried in textbooks.

“What?” he asks.

“Apparently, Miles Edgeworth lost another trial,” Mia says, smirking slightly. “Looks like his streak is going down in smoke.”

At the mention of Edgeworth, Phoenix lets out a small groan, collapses back into the couch cushions, and drops a still-open textbook onto his face.

“Oh, sorry.” Mia picks up the textbook with a slightly concerned frown. “I forgot you had a fight with him.”

“I just can’t stop thinking about it,” Phoenix says miserably. “I only wanted to get answers out of the Gregory Edgeworth look-alike, and then I go ahead and insult the person I’ve been working so hard to help all these years.”

“I’m sure it’s not as bad as you’re making it out to be.”

“It is,” Phoenix insists petulantly. “I called him cruel and selfish. How does it get any worse than that?”

Mia crosses her arms across her chest. “At least you didn’t say that you would have found him guilty of murder if you had been prosecuting him.”

“He didn’t say that.”

“He told you all defendants were guilty and should be punished.” Mia sighs. “If he had been prosecuting you, I’m almost certain he would’ve fought tooth and nail to see you declared guilty.”

“Only almost?” Phoenix asks hopefully.

“Well…” Mia hesitates. “Yours might be a slightly special case, since Edgeworth hates criminals, and Dalia Hawthorn was involved. He might’ve wanted Dalia guilty more than he wanted you convicted. But if she weren’t involved, trust me, he would have gotten you sentenced.”

“Well, thanks, that makes me feel better.” Phoenix covers his face with his hands. “He’d probably throw me in jail for accidentally helping her get away.”

“I’m just saying. Maybe you gave him a bit of a wake-up call.”

“I was so mean,” Phoenix whispers. “I just… he said all that stuff about defendants, and I got so angry. But I think he really needs help. Not-Edgeworth could see it.”

Mia frowns slightly at the mention of Not-Edgeworth. “Phoenix, I don’t know if this is what you want to hear, but… helping him isn’t your job.”

“But I—” Phoenix sighs. “Maybe not. I know he doesn’t want it.”

Mia hums. “Well, maybe we should just forget about Edgeworth for now. Do you want a break from studying? I can take you out to my favorite ramen place.”

Phoenix perks up. He could definitely go for some food, maybe it’ll help him forget all about Edgeworth. Both of them.

Miles drives Gregory back home. He’s oddly tired-looking, and Miles wonders how much energy he expended in chasing Miles to the prosecutor’s office. Hopefully, he’s not getting sick with anything.

When they arrive at the apartment, Gregory almost immediately retires to his bedroom. Miles eats dinner, tries not to wonder about the unsolvable DL-6 incident, and prepares for to sleep.

As he lies down in his bed, he wonders if, for perhaps the first time in his life, he can sleep without nightmares. He’s not optimistic. If assurance of his lack of guilt worked, he would’ve stopped having nightmares when he was nine years old. He had tried so hard to tell himself that the dream was only a dream, but the nightmares never went away.

And besides, there’s still a chance that Miles is the killer. Even Gregory acknowledged that.

With those not very comforting thoughts in mind, Miles closed his eyes and let himself fall into a fitful sleep.

Phoenix can’t take it anymore.

The conversation about Edgeworth had naturally only made Phoenix think about him more, which only makes Phoenix feel even worse for being so harsh. Sure, maybe Phoenix wasn’t necessarily wrong about Edgeworth being needlessly merciless and cruel, but when did insulting someone ever fix everything? Phoenix should make it clear that he still cares about Edgeworth, even if he can be a total jerk sometimes.

But how? It feels odd and disingenuous to apologize over a phone call or letter. Hey, sorry, I just wanted to tell you I take back what I said a month ago about you being a total asshole.

Well, maybe an apology this late in the game is a little odd no matter how you shake it. But Phoenix needs to get it off his chest, and he knows that Edgeworth has an office at the prosecutor’s offices, so maybe he’ll just go there?

It’s already dark outside, but Phoenix leaves his apartment and bikes furiously to the prosecutor’s offices. When he tries to enter, however, he realizes that it’s locked. Right. Because it’s the middle of the night. Obviously, they’re not going to be letting random people in in the middle of the night.

Phoenix frowns. He’s sweaty, and he’s already come all this way. And it’s not like he doesn’t know Edgeworth’s address. Maybe he’ll just stop by, hope Edgeworth is awake, and apologize. Then, Edgeworth won’t ever have to see him again. Unless it’s at court.

Without any further hesitation, because Phoenix never makes it a policy to hesitate, Phoenix jumps back on his bike and furiously pedals to the Edgeworth’s apartment complex. Twenty minutes of biking later, he skids to a halt in front of the building and dashes up the stairs.

He’s exhausted and gasping for breath by the time he reaches Miles’ front door, and he glances at his cellphone to see what time it is. His heart sinks when he sees that it’s midnight.

God, what is Phoenix even doing here? His guilt-addled brain might have thought knocking on Edgeworth’s door was a good idea, but now that he’s here, he feels like a fool. Edgeworth’s almost definitely asleep, and even if he’s not, he’s not going to want Phoenix bothering him at this hour. He might even get creeped out that Phoenix went to his apartment and didn’t just wait to go to the offices the next day.

Phoenix exhales, massages a stitch in his side, and begins to turn away from the door. As he does, however, a creaking sound comes from the front door, and he looks at it closer.

The door is… cracked open? What the hell? Did Edgeworth forget to lock his door behind him before going to sleep?

No, that would be ridiculous. Maybe Edgeworth’s still awake… but if he’s still awake, why are none of the lights on? No light is filtering out the door and into the hall.

Concern quickly overrides Phoenix’s previous embarrassment with himself, and he pushes open the door to investigate. Phoenix can barely see a thing, but, as he expected, nobody’s in the very spacious living room or kitchen.

“Edgeworth?” Phoenix whispers, creeping inside, praying Edgeworth won’t appear out of nowhere and think he’s a thief. “Is everything alright?”

Phoenix’s eyes are adjusting to the darkness, and he notices another door half open across the way. Phoenix walks toward it with more urgency. The closer he gets, the more certain he hears muffled grunting coming from the room, and suddenly, Phoenix is running, pushing open the door violently.

“Miles!” he shouts.

A man is covering Miles’ face with a pillow. He has a knife raised in the other hand. Phoenix sprints up to the man and shoves him away. Miles immediately sits up, but the man is already gearing up for a counterattack, aiming the knife directly at Miles’ heart, and Phoenix dives in front of him—

Miles screams.

Chapter Text

“Oh my god, are you dying?!” Wright demands, his voice high-pitched and panicked as he turns toward Miles. The assailant flees the room, and Miles is not in the frame of mind to chase after him. “Did he stab you?!”

Miles inhales sharply and says, high-pitched and out of breath, “Phoenix Wright, what in god’s name are you doing here?!”

“Is now really the time?!” Wright demands. “You’ve been—” He stops short and stares at Miles’ unstabbed chest. “—you’re not stabbed.”

“No, you moron!” Miles shrieks. “You’re the one with the knife in your shoulder!”

Wright blinks. “What?”

Miles finally finds the wits to jump out of bed and grab his cellphone from his dresser. He dials the emergency number frantically and says as succinctly as he can, “Someone has broken into my house, and my friend has been stabbed, please send assistance.”

He answers a few questions, is told that in no uncertain terms should Wright remove the knife, as if Miles doesn’t already know that, and is told to wait for help to arrive. Miles hangs up and turns back to Wright, who blessedly is also not stupid enough to yank the knife out.

Gregory bursts into the room, eyes wide and his hair disheveled. He switches on the light, which causes both Miles and Phoenix to wince at the sudden brightness. “What’s going on?!”

“Hm, this hurts a lot less than I thought it would,” Wright observes. The knife in Wright’s shoulder is far more terrifying now that the darkness isn’t obscuring it. “Kinda like I’ve been punched. But ew… blood. I can see it a lot better now.”

“Wright has been stabbed!”

“What happened?” Gregory demands, staring at the knife. “Why is he even here?”

“Sorry… Mr. Not-Edgeworth,” Wright says. “I was a little guilty… But Miles called me his friend on the phone!”

Wright reaches up to touch some of the blood coming from his wound, and Miles swats his hands away.

“I cannot believe this,” Mile hisses. “I’m finding… I’m finding a towel. Try to further stop the bleeding. Do not remove the knife.”

“Yeesh, Miles, I’m a lawyer… almost-lawyer… I know all about how to avoid being murdered.”

“Ah yes, like jumping in front of a knife!”

“A knife that was going to kill you,” Wright points out. “Hm, ow. I think the pain is starting to set in.”

“Kill… Never mind, did you call emergency services?” Gregory asks immediately.

“Yes,” Miles says. “I didn’t get a good look at the assailant, but he’s clearly left traces behind. I think he was expecting to silently kill me and get away.”

“But I ruined everything… as usual.” Tears gather up in Wright’s eyes. “I really am… an unreliable man…”

“Oh my god,” Miles hisses. “Father, get him a towel.”

Gregory hastens out the room without another word.

“Just leave me…” Phoenix whimpers.

“For heaven’s sake, Wright, we’re not leaving you to die,” Miles says. “The ambulance will be here any minute now. Just… try to stay calm.”

“I am calm!” Tears begin slipping down Wright’s face.

“Why did you even come here?” Miles demands, baffled. His heart is still racing out of his chest, partly from the adrenaline of nearly being murdered, and partly as a result of Wright’s pure recklessness.

“I just wanted to apologize,” Wright says. “For what I said before… and then the door was open… and then you were being attacked… and now there’s a knife in me!”

“Yes, we’ve noticed,” Miles says tersely. Gregory enters the room with a towel, and Miles snatches it to apply pressure on both sides of the knife. Wright makes a little pained noise.

