Chapter Text
Miles Edgeworth couldn’t wait to get home, the exhaustion of the day dragging at his feet. The prosecutor paused for just a moment, staring down absently at the watch on his wrist. ‘One A.M.’ he thought to himself with a shudder of annoyance, ‘if only my plane wasn’t delayed I would have been home much sooner’. But it wasn’t like he could fix that—or change the plane ride to not have been fourteen hours.
An absent sigh escaped his lips—his eyes stopping to stare down the red sports car he called his own. He hated going into work this late—even now paperwork just wouldn’t finish itself. Shoving his suitcase into his trunk—albeit a bit haphazardly. The tranquility of the night quickly shifted into dread, a feeling that Miles swallowed down. He didn’t have time for this. Reaching for the door handle, he got into the car and began to drive off.
The noise of the road—the buzz of the radio—the clicks of his turn signal, gave way into thoughts slipping around—included within the thoughts of upcoming paperwork. It wasn’t like paperwork didn’t come with his job. Another case prosecuted meant more files—more files meant more work, not like he minded it much, especially when the case was an easy one. Both the evidence and testimony stacked in his favor, and sitting across on the other bench was just a rookie, not that man with his miraculous luck—or what he likes to call bluffing talents.
His thoughts were quickly interrupted by the ding of his GPS announcing his arrival back to his office. The tall building staring him down—daring him to enter. A quick glance back at his watch now read one fifty two A.M. quickly filled him with even less energy than before. Trudging out of his car, Miles paused to stare at his office window, one that was lovingly placed on the thirtieth floor despite his aversion to elevators. A silent curse escaped his lips as he imagined having to trudge up thirty flights of stairs. It was tough even at a reasonable hour, but he’d be damned if he ever took an elevator—again.
The prosecutor blindly reached into his pocket, feeling around for his wallet. His tired hands absently searching for his key card, hoping to be let in sooner or later. It was so far out of operating hours he was almost certain that he had to find the metal key somewhere in his pockets—it wasn’t like he could easily remember what key it was—especially with how full his key ring always ended up getting.
Entering the quiet office usually brought a sense of tranquility to the prosecutor, a sense suddenly replaced by unease, a shiver of anxiety shooting down his spine. Miles glanced around the halls of the office, quickly noting a few lights still omitting their outdated incandescent glow, the soft hum of electricity told him one thing for certain, he wasn’t alone.
Somebody is just working late, Miles thought to himself, shaking his head in an attempt to clear the anxiety from it. The more he thought about going up to his office, the more his body screamed at him to run. The prosecutor pushed the fear to the back of his mind. “Miles Edgeworth, don’t be stupid. Somebody is just working late.” he muttered, hoping nobody was actually there to hear.
One foot in front of the other Miles began to trudge up the stairs, the higher he got up the stairs the more his amygdala screeched at him to flee. He didn’t exactly trust his brain when it forced him into fight or flight. Most of the time it was just another PTSD attack coming to ruin his week—one that commonly resulted in a bout of dissociation.
Before he knew it, the prosecutor was standing face to face with his office door, the wooden plaque with his name carefully engraved smiled back at him, the thought of finally being able to rest bringing a sense of solace to his tired body. Thinking about nothing more than sitting in his office chair, doing work by his desk lamp, Miles reached for the door handle, moonlight flooding the hallway as he watched it swing open, the inviting sight of home tugging at his exhausted brain.
A brisk pace took over the prosecutor's tired trudge as he began to start for his desk, happily reaching for his lamp. Centimeters away from the switch he paused, he didn’t remember unlocking the door.
Miles Edgeworth didn’t have more than a moment to question his memory, before arms wrapped tightly around him, the strength enough to crush his ribs, a grip threatening to kill if he did so much as move wrong.
Fight—flight—fight—flight echoed in his head, the two options quickly merging into one. The prosecutor squirmed an attempt to escape—to live.
“Enough of that.” hissed his assailant, digging his nails as deep into Miles skin as they could go, blood enticingly dripping from the wound.
The only thing managing to escape the prosecutor was a slight hiss of pain that was quickly silenced, he couldn’t let this attacker win. His brain, yelling at him to kick—to bite—to— to do anything. A thousand thoughts flashed between his eyes, one remained constant fighting to overtake every bit of panic coursing through his veins ‘what would wright do’
“What do you want?” Edgeworth managed to squeak out, hoping his voice stayed calm enough to be bought as anything besides what it was—a bluff.
“What I want?” the assailant echoed, a smile audible on his lips. “Why your eternal silence, of course.”
Miles felt his stomach tie into a knot, one thing he knew for certain. This man wasn’t bluffing. “And why is this?” he managed to ask through a mouth that felt like cotton. His voice shook, he knew it did—if he wanted to—if he had to live he needed to get in control of his emotions.
“A certain—case you prosecuted recently, brought one of our factions to light. We can’t exactly have that, now can we?” a chuckle of hostility shined through his voice, a showcase of just the amount of amusement that he got from this little game of cat and mouse.
“That case was tried fairly, under the laws that govern this country.” Miles stated, forcing his tone to lay as flat and reasonable as possible. “As long as the verdict is true, no upstanding lawyer will overturn the case. Killing me won’t change anything, I have plenty of others who will take the case after me, and even more after that. None of you will win this.”
“Trying to bluff? Are we, your fruitless attempt to save your skin brings tears to my eyes.” The assailant leaned closer to whisper into Miles' ear. “They’ll never even know I was here, let alone who killed you.”
Part of his brain screamed back to miles that he was right, it wasn’t like the hall cameras reached into this corner of his office. He was forced into a blind spot—one that his attacker must have known exists. Edgeworth forced his resolve back into place—if he just gave up—Franziska would—would. He couldn’t bear to think about leaving his sister behind. His only sliver of hope being his attacker didn’t seem to have a gun, no instant death hanging on a button.
Forcing himself into calm, the prosecutor took in as many details of his attacker than he could, the feeling of his skin, the shape of his body—anything he could notice or see from his position. His eyes searched for any mark—any tattoo that could help identify him. Any hope that he could identify him—if he survived this. The thought of his impending death made bile rise in his throat.
A miracle, he felt his assailants hold loosen, even if for just a moment he knew this was his only chance to seize it—his only chance to live. With all the strength he could muster, the prosecutor kicked at his attacker, squirming, and fighting with all his strength, just barely squirming out of his grasp. His legs doing everything they could to rush out of the room—out of the office—to get help—to live.
A hope squashed as soon as it came, his attacker grabbing Miles by the head, slamming it into the bookshelf with a crack. Miles felt his vision blur, a loud constant ring replacing any noise in the room, the lull of unconsciousness tugging at his mind. Straining to make out something—anything of his attacker. His eyes caught a glimpse of this mark decorating part of his face.
A bitter taste coated Edgeworth's tongue, something his body screamed at him to spit out. He could barely move, let alone protest, his attempt of words quickly died in his throat. Water bombarded his mouth, forcing whatever it was down his throat. His eyes focused only long enough to watch his attacker flee in satisfaction. A final moment forced out of hell an ending—he thought must be befitting to the demon prosecutor.