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The familiar protest left the prosecutor's mouth decisively. It was an unhesitating "Objection!"—one that commanded the room just as it always had. Miles adjusted his glasses and drew the sheaf of notes he and Phoenix had compiled the night before. His thumb absently smoothed the corner of the top page as he continued, delivering the final threads of his argument to the judge.
He did not turn his head. He needed no visual confirmation to know that Phoenix Wright sat in the gallery audience behind him.
Miles had originally couched the invitation to Europe in the safe language of professional necessity—the only framing his pride permitted. With Trucy touring across the continent and the Wright Anything Agency left effectively dormant in her absence, Phoenix had, after considerable reluctance and much to Miles' relief, agreed to come. He had spoken of grueling European cases and the indispensable value of Phoenix's legal instincts. All of it was technically true. None of it was the whole truth.
Over the last few weeks, the phantom of Kristoph Gavin seemed to haunt every conversation they had. From his vantage point in courtroom galleries, Miles realized the true extent of the damage. Kristoph had not merely stolen his badge—he had seeded a corrosive self-doubt in the very instincts that once made Phoenix worth watching in the first place.
Miles had caught the cracks in fleeting moments: an afternoon recess in Strasbourg where Phoenix discovered an inconsistency in a witness's previous testimony and said, wait, that doesn't line up with the timeline they established in the second session—then stopped abruptly, clamping his mouth shut as if he had overstepped.
Then, in Stuttgart, poring over transcripts after the trial had ended, a spark of the old fire had flared behind Phoenix's eyes while he dissected a sloppy cross-examination—it was the same razor-sharp defense attorney Miles had once clashed with across the courtroom, the one who could reduce a lie to ash before the witness had finished telling it. Yet, the light dimmed, and his rambling prematurely halted, buried under a muttered but what do I know, right?
Miles had chosen not to intervene either time. He never did.
Now, closing his statement, he glanced toward the gallery. Wright, more frequently nowadays, hid his hands in the front pockets of his hoodie with his beanie pulled low, and a faint smirk lingered—the expression of a man who was still paying attention, and had decided that nobody else needed to know. Catching himself, Wright let the amusement fade, his features settling back into an unreadable neutrality. It was the body language of a man who cared despite himself, which Miles supposed was either a good or bad sign, depending on how generously you chose to read it.
Three weeks prior, he had been appointed Chief Prosecutor. Wright had congratulated him. Miles had thanked him and rushed to find another topic, but the interaction rankled. He couldn't help but wonder if his success was a bitter pill for Wright—watching Miles march forward into the light of the legal system while he remained entirely suspended in the shadow of his disgrace.
The gavel fell, severing the thought. Miles gathered his notes, secured them under one arm, and walked away from the gallery without a backward glance.
He found Phoenix waiting at the base of the courthouse steps, shoulders hunched against the chill, hands buried deep within the pockets of his ubiquitous jacket. Miles paused to adjust his cravat before stepping up to stand beside him.
"Good result," Phoenix commented wryly.
"It was adequate," Miles conceded, looking askance as he skimmed over him. "You caught the deposition discrepancy before I raised it."
"You were already on it," Phoenix replied, eyes drifting out toward the street instead of meeting Miles'.
"That is not what I said, Wright."
Phoenix snorted, knuckling the side of his nose. "Old habits, I guess."
"I've arranged something for this Saturday," Miles stated, turning fully to face him.
"What if I have plans on Saturday?"
"I already know for a fact that you do not. Must I remind you that I am the one keeping your calendar these days? "
Phoenix arched a skeptical eyebrow, finally looking at him. "I guess I don't have a choice then, do I." It wasn't a question.
"No," Miles countered evenly, "it is not up for negotiation."
Phoenix's mouth parted, but whatever protest he was preparing, he ultimately chose to keep to himself. His expression smoothed over, his hands retreating into his hoodie pockets.
"And wear something that is—" Miles cast a slow, critical glance over Phoenix's attire, "—not this."
•••
It was Saturday. Miles' car—red and impossible to miss—sat parked at the crest of the backstreet, just a short walk from the pedestrianized alley. The cold hit Phoenix the moment he stepped out, and he tugged his beanie firmly over his ears. The word PaPa, knitted across the front in the slightly uneven lettering, was the one thing he wore these days that felt entirely like his own—not what remained of a career, just the one thing no one could revoke. While he'd mostly honored Miles' clothing request, the bright color of it was nothing short of garish against the backdrop of the street—Londoners glided past them dressed with fashionable ease, providing a contrast to his own awkward presence.
Two minutes on foot brought them down the main path, which offered a tranquil refuge from the surrounding city noise. Low-rise boutiques and high-end vintage shops lined the cobblestones, attracting the crowd of upscale creatives where Miles could drop £12 on an artisanal latte without blinking. Phoenix smirked privately at the thought just as the warm, buttery scent of a patisserie floated by.