“Am I going to die?” he asks. “Miles, I really don’t want to die.”

“It’s just a shoulder injury, you’re not going to die,” Gregory says before Miles can respond.

“Really?” Wright brightens for only a fraction of a second before his face falls. He raises his unstabbed arm to point accusingly. “But you’re a liar. You said you were Gregory Edgeworth, but Mia told me he’s dead!”

“How did you not already know?!” Miles demands.

Before Wright is forced to respond, Miles hears sirens, and the ambulance comes to take Wright away. Miles and Gregory stay behind to answer police questions, which mostly amount to “No, I don’t know how the killer got in without breaking the lock. No, I didn’t see his face. I’m sorry, I was being suffocated at the time.”

“There really are no signs of forced entry,” Miles murmurs. Now that his home has police investigating it, he doesn’t see much point in trying to sleep, so he investigates the door. The lock is perfectly intact. It’s as if the killer had the key and…

Miles has a spare key hidden about six inches deep within the soil of a potted plant outside his door. The intent was so that if an intruder thought to check the soil, they would give up upon not finding the key after moving the dirt around a bit.

Miles steps outside and checks the dirt. There is a hole in the soil precisely where Miles buried the key. The key is gone. There are no signs of the pot or door mat being moved either, and the remainder of the soil is untouched. Whoever broke in didn’t feel the need to check under the pot or the doormat for the key. They went immediately to the precise location where Miles buried the key, which should be impossible to guess without...

“What is it?” Gregory asks.

“The intruder who broke in,” Miles says numbly. “He knew where I hid my spare key.”

“I didn’t even know you had a spare key,” Gregory says, frowning.

Miles’s stomach twists. “Exactly.”

“Mr. Nick?” Pearl asks the night after they save Max Galactica from a Guilty Verdict. Maya insisted that Phoenix go out for celebratory ramen, bringing Pearl along too. Phoenix enjoys the food as best he can, but he can’t shake the unsettled feeling that came as soon as Franziska uttered His name.

Phoenix had stepped outside to get some air, but Pears must have caught on to his less than happy countenance, because she followed him.

Phoenix inhales shudderingly. A cloud emerges from his lips in the freezing air. “Yeah, Pearls?”

“Why are you sad?” she asks. “You saved the day again! That’s good, right?”

"It is good.” Phoenix forces on a smile. “Of course, it’s good.”

Pearls bites her thumb. “But you’re still sad.”

“I…” Phoenix glances at the sky. “It’s complicated.”

Pearls takes Phoenix’s hand and stares up at him with a solemn expression. Phoenix blinks in alarm. “Is it about Mr. E-ji-worth?”

Phoenix flinches, and he wants to snap at Pearls for even mentioning him. He stops himself right in time, though. It’s not Pearls fault that she’s curious.

“I just… miss him,” Phoenix confesses quietly.

Pearls nods. “I miss my mom,” she agrees. “Um... what happened to him?”

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth Chooses Death.

“It’s complicated, Pearls.”

“Oh.”

“He needed help, and I… I wasn’t enough to save him,” Phoenix whispers. “I just wish… I wish someone had been there to help him when I couldn’t. I guess.”

Pearls clutches his hand more tightly, tears filling her eyes. “I wish that too. I really, really wish that.”

For some reason, the magatama in Phoenix’s pocket burns hotter than usual, but Phoenix ignores it. Maybe Pearls just accidentally charged it with her Fey power or something.

Instead, Phoenix chuckles weakly. “You didn’t even know him.”

“But you really, really care about him, right?” Pearls asks. “I don’t like seeing you sad.”

“Yeah.” Phoenix blinks rapidly. “Let’s just drop it, okay?”

“Okay,” Pearls said. She slumps and yawns loudly.

“Are you tired?” Phoenix asks.

“Mhm.” Pearls rubs her eyes with her fists. “I don’t know why, but… I feel like I do when I summon Mystic Mia.”

“Hm, weird,” Phoenix says. “Maybe you’ve just had a long day, yeah?”

Pearls nods. “Yeah… maybe.”

The morning after one of the most harrowing nights of Phoenix’s life, Mia was there to greet him at his hospital bedside. She looked exhausted, and her face was drawn out in a frown, but at least she was there. Phoenix might’ve panicked if he woke up completely alone.

“Mia…” Phoenix says slowly. “I just had the weirdest dream.”

“Phoenix!” Mia says, a small smile crossing her face. “How are you feeling?”

“Ouch,” Phoenix says eloquently. There’s a dim haze of pain killers, but clearly not quite enough, because his shoulder aches like hell. At least there isn’t a knife in it anymore.

Mia winces. “Yeah, that’s to be expected. You’re lucky that it didn’t hit any vital organs.”

“Let me guess,” Phoenix says miserably. “I was stupid to even come to Miles’ apartment, and I was stupid to jump in front of that knife, and I could have died.”

“Well… yes,” Mia says. “But on the bright side, you did save his life.”

“Ugh… I think I cried in front of him.” Phoenix squeezes his eyes shut and contemplates the benefits of disappearing into the abyss. “He’s never going to want to speak to me again.”

A firm knock comes from the hospital room door. Phoenix opens his eyes, and Mia looks surprised.

“Who is it?” Phoenix asks the door.

“Miles Edgeworth,” says Edgeworth’s stiff voice. “May I come in?”

Phoenix’s mouth opens involuntarily. For some reason, Mia smirks.

Phoenix swallows. “Uh… sure.”

Edgeworth opens the door and steps into the room. He stares at the bandages peaking out from underneath Phoenix’s shirt, and his expression goes weird for a minute.

“It’s good to see that you are doing well,” Edgeworth says slowly.

Mia stands up from her chair. “I think I’ll give you two some space,” she says, leaving before Phoenix can utter a word of protest.

Edgeworth stands closer to the chair, eyeing it like it might contain some kind of deadly poison. Phoenix immediately grimaces at his mental analogy. The last time he was at the hospital, the doctors had to treat him for eating glass.

“You can sit down, you know,” Phoenix says. “The chair won’t bite.”

Edgeworth clears his throat. “Yes, of course.” He sits down and clasps his knees.

“So…” Phoenix says slowly. “Did you catch the guy?”

Edgeworth’s face goes frustrated, and he looks away. “Unfortunately, they left little to no traces of their existence. They must have been wearing gloves, because there were no unusual prints on the scene. The knife the culprit used was from my kitchen—”

“Ew,” Phoenix says, pulling a face. “Guess you’re not going to be using that to slice vegetables anymore.”

“It was a meat knife but, no, certainly not.”

“That’s even worse.” Phoenix sticks his tongue out in disgust. “Makes me sound like a slab of meat.”

“What were you even doing there?” Edgeworth blurts out.

“What? Upset that I saved your life?” Phoenix fires back, unable to help himself.

“Wha—of course not!” Miles protests. “Just… you had no reason to be at my apartment at that hour at night, and I was wondering… did anyone tip you off about the murder attempt?”

“Oh, no.” Phoenix shakes his head, embarrassment rising up to his cheeks. “I just… I came to apologize.”

Edgeworth blinks. “You came… to apologize,” he repeats.

“Yeah.” Now that Phoenix has started, he might as well keep going. “I’m really sorry for saying you’re cruel and merciless. It was mean and completely went against everything I’ve been trying to do in contacting you, which I also now realize is kind of creepy and invasive, but I just get really worried really easily about the people I care about, and in my defense, I have not been known for good decision making.”

Phoenix stops to catch his breath. Edgeworth sits in dumbfounded silence. Phoenix smiles nervously.

“That was… quite the apology,” Edgeworth says slowly. “You came to my house in the middle of the night… to give the speech you just gave me?”

“Well, it was a bit impromptu,” Phoenix admits. “I was really sleep deprived. I wasn’t thinking very clearly.”

“I see.”

Phoenix closes his eyes. “Look, I… I already told you that I was a defendant a year ago. My girlfriend turned out to be a serial killer, because she only dated me so that she could get some evidence she gave me, and then she tried to kill me because I was stupid and refused to give it back, and then she killed another guy instead and framed me for it, and yeah. It was kinda traumatizing, and if I went to jail, I don’t think that would have helped, and also my serial killer ex would have gone free.”

Edgeworth’s eyes are wide, and his jaw hangs a tiny bit open.

“So when you said that all defendants are guilty, I just… I got really mad. Because it’s not true, and you have to know that deep down, and if you had prosecuted me, you might have put me in jail even after I ate poison glass.”

“I’m sorry—” Edgeworth interrupts. “You ate poison glass?”

“Hey! That was not the point of the trauma dump,” Phoenix protests weakly. It took months for Mia to let him live down the eating glass thing, and Phoenix thinks the only reason she finally stopped teasing him about it is because she knew Phoenix was lowkey traumatized.

“Look, Wright… I’m sorry,” Edgeworth says. He sounds like each word is painful to get out. “I… was wrong before. Not every defendant is guilty. And that day, I was angry and confused, and a little terrified, so I took it out on the people around me.”

“It happens, I guess.” Phoenix gives a little shrug, which only causes his shoulder to hurt more.

“Now… correct me if I’m wrong, but please tell me your girlfriend wasn’t Dalia Hawthorne.”

Phoenix obligingly says nothing. Edgeworth covers his face with his hands despairingly.

“First you jump in front of a knife-wielding murderer, and then you eat glass for Dalia Hawthorne. Naturally.”

“Technically it’s the other way around. But I’m sorry for going to your house in the middle of the night,” Phoenix offers. “Even though I saved your life. I’ll stay out of your life now.”

“No, it’s…” Edgeworth pauses, looking like he wasn’t really sure what he was about to say himself. “I appreciate what you did for me. Truly. Those seconds when I thought I was going to die… well, let’s just say, I’m glad I’m still alive.”

Phoenix feels like a weight’s been lifted off his chest. He smiles a little more genuinely. “Me too.”

Edgeworth stands up. “But I believe I’ve overstayed my welcome,” he says. “I hope to see you in court one day, Phoenix Wright.”

“That’s why I’m becoming a lawyer,” Phoenix says half-jokingly.

Edgeworth looks genuinely confused at that comment, but he leaves without any further questions.

Miles receives another call from Franziska that day. She spits out a great many “foolish fools” in the midst of packing her suitcases, because she is “going to your country no matter what you try to say to convince me otherwise, Miles Edgeworth!”

Miles can’t tell if she’s indignant that Miles has lost yet another trial, or if she’s deeply worried by the murder attempt, but either way, she’s flying to Miles and ignoring every insistence of Miles’ part that he’s fine.

“How are you feeling?” Gregory asks when Miles lets him into his office. Miles sighs long-sufferingly.

“I wasn’t the one who was stabbed,” he says. “I cannot believe Wright jumped in front of the knife for me.”

“Call me selfish, but I’m glad he did.” Gregory takes off his hat and runs his fingers through his hair. “I just can’t believe I slept through most of it. I should’ve been awake as soon as someone opened the door.”

“I wasn’t awake either, don’t blame yourself,” Miles says wearily. “The culprit was clearly planning on making my death swift and silent. He’d likely lock the door behind him on the way out and in the process…”

“Frame me for the murder,” Gregory finishes, slowly lowering himself into Miles’s sofa. “Because who else could have done it if the front door was never broken into?”

Miles had woken up to a pillow being slammed down on his face, immediately smothering him. He’d immediately began resisting, but the hand on the pillow held firm, and then—

Wright ran into the room, saving Miles from his untimely end.

“If I’m entirely honest,” Miles says in a hushed tone. “I think, subconsciously, I thought it was you at first.”

Miles immediately regrets saying it. Gregory’s expression can only be described as heartbroken, and he slumps.

“I would never do such a thing,” Gregory says softly. “No father would.”

Miles’ mind flashes to the first trial he ever lost. A son strangled and stabbed by his own father for the death of his wife.

“Philip Clyde did,” Miles says. He leans against his desk for support. “You could’ve… wanted revenge for your own death, I suppose.”

“You didn’t kill me,” Gregory says, more forcefully than before. “And I would never kill you. Ever.”

Miles clears his throat uncomfortably. His chest tightens. “Yes, well, perhaps not.” He straightens and tries to pull himself together. “In any case, the chances of the investigation going anywhere seems low. Which means there is someone at large who wishes me dead.”

“That’s terrifying,” Gregory says.

“I admit I do not feel safe in my own apartment,” Miles says slowly. “And whoever it is has intimate knowledge of my personal life, which means that it’s unwise for me to live with someone I am publicly close to, such as Detective Gumshoe.”

“Raymond will probably let us sleep over at his apartment,” Gregory says. “He’s been warming up to you.”

Miles scoffs. “Only because he won that trial. He hates me. I’m a traitor to the family name.”

“I doubt he wants to see you dead.” Gregory removes his phone from his coat pocket. “I’ll speak with him.”

Well, living with Shields is still preferable to living in his recently broken-into apartment, especially since the culprit still has his spare key. Miles supposes he can survive for a night or two while he waits for the lock to be replaced and the investigation to die down.

Phoenix thought he had seen his fill of Edgeworth for the week, but Mr. Not-Edgeworth himself comes to visit him only a few hours after Miles does.

“Not-Edgeworth!” Phoenix says cheerfully, because no matter what Mia says, the man looks and acts too much like Gregory Edgeworth for Phoenix to act like he’s anyone different. “I didn’t think you would be here.”

“You don’t have to call me that,” Not-Edgeworth says. “I actually am Miles’ father.”

Phoenix shakes his head. “I know Gregory Edgeworth died. You can’t be him.”

“Yes, well, it’s admittedly pretty confusing,” Not-Edgeworth says. He sits down in the empty seat and removes a thick file from the inside of his coat. “These are the documents proving that I am who I say I am.”

Phoenix eyes Not-Edgeworth suspiciously but takes the file anyway. After some serious deep reading, he comes to the amazing and absolutely bizarre realization that somehow, Miles’ dad came back from the dead.

“I knew it had to be you!” Pheonix says, feeling so much better about life and the state of the world. “Mia didn’t believe me, but I knew you were the real thing!”

“I’m glad,” Edgeworth says, taking the file back. “I just came in to tell you how grateful I am for what you did for Miles. I don’t know what I would have done if he had died.”

“Oh, it was nothing,” Phoenix says, somewhat awkwardly.

Edgeworth snorts but doesn’t say anything. His expression is kind of distant, and his hand is on his chin, like he’s trying to work out a very difficult puzzle.

“Um… what are you thinking about?” Phoenix interrupts after about a minute of silence.

Edgeworth startles. “Oh, I’m so sorry. That was rude of me. I was just trying to work something out… Actually, perhaps you could help me.”

Phoenix isn’t very good at puzzles, but he’s bored enough in the hospital that he’s willing to try anything. “I can try.”

“Thanks,” Edgeworth says with a small smile. He removes a notepad from a coat pocket and sketches a square. Within the square, he draws three dots, one in the upper right-hand corner and one on the other side. “Alright. This is an elevator. Within the elevator there are three people. Am I making sense so far?”

“The dots are the people, got it,” Phoenix says, nodding.

“Great.” Edgeworth sketches a rectangle on the right side of the square. “Now, this rectangle is the elevator door. This person”—Edgeworth points to the lone dot—“throws a gun, which accidentally goes off and sends a bullet”—Edgeworth draws a dotted line for the theoretical trajectory of the bullet—“through the door. But the bullet’s never found. Where did the bullet go?”

Phoenix frowns. It’s a kind of weird logic puzzle. “Uh… It didn’t lodge itself into the door, did it?”

Edgeworth shakes his head. “And even if it had, the police would have found it.”

Phoenix scratches the back of his head with his good arm. “Fall through the elevator shaft?”

“The elevator was level with a floor, so it almost certainly went through the door and into the room.”

“And it wasn’t lodged in any of the furniture in the room?”

“Nope.”

“No bullet on the ground?”

“None.”

Phoenix hums. “Well… I guess the only place I can think of is if the bullet went into a person, but that’s ridiculous,” he says, laughing. “I mean, that would leave blood on the scene, or maybe even a body, or the person would get help, and either way, the police would trace the bullet to that person.”

“A person…” Edgeworth looks contemplative. “That’s not an angle I considered before. But it’s true that most people wouldn’t try to hide such an injury.”

“Sorry.” Phoenix sighs. “I’m not really good at this sort of thing.”

“On the contrary,” Edgeworth says, standing up. His expression lights up. “I think you might have solved it.”

“Solved it?” Phoenix asks. “Really?”

“There are still unknowns, of course,” Edgeworth mutters to himself. “Who was shot? Why would they hide the injury? But, yes, this is definitely a possibility worth considering further.”

“Wait.” Phoenix suddenly has a bad feeling about this. “That was a theoretical scenario you just gave me, right?”

“Well, naturally,” Edgeworth says. “All of this is highly theoretical at the moment.”

Phoenix narrows his eyes at the specific phrasing.

“Thank you again,” Edgeworth says, giving Phoenix a small bow. “I should be going, but I appreciate your help. And sorry for the confusion surrounding my not-deadness.”

“It’s no problem,” Phoenix says, still desperately confused. “I hope you figure out whatever case you’re trying to solve.”

Edgeworth smiles warmly. “Thank you. I will.”

After vising Phoenix in the hospital, Gregory had other unfinished business to attend to. He returned to the Prosecutor Offices, but he did not go to Miles’ office.

“Manfred von Karma,” Gregory says slowly, amazed that Von Karma even allowed him to enter his office. It’s larger and grander than Miles’ office, but the man’s influence on Miles is obvious, even down to the furniture. “Tell me it isn’t true.”

Von Karma doesn’t face Gregory. He stares out the windows of his office, leaning against his cane. “I’m afraid such vagueness does not get you very far in court,” he says. “Or have you already forgotten?”

“Tell me,” Gregory says through gritted teeth. It takes everything he has to not launch himself across the room and beat Von Karma with his own cane. “Tell me you didn’t manipulate Miles into thinking he’s guilty of his father’s murder.”

Von Karma turns slightly, looking over his shoulder to face Gregory. “I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says, but he’s smiling as he says it. That smug, self-satisfied smile he wears when he thinks he’s won. “Why? Did he confess?”

“My son,” Gregory says slowly, “has been having the same nightmare every day. Don’t even pretend you don’t know about it.”

“Yes, Franziska used to complain that they were distracting to her studies, but he quieted down after a few years,” Von Karma says. “Such a reaction is to be expected after such a traumatic event.”

“Oh yes, I’m sure.” Gregory slams his hand against Von Karma’s desk. “I suppose that’s why you never told him it wasn’t his fault. Why you’ve instead been telling him that the guilty will always be punished.”

Von Karma scoffs, turning around all the way to face Gregory. His expression is disdainful. “As a defense attorney, you might not understand, but I stand by my creed,” he says, snapping his fingers. “A Von Karma strives for perfection, and perfection is seeing every criminal behind bars.”

“Your version of perfection is far from justice, but that’s not why I’m here,” Gregory hisses. “Tell me why you took in Miles.”

“You were a worthy adversary,” Von Karma says with a grin. “You should be thanking me. I didn’t want to see your son rot in the system.”

“And I would thank you,” Gregory says, because the thought of Miles going into the system is enough to make his heart bleed, “if you hadn’t emotionally abused him for the past thirteen years.”