He almost kept walking, but the window display of one shop stole his attention—books were arranged on layered shelves, spotlit too, classic theater titles stacked in artful-themed pyramids. It was charming in a way that was reminiscent of Mia's old office—no, his old office—before its bookshelves were slowly emptied, and books purged and displaced in lieu of magic props and stage equipment. A sudden tightness gripped his chest as he realized he couldn't remember exactly when he had stopped thinking of the room as his own.
"We can idle another time, Wright. We'll be late."
Phoenix pulled himself away from the glass, straightening up. He adjusted his skewed beanie in the window's reflection before turning sheepishly to face the prosecutor expectantly waiting for him.
"Relax. I'm just making sure you have something pretty to look at over dinner," Phoenix quipped, a playfully antagonistic grin spreading across his face.
Miles answered with an exasperated sigh, turning toward the side alley without another word. Phoenix followed, hands back in his pockets. As they rounded the corner, Miles abruptly stopped, gesturing toward a storefront adorned with bold wooden lettering.
Phoenix stared, his mouth falling agape. "You wanted me to come to a tea shop of all things?"
"A tea tasting," Miles corrected, as if fixing a flawed testimony. He crossed his arms, entirely unamused. "Yes."
"Edgeworth," Phoenix's shoulders shook as he suppressed a laugh, the corner of his mouth curling upwards, "I know nothing about tea."
"I am duly aware of this," Miles replied flatly, "It may hopefully undo what months of grape juice have done to your palate."
Before Phoenix could fire back, the door swung open with the chime of a small bell, a warm voice greeting them. "Punctual, as always, Mr. Edgeworth! Please, come in."
Standing in the doorway was the store owner and tea sommelier, Darjeel Ingham—a tall, broad-shouldered figure dressed in layered linen, their dark hair pulled back loosely.
Stepping inside, the aroma claimed Phoenix's attention first—a vibrant blend of sweetness and raw greenery that he hadn't expected to like, yet did. The scent enveloped him before he'd had a chance to form an opinion about it. Peripherally, he watched Miles' shoulders drop an inch, prompting Phoenix to recognize and release the tight knot of tension in his own upper back.
The shop was intimate and inviting, washed in a low, ambient warmth that drove away the London chill. On the polished wooden floor, a few seating areas were arranged with tatami mats, woven cushions, and meticulous displays of ceramic teaware. Shelves lined the walls with vintage volumes on brewing, nestled beside ornate teapots and lacquered boxes. Behind a low counter stood rows of glass jars filled with dried botanicals, catching the light in shades of pale gold, rich amber, and deep moss green.
Shrugging off his black overcoat, Miles hung it cleanly on a wooden peg. Phoenix followed suit, slipping off his hoodie and placing it beside the prosecutor's.
Hovering by the entrance just a moment too long, Phoenix stole a sideways glance. In the soft light of the shop, the severe lines of Miles' face seemed to yield. He looked entirely different than he did under the harsh fluorescents of a courtroom. He was less guarded, and without the formal barrier of his cravat, he looked almost vulnerable. This was a version of Miles Edgeworth reserved exclusively for hidden spaces like this—a side the public would never know.
"Hello! Welcome, welcome. Take your place," Darjeel announced warmly as the pair navigated toward a secluded spot at the back of the room. "This evening, our more seasoned members will be leading a personal guided tasting of their own selection—a chance to introduce the practice to someone new, and a sensory journey to see it through. By the end of the night, we hope you'll leave with a new appreciation and perhaps a favorite brew."
They settled at a low table on the woven cushions, facing each other in an arrangement that felt far more deliberate and intimate than either had anticipated. Resting between them was a wooden tea chapan surrounded by a delicate assortment of ceramics, each piece positioned with precision. Small dishes cradled pinches of dried leaves—some tightly rolled into small pearls, others more loose and fragrant—all purposely chosen.
Phoenix tilted his head as he met Miles' form. With his sleeves rolled back to his elbows and the perpetual crease smoothed from his brow, he looked remarkably at ease. The sight struck Phoenix as surprising. Wasn't Miles someone who typically preferred solitude?
Miles lifted the steaming cast-iron kettle and poured a thin, steady stream of hot water over a small dish of curled tea leaves. He watched intently as the heat coaxed the leaves open in a graceful unfurl, then tipped the initial rinse away into the chapan. They lingered in a comfortable stretch of silence while he finalized his preparations. After a moment, Miles slid a fresh cup across the wooden slats toward Phoenix, offering an expectant nod.
"I have selected a flight of three teas for you this evening," Miles began. "I chose them with the idea of balance in mind—the concept of Yin and Yang. The first one I'm preparing is Tieguanyin, also known as Iron Buddha. It is named after the goddess of compassion, Guanyin, who is said to watch over those in need. In many traditions, this tea is regarded as more than just a beverage; it carries with it stories of kindness, gratitude, and redemption."
He paused, adjusting the angle of his cup. "While it is considered a Yin tea—neutral in nature—I selected this particular one for its exceptionally warming aroma and surprisingly layered flavor. I'd like you to consider this blend carefully."