“And what proof do you have of this so-called abuse?” Von Karma demands. “I gave the boy everything he needed, gave him the guidance he required to rise above his station, and was there for him in his most desperate hour—”

“You let him think he was guilty of patricide!”

“And do you know for certain that he is not?” Von Karma crosses his arms and clenches his sleeve. “If what you say is true, he confessed of his own accord. And a confession is a very serious thing indeed.”

“If his dream is even to be believed, the bullet went through the elevator door and likely hit someone else,” Gregory snaps. “That’s why it was never found on the scene. But Miles never killed anyone, and a man of your caliber is certainly smart enough to realize that.”

Von Karma says nothing, keeping his eyes closed and his arms crossed.

“That’s all I wanted to say,” Gregory says, pushing himself away from Von Karma’s desk and taking a few steps away. He tilts his hat over his face. “Have a good day. And stay the hell away from my child.”

“I am his legal guardian,” Von Karma says.

“He is an adult,” Gregory says coldly, even though he knows full well there is very little he can do to stop Von Karma if he wants to speak to Miles. “If Miles wants to speak to you, he’ll come to you. You have no more obligation to him if you are only going to continue to put him down for not being your definition of perfection.”

“Bah! I wouldn’t expect a defense attorney like you to understand.”

“No, Mr. Von Karma.” Gregory turns around and begins to walk away. “I believe I understand perfectly.”

“Hey, Mia?” Phoenix asks Mia later.

“Yeah?”

“I know you’ve mentioned a little sister named Maya before, but do you have a sister named Pearls?”

“Pearls?” Mia’s eyebrows shoot straight up. “I have a little cousin named Pearl. I’m not sure I’ve ever mentioned her before. Where did you hear about her?”

“She was in my weird dream…” Phoenix frowns, straining his mind to remember it. “I was really sad about something… Edgeworth, I think. And she said she wished that someone had helped him, or did I say that? Well, it was really weird. I was older. And a lawyer? And I think Edgeworth might have killed himself?”

“Huh… that’s a pretty heavy dream,” Mia says. She folders her arms over her chest, looking vaguely perturbed. “Are you alright?”

“Well, it was just a dream, and Edgeworth’s note dead, so, yeah.” Phoenix brightens. “By the way, I spoke to Not-Edgeworth! Apparently, he is Gregory Edgeworth. Somehow. He had loads of legal documents to prove it. It was crazy.”

Mia looks even more alarmed by this, and yeah, Phoenix can’t exactly blame her. Her mouth opens in alarm, but then she closes it again, looking extra thoughtful. “Phoenix… what did Pearl look like, in your dream?”

“She wore some weird pink robes, but she had a necklace like yours,” Phoenix says. “I think her hair was brown?”

Mia’s frown deepens. “And nobody told you about her before?”

“Nope.”

“Strange…” Mia says.

“What’s strange? Do you know something about Mr. Edgeworth’s not-deadness.”

“I don’t know,” Mia says. She shakes herself out of her thoughts. “But I’ll worry about it later. How about we talk about something else?”

“Well, uh, I had to miss class due to being stabbed. Do you think there’s a doctor’s note for that?”

Franziska storms into his office the following day, holding her whip at the ready.

“Miles Edgeworth!” she demands. “What is the meaning of this?”

Miles startles. “Franziska,” he says. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here so soon. You should’ve told me when your flight arrived; I would have picked you up.”

Franziska scoffs. “You should have known that I’d take the earliest flight to this country. Unlike you, I do not waste time.”

“Is that right?” Miles asks. “I hope you did not forget to pack anything in your haste.”

Franziska crosses her arms and looks away, although Miles can detect the barest traces of pink on her cheeks. “D-don’t be ridiculous,” she says. “I pack everything to perfection.”

“Pardon me for my rudeness.”

“Hmph. I will forgive you, but only because you were almost murdered two nights ago,” she sniffs. “Honestly, what were you thinking?”

“What was I thinking?” Miles demands. “I was the one who almost got murdered!”

“You should never have hidden a spare key in front of your door.” Franziska wags her finger, wearing a condescending smirk. “If you never lose your key, you will have no need for a spare one!”

“And what if someone steals it?” Miles asks.

“I would destroy them with my whip!” Franziska cracks her whip in front of her, but fortunately, Miles is far enough away to not get hit.

“Indeed, well, seeing as I do not have one of those, I suppose I’ll have to make do with a security risk,” Miles says, returning to his paperwork.

“Do not ignore me, Miles Edgeworth!” Franziska storms up to his desk and slams her hand against the surface. “From now on, you should have an armed bodyguard with you at all times.”

“An armed— Franziska, don’t be ridiculous,” Miles sputters. “I’m living in a safe place, and the prosecutor’s offices have enough security—”

“Foolish fool! Do not behave so foolishly after a fool tried to kill you in such a foolish manner!” Franziska stomps her heeled foot into the floor. “Someone clearly has a grudge against you because of your recent losses—”

“A grudge over my losses?”

Franziska ignores him. “And if you refuse to get protection, I will serve as a bodyguard. I cannot leave the job to that useless Scruffy who follows you around.”

“Franziska, you are fifteen years old,” Miles says, feeling some worry gnaw into him. “I cannot have you putting yourself in harm’s way for my sake.”

“It is the job of the older sister to protect her little brother,” Franziska says. “Do not worry about me. Anyone who tries to pull a gun on you shall face my whip.”

“Does your father know you’re here?” Miles asks in exasperation.

Franziska quiets. “Of course, Papa knows I’m here,” she says very unconvincingly. “So there is naturally no need for you to tell him of my arrival.”

Miles presses his fingers against his temple, trying to ward off a headache. “Franziska—”

He dodges a whip flying toward his face. “Papa is a very busy man!” she declares. “He does not need to know my every action. And you shall not bother him from his work.”

Miles stares at Franziska, who stares just a fiercely back. If Von Karma doesn’t know she’s here, then he won’t be pleased to know that she’s taking a break from her career to make sure Miles doesn’t get murdered. Miles doesn’t want to get Franziska in trouble, but if she sticks around, she may be the next one to get stabbed.

“Do not even think about saying no to me, Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska says, as if reading his thoughts.

Miles closes his eyes and sighs. “There must be… conditions.”

“Very well.” Franziska crosses her arms. “What are your conditions?”

“If my attacker has a lethal weapon of any kind, you are to stay well away and notify the authorities—” Franziska opens her mouth indignantly, but Miles holds up his hand to silence her. “If you don’t, I will tell Von Karma that you are here.”

Franziska grits her teeth and clenches her whip in both hands. Miles stares steadily back.

“What sort of foolish bodyguard does not attack an attacker?” she demands.

“Perhaps your mere presence will ward him off,” Miles suggests. “You do have a bit of a reputation.”

“It’s not my fault this country is full of fools,” Franziska sniffs.

“On that note, if you don’t wish your father to realize you’re here, I’d suggest wearing something slightly less conspicuous.” Miles taps his fingers against the desk. “I’m sure rumors have already started spreading about your arrival.”

Franziska puts her hand on her hip and closes her eyes contemplatively. “Very well,” she says. “I shall find something… discrete to wear. But you shall have to find someone to deliver such attire to me. I refuse to leave your side for even a moment.”

Hopefully, Mr. Shields is willing to suffer the presence of a Von Karma in his house for a night. The lock to his apartment has been replaced, but Miles and Gregory are still anxious about returning home so soon after the incident.

Franziska hovers over Miles’ shoulder for the next hour, giving her very pointed opinions on Miles’ work. She goes as far as to suggest that she should accompany Miles in all of his investigations in the future so that Miles does not make any “foolish mistakes” and Miles reminds her who has repeatedly beat her in their competitions for the “perfect investigation.”

“Our last match was two years ago,” Franziska snaps. “I was only thirteen then. I’ve plenty more experience now.”

“Oh yes, fifteen is much—”

A knock on the door. Franziska stiffens, her eyes darting across the room likely in the search of hiding spots. Miles stands up and lets her stand behind him, although her puffed sleeves make it difficult to hide her completely.

“Who is it?” he asks.

“Just me,” says Gregory. “Can I come in?”

Miles relaxes slightly, even though the knock hadn’t sounded like Von Karma’s knock in the slightest.

“Yes, of course,” Miles says, sitting down as Gregory enters the room. Franziska makes a slightly affronted noise. “He won’t tell on you, Franziska. Calm down.”

“I am calm!”

Gregory’s eyes widen when he sees Franziska. “Franziska, as in—”

“Franziska von Karma, naturally,” Franziska says smugly. “And you are?”

Gregory doesn’t say anything, and Miles tries to find the right words to explain that his father has risen from the dead. He’s beginning to grow weary of this topic of conversation.

“Name and occupation!” Franziska snaps, her whip hitting Gregory in the arm.

“He’s not a witness,” Miles snaps, embarrassed on Franziska’s behalf. He always is when she whips anyone; he’s never sure what Franziska expects to accomplish by doing bodily harm to everyone in her general vicinity. “And watch where you fling that thing.”

“I will do as I please,” Franziska says. “Now, name and occupation.”

“Gregory Edgeworth,” Gregory says, taking off his hat and bowing. “Former defense attorney.”

Franziska blessedly does not whip anyone. Instead, she glances between Miles and Gregory with a furious expression. Miles is sure she is trying to determine if they share any similar physical features.

“Are you playing jokes with me?” Franziska asks Miles.

“No,” Miles says. “I can’t explain it either. I’m sure he carries the evidence around.”

“I demand to see such evidence!”

Gregory obligingly hands over the file, and Franziska reads every word carefully and in total silence. While she reads, Gregory walks closer to Miles desk and asks in a whisper, “What is she doing here?”

“She’s worried—”

“I am not worried, Miles Edgeworth,” Franziska snaps, not looking up from the files. “I merely cannot afford having my little brother die before I beat him fully and perfectly.”

“Ah, yes, well, in any case, she does not wish to see me dead, so she’s here to act as my bodyguard.”

“Bodyguard?” Gregory asks. “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

Miles instinctively grabs Franziska’s wrist before she can whip Gregory for the comment. “There are conditions.”

“Foolish conditions for foolish brothers who will die foolishly,” Franziska mutters, flipping the page of the file.

“Indeed.”

Gregory looks like he can’t decide if he should be amused or concerned. Miles knows the feeling.

“And you’re her… little brother?”

“She’s been calling me that since she was two.”

“Naturally.” Franziska sniffs, slamming the file shut with a single hand. “You came into the family second, which makes me senior to you. Now, Gregory Edgeworth!”

Gregory straightens to attention.

“Either this country is more full of fools than I thought, or some foolish god has deemed you worthy of life again,” Franziska says, holding out the file to Gregory. “You may be a defense attorney, but I expect you to use your second life to make sure Miles Edgeworth does not die as foolishly as you.”

Gregory nods solemnly, even as Miles wants to shrivel up in embarrassment. Why couldn’t she mince her words just slightly? “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” Gregory says, taking the file from her.

“Good.” Franziska crosses her arms. “In that case, you will start with getting me discrete clothes.”

“Franziska, I will not have you ordering my father around,” Miles says sternly. “I already called Gumshoe to bring them in.”

“Scruffy?!” Franziska shrieks.

“Anything he brings will be so out of character for you that nobody will recognize you,” Miles says frankly. “Which is what we want.”

“I refuse to wear anything he’s worn!”

“Don’t worry, I gave him a budget to purchase you clothes that will fit.”

While Franziska seethes, Miles turns to Gregory. “Please warn Shields. Franziska refuses to leave my side, so he will have another dinner guest.”

Gregory nods. “I’ll make him see reason.”

“Thank you.”

Chapter Text

“Do my eyes deceive me?” Shields asks, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratedly in the entrance to his apartment. “This surely isn’t the Von Karma I was told about when persuaded to let her into my home.”

Franziska wears jeans and a red oversized hoodie with the words Horse Girl plastered on them. A unicorn graphic sits behind the sparkling letters, and she holds her whip with such rage that if Gumshoe hadn’t chucked the clothes at Miles and run, he would have surely been beaten within an inch of his life.

“This is a disguise, Defense Attorney Raymond Shields,” Franziska spits. “And if you tell anyone of this, I will prosecute you for defamation!”

Shields jerks backwards and raises his hands in surrender. “Alright, alright, I understand,” he says. Franziska’s whip hits him in the shoulder anyways. “Ow! I said I understood!”

“And now you understand the punishment that awaits you if you go back on your word,” Franziska says. “Now, hurry up at let us in. The assassin can be anywhere.”

“There is no assassin,” Miles hisses. “It’s far more likely that the culprit has given up his goal after the first failed attempt.”

“And I think you are a fool, so cease saying foolish things and enter the apartment,” Franziska orders. Gregory chuckles from behind them, and she shoots a withering glare his way.

Shields sighs and lets the group enter the apartment. “This isn’t an insult Ms. von Karma, but if you would avoid knocking over my lamps with that whip of yours, I’d be greatly obliged.”

“Hmph. My aim is too precise to hit your silly lamps.”

“Great!” Shields claps. “Now then, is anyone up to family game night?”

Franziska and Miles’ shared looks of revulsion were enough to make Shields shut up.

Gregory’s phone begins ringing, and Gregory apologizes and accepts the call. “Chief Gant!” he says. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Miles watches Gregory carefully, but his expressions stays emotionless throughout the call. “Uh huh…. Alright…. I understand… thank you very much. Have a good evening.”

Gregory hangs up, and Franziska crosses her arms. “What was that about?” she asks. She’s always hated being in the dark.

“Chief Gant called to inform me that the paperwork declaring me legally alive has almost gone through,” Gregory explains. “Which means I will no longer be required to live with Miles.”

“That’s great!” Raymond says cheerfully.

“Good,” Franziska says with a sharp nod. “Your presence has been dampening his performance.”

“Oh, hm, in that case, maybe it’s not so great?” Raymond muses, causing Franziska to whip the floor right in front of his feet.

“What we do next is up to Miles,” Gregory says, looking at him steadily. “I’ll do whatever he wants.”

Miles looks away, feeling uncomfortable. The answer should be obvious, but even as he prepares to say it, a feeling of wrongness pulls at his gut. As if he is about to lose his father for a second time.

“You should get your own place,” Miles says. “I’m an adult, and I don’t need your coddling.”

“Well, there you go,” Gregory says without missing a beat. “It’s probably for the best.”

“Children do have to leave the nest,” Raymond agrees. “Or I guess the other way around, in this case.”

Franziska sniffs. “I still live on my papa’s estate, but my papa is often away,” she says. “It’s only natural.”

Horror flashes across Shields and Gregory’s faces, and Miles cannot help but agree with them. Franziska is too young to be on her own. Certainly too young to be carrying the Von Karma legacy on her shoulders.

“Are you sure you don’t want to do game night?” Shields proposes after an awkward pause.

“Absolutely not!” Miles and Franziska say simultaneously.

Things have almost completely died down within the next few days, so Miles and Gregory return to the apartment with the knowledge that the police have all but given up on finding the intruder. The blood has at least been cleaned from Miles’ bedroom, leaving a sterile smell behind. It’s strange to think that Phoenix was stabbed only a few evenings before.

“So this is your apartment,” Franziska observes. “It’s very… ordinary.”

“Well, I’m not quite as successful as your father,” Miles says. “So you’ll have to forgive me for being slightly frugal.”

“Your car says otherwise,” Franziska observes. “It’s so flashy that every pedestrian stops to gawk at it.”

“Do you have anything useful to say, or are you going to continue to critique my spending choices?” Miles snaps.

Franziska says nothing in favor of sitting on the sofa with a slight huff. Gregory shakes his head with an amused expression. Miles isn’t quite sure what’s so amusing about a short-tempered fifteen-year-old wielding a whip, but at least he’s not angry. Miles can’t deal with anger right now. Not from his father, at least. Franziska has enough rage for the three of them.

The evening is quiet enough. Franziska removes a deck of cards from her hoodie pocket and suggests they play a game so that she can “show you fools how powerless you are against me.”

“Where did the cards come from?” Gregory asks, raising his eyebrows.

Franziska crosses her arms and clenches her sleeve. “The security in Raymond Shields’ game cabinet was nonexistent,” she says. “It wasn’t difficult to take a pack of cards when he wasn’t looking.”

“He probably wasn’t expecting a Von Karma to steal from him,” Miles points out.

“If that’s the case, then he should not have been so irritating in suggesting games so often,” Franziska says. She begins to deal the cards on the coffee table. “Now sit down, Miles Edgeworth.”

“I prefer chess,” Miles tries.

“Chess is not a three-player game, you fool, so sit down and tell your foolish father to do so as well.”

They play cards into the evening until Gregory stands up and announces that he’s exhausted. Miles concurs, and he tells Franziska to take his bedroom. Franziska wrinkles her nose at the suggestion, and Miles’ sighs. He doesn’t want Franziska sleeping in the living room if someone breaks in, but he can’t well tell her that.

“It’s the best room in the apartment,” he points out. “Unless you would like to sleep on the couch or the floor, I suggest you take it.”

“Where will you sleep?” Franziska demands.

“I’ll sleep in the living room.”

“Miles, don’t be ridiculous, this is your home,” says not Franziska, but Gregory. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

“This is my home and therefore I am the host,” Miles counters. He doesn’t know why he doesn’t want Gregory sleeping in the living room, but the idea fills him with dread. “I’m perfectly content sleeping on the sofa, so please allow me to do so.”

Franziska relents, but Gregory glances uneasily at the door.

“I’ll shout if anyone kicks it down,” Miles says.

“You had better, Miles Edgeworth, or I shall kill you myself!” Franziska shouts from the other room.

“Alright,” Gregory relents. “Please, be careful.”

“The door’s locked,” Miles assures him. “I’ve checked multiple times now.”

“Yeah… me too.”

Gregory retreats into his room, and Miles curls up on the sofa with a book. He always feels strange about intentionally sleeping on a sofa, but he knows he will fall asleep naturally if he reads into the night.

Miles’ eyes get heavy around two chapters into the book. When he reaches the third chapter, he can barely keep his eyes open as he tries to read the words… he flips to the next page… now he’s in an elevator, and he can’t read the words of his book anymore. The bailiff tries to take the book away from him and—

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK—

Miles nearly falls from the sofa, and his book lands on the floor with a hard thump. The knocking resumes. Miles instantly recognizes it as Von Karma’s firm knock.

“Is everything alright?” Gregory demands, somehow awake. He pokes his head out the door.

“Everything’s fine,” Miles says. “Just someone knocking.”

“Who is it?”

Miles almost says ‘Von Karma’, but he knows Gregory gets angry whenever he brings up his mentor. It’s best to keep the situation as contained as possible for now.

“Most likely Detective Gumshoe,” Miles says. The lie comes out smoothly. “He sometimes bothers me at ridiculous hours of the night. Please, go back to sleep.”

Gregory nods, without further questions. So unlike a defense attorney. “Alright.”

He retreats back into his room. Miles stands up and tries to make himself feel presentable. He combs though his hair with his fingers and straightens his vest (he never put on night clothes) before coming to the door and checking through the peek hole to ensure it is, in fact, his mentor. Von karma stands with his arms crossed impatiently on the other side, and Miles quickly undoes the lock and opens the door.

“Sir,” Miles says. “This is a surprise.”

“Hmph,” Von Karma says. “Is that defense attorney here?”

Miles frowns. He can already hear sheets moving in the other room; Gregory must be getting out of bed. Franziska, naturally, is perfectly silent. She does not wish to be caught in the wrong country.

“Yes, but I’m not sure why—”

“Good.” Von Karma steps inside, and he closes and locks the door behind him. Miles frowns, deeply confused.

“Sir?” he asks because Von Karma still has not said anything.

Von Karma removes a gun from his overcoat pocket. Miles is about to ask if it is evidence for a case when Von Karma points the gun directly at Miles’ forehead.

Miles freezes. The barrel of the gun is barely three centimeters away from his head. Von Karma’s finger is already on the trigger. Miles’ chest hurts, and his breathing quickens, and his only coherent thought is, This must be a terrible nightmare.

“Sir?” Miles forces out, his voice strangled. Von Karma still has not pulled the trigger, and there is something hungry in his eyes. Like he is waiting for something. Is this a test? Does he expect Miles to react in a certain way? Does he expect Miles to have already dodged out of the way? “Sir, what are you—”

“Edgeworth,” Von Karma’s quiet yet authoritative voice echoes throughout the apartment, and Miles stiffens. “So kind of you to join us.”

Gregory is already standing in the living room, ten feet away from Miles. He must have entered when Miles wasn’t paying attention, which isn’t surprising, seeing as Miles can only focus on the gun between his eyes.

“Von Karma,” Gregory says. Miles expects his voice to be angry, but it’s not… it’s more unsteady than that… could it be fear? “What are you doing?”

“Ending this,” Von Karma says.

“Ending what?” Miles demands, terrified and confused and still half-convinced this is all just a terrible dream, despite the overwhelming evidence to the contrary.

“I’m ending what began thirteen years ago, when you forever stained my perfect name, Gregory Edgeworth,” Von Karma says, the hunger in his eyes growing.

“Your quarrel is with me, Von Karma,” Gregory says, his voice hurried. “Not with him. Leave Miles out of this, please, please, take my life, but spare my son—”

“Just like a defense attorney, you know nothing,” Von Karma says coldly. “And you never will.”

Von Karma looks at Miles, and Miles realizes with cold horror that he is going to pull the trigger. He’s going to die. Miles’ mind goes blank, but Gregory is running toward Von Karma, seizing the gun with both hands, and now Von Karma and Gregory are fighting, and Miles cannot move, he can only stand and watch, and—

BANG

Cold blood splatters against Miles’ feet. Gregory collapses.  A cry, raw and guttural, tears its way out of Miles’ throat.

“Father!”

Miles collapses to his knees, searching for the gunshot wound in Gregory’s chest, looking for the spot where blood should surely be staining his white night shirt, but he can’t find anything. Gregory is still breathing ragged, gasping breaths, which is good. Still alive. He’s still alive.

“Miles—” Gregory gasps as Miles continues to frantically look for the fatal wound. “Run.”

Miles’ eyes finally land on the bleeding wound in Gregory’s thigh, which Gregory is already pressing down on with one hand. With the other blood-covered hand, he tries to push Miles away.

“Go—” Gregory gasps again. “Please, go— get help—”

Miles is also gasping for breath, tears are rolling down his cheeks, and he takes both hands to put pressure on Gregory’s wound. Gregory continues to try to push him away.

“No, Miles, you have to leave—”

“I am not losing you again!” Miles screams, his voice cracking. There’s so much blood. “If you die, I will never forgive you! Never!”

Von Karma looms over them both, and Miles looks up at him. For the first time in his life, he is really, truly terrified of the man. Never has Miles thought Von Karma truly capable of hurting him. Verbally, yes. With his actions, yes. Such a thing is to be expected from a man with such high expectations.

But physically? Never. Never did Miles expect to fear for his life, to be killed by his mentor, the one who took Miles in when he had no one, the one who gave Miles something to live and strive for, the one who now once again points a gun at Miles’ head.

“You always did have a soft spot I could never squash out,” Von Karma says. “It’s a shame you never got the chance to reach your full potential as a prosecutor. It truly would have been more interesting that way.”

Miles’ breath hitches, and Gregory screams, “PLEASE—”

There’s a loud crack, and a whip hits Von Karma’s hand, causing him to drop the gun. It clatters to the ground a few inches away from Miles’ knees.

“Papa!” Franziska demands, holding her whip up with a furious expression and tears in her eyes. “What is the meaning of this?”

“Franziska,” Von Karma says, his voice pure surprise. It turns to anger. “What are you doing here?”

With the last of his wits, Miles grabs the gun and puts the safety back on. Gregory puts pressure on his own wound as Miles fishes his phone from his pocket.

“I am here to protect my foolish brother from being foolishly murdered!” Franziska raises her whip. “Explain yourself at once!”

Miles quietly dials Gumshoe’s number.

“The Edgeworth name is a curse,” Von Karma says. “You should be glad to be rid of them.”

“Sir!” Gumshoe says. “Are you alright? What’s going on?”

Von Karma hasn’t looked away from Franziska, even though he’s surely heard Gumshoe from the phone. Franziska glowers.

“Miles Edgeworth is my little brother, and I will not see you harm him!” she shouts. “You were the one who taught me that criminals must be apprehended and brought to justice!”

“Detective,” Miles says very evenly in a low voice. His hand holding the gun shakes, but he doesn’t dare let it go. “There has been an assault at my apartment. My father is injured. Please send help immediately.”

Miles hangs up before Gumshoe can respond.

Von Karma hasn’t said anything. Gregory is miraculously still conscious, and Miles continues to press his free hand against the wound.

“It was you… wasn’t it?” Gregory hisses, “You were the one… Miles shot that day… but you didn’t run, you—”

“You were dead!” Von Karma shouts. “I don’t know what forces brought you back, but I will not see my work be for nothing!”

Miles cannot keep up. He shot Von Karma? When? That day? But the only significant day Miles can think of is—is—

Realization dawns on Miles just as Von Karma lunges toward him, and without thinking, Miles points the gun at Von Karma’s chest. Franziska cries out sharply.

“You killed him,” Miles whispers. “And then when you came back… you tried to frame him of murdering me. And when that didn’t work, you what? Decided to be done with it and kill both of us?”

Von Karma says nothing. Sirens begin roaring loudly outside.

“You’ve failed, Papa.” Franziska’s voice quivers, and if Miles weren’t so concerned with stemming his father’s bleeding, he would have hugged her. “Your perfect crime was full of imperfections, and now you will be tried and found guilty for what you have done!”

Von Karma’s eyes flash, but it is Miles who he is looking at. “You won’t kill me, boy.”

Miles swallows. He doesn’t lower the gun. His finger trembles on the trigger, ready for if Von Karma tries anything.

“You’re right, he won’t,” Franziska says. “But if you hurt him, I will testify against you. I will prosecute you myself if I need to!”

“Franziska—” Miles chokes out, because he has no idea what Von Karma is capable of.

“You would betray your own flesh and blood?”

“It’s you who would betray the Von Karma name!” A tear rolls down Franziska’s cheek. “Surrender with what little dignity you have left!”

Gumshoe bursts through the doors with a group of officers. They surround Von Karma with their guns drawn. Franziska keeps her whip raised, not breaking eye contact with her father.

After hesitating, Von Karma arches his back and snaps his fingers. “What are you imbeciles waiting for?” he asks the officers. “Do your jobs and arrest me at once!”

The officers immediately grab Von Karma by the arms and force his wrists into cuffs. Gumshoe crouches down next to Miles as paramedics rush into the room and take his father away. He’s saying something, but Miles cannot hear over the ringing of his ears, over the sound of the sirens still blaring outside.

“Sir—” Gumshoe’s voice cuts in and out of the ringing. “—are you—njured?”

Miles shakes his head mutely and stands up. Other officers are questioning Franziska, who clenches her whip tightly and stands perfectly still as she answers. His crowded apartment is horribly claustrophobic, and Gumshoe is still speaking to him.

“Sir?” Gumshoe says. Miles forces himself to focus on his voice. “Maybe we should go back to the precinct for questioning, it might be more comfortable there—”

“Franziska,” Miles says, interrupting Gumshoe and striding forward. He must have interrupted her mid-sentence, because Franziska’s eyes snap up to Miles, surprised.

“Yes?” she asks tersely.

“I—” But Miles doesn’t know what to say. Everything has happened so quickly, and he barely understands what’s going on, but he knows he cannot leave Franziska like this. Cannot leave her answering questions about her own father without saying something. “I’m sor—”

“Don’t,” Franziska interrupts, looking away. She arches her back further, but otherwise stays completely still. “Don’t you dare apologize.”

“But—”

“Papa is a man capable of making his own decisions,” Franziska bites out. “He made his choice. So don’t you dare apologize to me, Miles Edgeworth.”

Miles still wants to apologize, and the words are on the tip of his tongue before he sees a faint tremor in Franziska’s hands. Franziska, who prides herself on perfection. Franziska, who just had her own father arrested.

“Alright,” Miles says softly. “I’m going to the station with Detective Gumshoe for questioning. Would you like to come with me?”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am already being questioned here,” Franziska says. “I may join you later, but I will not be going with you.”

It’s no use to argue further. Miles nods, turns away, and follows Gumshoe to his car.

Miles is still covered in dried blood by the time he is allowed to visit his father in the hospital. Gumshoe only asked him a few basic questions before allowing Miles to leave. Miles went straight to the hospital, waited in the lobby for hours, and now sits at his father’s bedside, trying to piece together the events of that night.

Von Karma tried to kill him. Von Karma hates him. Von Karma…

“Hey,” Shields says, shocking Miles out of his thoughts.

“Mr. Shields,” Miles says. “I didn’t realize… when did you get here?”

“Just now,” Shields says with a small shrug. “Detective Gumshoe told me what happened. Thought I would come and make sure that he’s alright.”

“Oh, yes, of course.” Miles stands up and presses his hands against his pants. Even though the pants are red, the blood stains stand out like bruises on skin.

“You don’t have to leave,” Shields says. “It’s not like I can have any private discussions with Gregory right now.”

Miles stays standing, unsure if Shield’s statement is a formality, and Shields really does want Miles to leave. Shields sights and pulls another chair up to the hospital bed. Miles tentatively sits back down.

“I don’t know if someone’s told you this yet, but you look like hell,” Shields says. “Have you considered showering?”

Miles doesn’t say anything.

“Fair enough,” Shields sighs. “How’s mini Von Karma doing? The scary whip chick?”

“I don’t know,” Miles says quietly. Nothing quite feels real right now. “She may still be answering questions with the police.”

“Oh… do you think she’s going to prosecute her pops?”

“…I don’t know.”

“Will you?”

Miels stares at his blood crusted hands and remembers the gun he pointed at Von Karma only hours before.

“No.”

“Okay then,” Shields says. “Guess some other lucky prosecutor will have that honor.”

“Mr. Shields,” Miles bites out, “if you have come to gloat, you may as well get it over with.”

“Gloat? Never,” Shields says, but his expression and voice are uncharacteristically somber. “I was actually going to suggest that you get some sleep.”

“There’s no need to pretend.” Miles’ voice slowly gets louder and louder. “You warned me about Von Karma, you told me not to put my lot with him, but I ignored you, I continued on my path, and now…” Miles’ throat tightens when he remembers the gun. The knife. The blood. “And now…”

“Miles,” Shields says. He stands up, presses his hat against his chest, and bows. “I’m sorry for the way I treated you.”

Miles stares at Shields. “I’m not sure I understand,” he says slowly.

“You and I may not agree…” Shields says slowly. “But I wasn’t empathetic to your situation. It’s only natural you would follow the path of the man who raised you.”

“And would you be apologizing, Mr. Shields, if Mr. von Karma wasn’t just revealed to be a murderer?” Miles asks, probably more biting than Shields deserves. He stands up. “Please, save your apologies. I need some air.”

Miles steps outside the hospital room and nearly gets barreled into by Phoenix Wright.

“Mia told me what happened,” he says, out of breath and sweaty. “I biked all the way here.”

If Miles was unprepared for Shields’ apology, he is fully caught off guard by Wright’s sudden appearance. “You biked?” he demands. “With your injury?”

Wright glances at his still-bandaged shoulder and waves his free arm flippantly. “I’m sure it’s fine,” he says. His eyes land on the dried blood all over Miles. “More importantly, are you okay? Hurt?”

Miles looks away. “How did Ms. Fey even find out about the incident?”

“Word travels fast, unfortunately,” Wright says apologetically. “Especially when it comes to genius prosecutors, which there are… um, a lot, in this specific case.”

Manfred von Karma. Franziska.

Miles.

“I see.”

“Is your dad okay?”

“He’ll live,” Miles says, almost mechanically. “He was hit in a non-vital spot, unlike last time, and we managed to stem the bleeding enough, so he didn’t die of blood loss.”

Wright sighs in relief. “Good, that’s good. But seriously”—his eyes fill with a strange sort of sadness—“How are you doing?”

“Fine,” Miles says immediately. He clutches his sleeve. “I wasn’t the one who was shot.”

“Edgeworth, you’re talking to the guy who dated a serial killer. I know a thing or two about not being the one who was killed,” Wright says. “You don’t have to be okay.”

“I wasn’t the one who dated a serial killer either.”

“Edgeworth—”

“I’m fine, Wright,” Miles interrupts sharply. “I’m just… rattled, is all.”

Wright opens his mouth, likely to argue, but he pauses before shutting it again. His shoulders slump. “Okay.”

“Thank you.” Miles breathes slightly more easily.

“Do you want a change of clothes, at least?” Wright asks. “I can ask that detective, Gymshoe, was it? He can get you some. Or something.”

Miles looks down at his stained cravat and wonders how horrible he must look for everyone to comment on it.

“That would be appreciated,” Miles says. He swallows. “Thank you.”

Wright gives him a small, sad smile. “Of course.”

Gregory wakes up an hour later. Miles is wearing a spare suit Gumshoe delivered from his office, but he forewent the cravat. It feels too suffocating.

“Miles,” Gregory whispers, like his name is something precious. He takes Miles hand. The gesture is so warm that Miles almost loses composure entirely. “You’re alright.”

“Father,” Miles says quietly, because he doesn’t know what else to say. “How do you feel?”

“Like I’ve been shot,” Gregory quips, causing Shields to chortle.

“That’s not funny,” Miles snaps. He yanks his hand from Gregory’s grasp and regrets it almost immediately. He can’t exactly go back, so he grabs his own sleeve. “Why did you do that? You should have run. Why didn’t you run?”

“You didn’t run either,” Gregory says gently.

“Of course not,” Miles snaps. “You would have died!”

“And you really think I would have let the same thing happen to you?”

Gregory’s words should not have been such a revelation, but they still make Miles’ racing thoughts grind to a halt. The pieces from the night before slowly started to click into place.

“He… he wanted you to see,” Miles says. “He wanted you to see me die.”

“Yes.” Gregory closes his eyes. “He did.”

“He hates me, but he loathes you.” The words continue to spill from Miles’ mouth. “All of this, all of this has just been a way to get revenge on you. I… I was a way to get revenge on you.”

“Miles—”
Miles stands up. “All of this”—he gestures to himself—“has just been a way to get the better of you. Your son, a genius prosecutor! He must have laughed himself silly at the irony!”

“That’s not—”

“You should hate me,” Miles continues. “I’m everything you hate; I stand for everything you hate; I trusted the man who killed you! I’m the reason you died!”

“You are not the reason I died.”

“Yes, I am! The shot through the window hit Von Karma, didn’t it? He might not have resorted to murder if I hadn’t maimed him.”

“He was still the one who decided to kill me, not you.”

“It shouldn’t matter!” Miles’ throat feels raw. “If he hates me, if I hate myself, then why won’t you?!”

“Because I love you!” Gregory shouts. “I don’t care how many times I have to say it. I love you, and I will always love you, no matter how badly you want me to hate you. Because it’s never going to happen, alright? Never, even if you were Von Karma’s perfect clone.”

Miles doesn’t move. Doesn’t say anything. His entire world has fallen apart by the seams, and he does not know how long he can keep it together before he also unravels.

Gregory reaches and grabs Miles’ hand. “And you are not what Von Karma tried to make you.” He squeezes, and Miles holds Gregory’s hand tightly back. “You are Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth, and you try, and you care, and you may not be perfect, but that’s because no one is.”

Miles entire body shakes, and he can’t decide if he wants to run away, shout, or burst into tears. He clings tightly to his father’s hand like he’s nine years old again and terrified of losing him.

“We’re going to get through this, okay?” Gregory says massaging circles into Miles’ hand with his thumb.

And Miles finally cracks.

“I feel like such a fool,” he whispers, his voice choked. “I still… I still don’t quite believe it.”

“That’s perfectly normal,” Gregory assures him.

“And Franziska… she shouldn’t have had to see that.” Miles squeezes his eyes shut and tries not to remember Franziska’s horrified rage. “She loved her father.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

“What will she do now?”

“Well…” Gregory hums contemplatively. “I don’t know her that well, but… I imagine she’ll keep living, and keep waving that whip around, and continue doing what she thinks is right.”

Gregory’s right, of course. Franziska will probably launch herself into her work with a renewed fervor, anything to forget how her papa betrayed her.

“Doing what she thinks is right…” Miles murmurs.

“Exactly.” Gregory gives Miles a small smile. “Because, at the end of the day, that’s all we can do.”

The trial is only a few days later. It’s remarkably short. With someone of Von Karma’s reputation and three witnesses to the crime, no defense attorney of any status wished to take Von Karma’s case. Von Karma must have decided that there was no hope of his acquittal, because he takes to the witness stand and confesses everything.

Franziska refuses to go. Gregory is still in the hospital. And Wright… Miles did not inform Wright of the trial at all.

Miles watches from the audience gallery as Von Karma’s confession unfolds. Thirteen years ago, Miles threw a gun that shot Von Karma in the shoulder. The elevator doors opened almost immediately after, and upon seeing the unconscious form of Gregory Edgeworth on the floor, Von Karma took the opportunity and shot him in the heart.

This year, when rumors of Gregory’s return began to surface, Von Karma got worried. “I sent a letter to Yanni Yogi,” Von Karma explains in an even tone, his eyes closed and arms crossed. “The bailiff in the DL-6 incident. I gave him clear instructions on how to kill Miles Edgeworth and cast suspicion on the alleged Gregory Edgeworth.”

The audience bursts into astonished conversation. “Gregory Edgeworth? But isn’t he dead?” “The bailiff? Why?” “Kill Prosecutor Edgeworth? Didn’t Prosecutor von Karma adopt him?”

“Order! Order!” the judge shouts, pounding his gavel. “Mr. Von Karma, do you mean to suggest that the rumors of Gregory Edgeworth’s return are actually true?”

It’s at that moment that Police Chief Gant strides into the room. “Udgey, I may have some information to shed some light on the subject.”

The judge raises his eyebrows. “Chief Gant! What a surprise!”

Gant takes the stand and tugs at his bangs. “Yes, well, this entire case is full of interesting surprises isn’t it? Now, this is admittedly pretty complicated, but I’m here to tell everyone that Worthy Senior did not actually die during the DL-6 incident.”

If the crowd was surprised before, they were absolutely losing it now. Miles could barely hear his own thoughts over the din.

“Didn’t die?” the judge demands.

“He was basically dead, of course,” Gant says. “Through some miracle, Mr. Edgeworth was actually in a coma for the past thirteen years. We all thought there was no hope of his recovery, but Mr. Von Karma, perhaps out of guilt, had him kept on life support, just in case.”

Miles stays perfectly still and clasps his hands together. Lies upon lies upon lies.

“A coma?”

“Yep. And it paid off! Gregory Edgeworth did wake up this year. We wanted to keep it on the down low, since the public thought that he was indeed dead. I mean, even our police records are mistaken on that front. There was a lot of confusion around this case, you know. And after a fraudulent spirit medium tried to summon his spirit, we couldn’t just come out and say that Gregory Edgeworth was alive the whole time! How would that make the police look?”

“Very incompetent,” Von Karma says tersely.

“Exactly!” Gant claps his hands together cheerfully.

“So he was in a coma and woke up… I suppose that makes sense,” the judge says, even though it barely makes any amount of sense at all.

“I’m glad you agree,” Gant says. “I’ll let Manny here continue on with his testimony. Sorry for the interruption.”

“Yes, well, ahem.” The judge’s confused expression schools into something more serious. “Mr. von Karma, continue your testimony!”

And so, he continues. Von Karma intentionally planned for Miles to ‘confess’ his guilt with the hopes of some sort of public confrontation. He gave Gumshoe drugged coffee so that Gregory would sleep through the murder attempt. He told Yogi of the location of Miles’ spare key, something Miles told Von Karma in a show of trust to his mentor. Yogi was meant to come in, kill Miles, and leave, locking the door behind him and leaving no fingerprints behind.

But Phoenix ruined that, and Gregory figured out that Miles misfire must have hit someone that day thirteen years ago, and Von Karma decided he had to take things into his own hands.

The rest of the confession, Miles had witnessed firsthand.

The judge swiftly pronounces Von Karma guilty of all charges, and the trial ends. Von Karma is taken away, but Miles remains seated while the rest of the gallery leaves the courtroom. He stays seated until the courtroom is completely empty. He stares at the now empty witness stand.

Guilty of all charges.

It’s a strange feeling. Knowing that a large portion of your life is built on a lie. All those times Von Karma said he cared… all those times that Von Karma said he was proud of him… was it all a lie? Was Miles just an unwitting pawn in his game, an unwitting piece in Von Karma’s convoluted revenge? Or did somewhere in there… did Von Karma actually care?

Miles almost wants to ask. To go to the station and demand answers from his former mentor. But even as the idea crosses his mind, he knows its no use. Von Karma will not give him any answers that will satisfy him. That much, Miles knows for certain.

Slowly, Miles stands up. He leaves the courthouse. He gets into his car. And he drives home.

When Gregory is released from the hospital, the two of them run into none other than Mia Fey in the hospital lobby. She crosses her arms like she’s been waiting for them.

“I meant to visit, but I heard you were being discharged today,” she says. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you, Ms. Fey,” Gregory says. “To what do we owe this pleasure?”

“The whole country’s in a tizzy about your secret coma,” Fey says. She doesn’t sound happy about it. “Chief Gant worked hard to spin that one.”

“You don’t believe it?” Miles asks. Most people were happy to eat the coma lie. After all, people don’t come back from the dead.

“I would, if it weren’t for the fact that my mother isn’t a fraud,” Fey says, her voice hard. “She summoned your spirit that day. And trust me when I say that you cannot summon the spirits of people in comas.”

There’s something unnaturally sad in Fey’s voice when she says that last part, but Miles does not know why.

“Well, I cannot explain my return anymore than Gant can,” Gregory says. “But no. I wasn’t in a coma.”

Fey hesitates. “I actually… did have a explanation for why you’re here. It’s just a theory, mind you, and I have no way of proving it, but… it could be better than nothing?”

“A theory?” Miles asks. If his father hadn’t just come back from the dead, he would have immediately given this supernatural drivel no mind at all. As it is currently, his curiosity is piqued.

“Even the Fey family… we don’t have all the answers for the secrets of life and death,” Fey says slowly, fingering the pendant around her neck. “I did some digging. There are texts… really old ones, mind you… that say that some of the strongest members of the family were capable of more than just channeling spirits… but giving them a second chance at life.”

“What are you saying?” Gregory asks. “One of your family members resurrected me? Why?”

Fey shakes her head. “Nobody in my family would have known you well enough to do that, and I don’t have that sort of power. No, the texts, well, I guess it’s more accurate to call them myths… reference a possibility that when a Fey resurrects a spirit, it’s not possible to do so in the same timeline, so to speak. The spirit gets restored in another universe.”

“Alternate universes?”  Miles sputters. “Do you really expect me to buy into this drivel?”

“I’m skeptical myself,” Fey admits. “They’re really old texts. But resurrection shouldn’t be possible either. The only explanation I can think of is that someone from a different time, be that the future or past or whatever, used their power to bring your father back.”

“But why would anyone in the Fey clan care about me?” Gregory asks.

“I don’t know.” Mia shrugs. “But… the only reason I’ve entertained this theory is because of a dream Phoenix had. I normally would have chalked it up to a dream, but my cousin, who he’s never met before or heard of, was in it. Apparently, Edgeworth had… died… and my cousin wished someone could have helped him.”

Gregory looks horrified. Miles is unsurprised. He knew this job would kill him eventually.

“Are you suggesting that your cousin from the future resurrected my father because… what? Wright was sad?”

“I have no clue,” Mia says. “But it’s the only explanation I can think of, and as my Aunt Morgan loves to say, Pearl is unnaturally powerful. It’s not impossible that she could do it, if she concentrated enough. And if Phoenix was wishing alongside her then…” Another helpless shrug.

“Well… I’m not complaining,” Greagory says. “Thanks for trying to explain, even if I’m struggling to wrap my mind around some of this.”

“Glad I could help in some way,” Mia says. “And, for the record, I’m glad you’re alive.”

Miles cannot argue with that.

Somehow, life goes on.

Franziska leaves the country not long after Von Karma’s trial. She assures Miles she will return, but she has more important affairs to take care of. Miles suspects her older sister (who is now her legal guardian) insisted she come home.

After his dramatic declaration in Von Karma’s trial, Gant finally gets Gregory’s paperwork in order, and Gregory officially gets reinstated as a defense attorney. After Gregory acquires enough money to support himself, he moves out of Miles’ new apartment. It really wasn’t built for two.

In spite of that, Miles still sees his father quite often. They cross paths during investigations, in the courtroom, and far more importantly, Gregory invites Miles to come over for dinner every Sunday evening. At first, Miles though Gregory was just trying to make Miles feel better after everything that happened, but he finds that he enjoys meals with his father more and more. Miles realizes that maybe his father just wants to spend time with him. He is more astonished to realize that the feeling is mutual.

Miles sees less of Wright, but sometimes he barges into Miles’ office unexpectedly, asking for help with his homework when “Mia is too busy with a client.” Miles usually finds himself biting back a comment that he is also busy with work and does his best to drill evidence law into Wright’s head. He’s not very confident of his success.

“Sorry,” Wright says, finally standing up from Miles’ sofa with his textbooks in hand. “But I really want to pass the bar as soon as possible.”

“Wright, please,” Miles says exasperatedly. “Don’t rush into this.”

“But you’re already way ahead of me!”

“Yes, because I didn’t waste time majoring in art,” Miles says. “And I wasn’t happier for it, so please, take your time and avoid burnout.”

“Ugh, fine.” Wright sticks his tongue out, and Miles resists the childish urge to return the gesture. “You’re so boring sometimes.”

“So I’ve heard.”

Someone knocks on the door, and Miles frowns. “Who is it?”

“It’s me,” says Gregory, and Miles’ relaxes minutely.

“I’ll get it!” Wright says cheerfully, jogging forward and opening the door. “Good to see you again, Mr. Edgeworth.”

“Wright! I didn’t expect to see you here,” Gregory says, raising his eyebrows for a fraction of a second before a smirk crawls on his face. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”

“He was just leaving,” Miles says dispassionately.

“And, uh, we were just studying!” Wright squeaks, his face redder than Miles thinks this situation calls for. “Well, I was studying, Miles was working and quizzing me, uh, and yeah, I’m gonna go now.”

Wright flees as Gregory chuckles. Miles is still not sure of what is so funny.

“Is this a social call?” Miles asks.

Gregory enters the office and closes the door behind him. “Kind of. One of my clients gave me a gift, and while I don’t have much use for it, I thought you might.”

Gregory places two tickets on Miles’ desk. Miles picks one up and realizes they’re for a Steel Samauri stage show that is coming up this month. He feels his face grow hot.

“Well, um, you know—” Miles almost starts to say he doesn’t watch the Steel Samauri before he remembers he binged nearly the entire series in his father’s presence half a year ago. He swallows his embarrassment and bows. “Thank you.”

“Of course,” Gregory says. “Maybe you can invite Wright.”

For some reason, Miles’ embarrassment heightens. “Unfortunately, he is not a fan of the franchise,” he says, because he already tried to gage Wright’s interest a few months ago. Wright hadn’t even recognized the name. “But I’m sure I can find someone else to go with me.”

“Great,” Gregory says cheerfully. “Well, I’d better get going. I just wanted to deliver those before I forgot.”

“Of course.” Gregory begins to leave the room, and a swell of emotion rises up within Miles. “Father, I—” Miles cuts himself off. Gregory pauses and turns toward Miles with an inquisitive look. “I… I really appreciate it. Truly. You have my sincerest thanks.”

Gregory smiles, and Miles knows he understands.