Phoenix lifted the ceramic cup, inspecting the pale amber liquid. He took a cautious sip, letting the warmth bloom across his tongue before lowering it back to the table. Across from him, Miles raised an eyebrow, silently demanding an evaluation.
"So… your verdict?" Miles prompted.
"I mean…" Phoenix pursed his lips, mimicking a dramatic culinary critique before flashing a broad grin. "It's definitely warming. After all, the tea is served hot."
Miles' eyes narrowed into a glower. Phoenix couldn't suppress an amused chuckle.
"Please refrain from turning this into one of your jokes, Wright," Miles said, crossing his arms with clear disapproval.
"It's tea, Edgeworth. It tastes like tea."
"You are aggressively uncultured," Miles huffed.
"I did try to warn you before we entered," Phoenix reminded him with a shrug.
Miles fixed him with a piercing stare, saying nothing.
"Fine, fine," Phoenix relented with a dramatic sigh. "This one's…kind of alright, I guess. But honestly, most tea just tastes like dirt-water to me."
Miles uncrossed his arms, "That is because you have never bothered to brew yourself a proper cup, Wright." He took a long, contemplative drink of his own.
"A proper cup?" Phoenix repeated, raising an eyebrow. "It's literally just leaves and hot water."
"If you would allocate even a fraction of your attention to the process," Miles countered smoothly, undeterred by the interruption, "you would understand that water temperature dictates the entire outcome. Bringing it to a violent boil scalds the leaves rather than coaxing out their subtleties. The resulting brew is every bit as harsh and bitter as one might expect." Phoenix opened his mouth to object, but Miles pressed on, "I have had the distinct misfortune of experiencing your version of hospitality on more than one occasion, and I use the word 'tea' with charity."
Phoenix rolled his eyes, a playful, deliberate gesture designed to provoke a reaction. Recognizing the bait, Miles declined to take it, turning his focus back to the kettle to empty and refill their cups.
"This," Miles said, lifting a small clay pitcher and pouring in a slow arc, "is a well-aged Yunnan Old Tree Pu'er. The depth of color comes from years of careful fermentation and stored for decades, allowing the flavors to compound and transform in ways a younger leaf could never achieve. The trees themselves are often ancient, growing in old-growth forests in Yunnan province, where they predate many of the institutions we consider timeless. There is living history in every cup."
Phoenix peered over the rim, driven more by curiosity than compliance, and brought the vessel close. A grounding scent rose to meet him. He had to admit—with some internal reluctance—that it was impressive.
"Now," Miles adjusted his posture, settling back slightly, "I must ask you to resist the impulse to simply gulp it down. A Pu'er carries an entire spectrum in its nose, and I personally selected this one for its complexity." His glasses slipped a little way down the bridge of his nose, and he nudged them back into place with a knuckle. "Take your time. I'll guide you through it."
Phoenix shot him a skeptical look, catching the twitch in Miles' shoulders and the subtle clearing of his throat. He reached for the warm porcelain anyway.
"I understand the art of tea is still new to you," Miles continued, his baritone voice narrating overhead. "First and foremost, observe the color first, then the aroma."
Phoenix looked down into the cup. The liquid was a vivid crimson—a shade that matched the bold burgundy of Edgeworth's signature courtroom suit perfectly. He had spent years staring at that exact color across a courtroom, watching it move confidently while his own defense badge glinted under the gallery lights. Now, his own suit was likely buried in the back of a closet, collecting dust, and he doubted it would even fit him anymore. A sudden wave of resentment flickered through him. He sorely missed that life—the fierce back-and-forth, the adrenaline, the absolute sense of purpose—more than he would ever dare admit aloud. Especially not here. Not in front of Miles.
"Next," Miles proceeded smoothly, "take a small sip. Allow the liquid to linger on your tongue for a moment. Note the physical mouthfeel as it touches every part of your palate."
Phoenix's ears immediately tinged pink. Hearing Miles speak so clinically yet uncharacteristically about tongues and touches sent a jolt through him. He chose to swallow down a snarky retort alongside the hot tea, though the liquid did nothing to cool the sudden heat crawling up the back of his neck.
"Is it satisfying? Does it leave you wanting more?" Miles pressed on, entirely oblivious to the provocative direction his lecture had taken. "The trailing notes should be exceptionally deep and pleasurable."
Phoenix sputtered, coughing into his fist. "You're making it really difficult for me to comment, you know." He set the cup down a little harder than necessary.
Miles regarded him over the top of his frames, a single brow arched in confusion. "Why on earth would that be?"
"Never mind," Phoenix replied quickly. He forced a lopsided grin and lifted the cup for another sip, silently thanking his years of poker practice for keeping his expression locked down.
Miles studied him for a long moment, that habitual interrogative stare sharpening. Don't you dare turn this into one of your jokes again, Wright.
Phoenix dropped his eyes back to the cup, trying to look casual as he watched the dark liquid swirl. The bitter aftertaste clung to his tongue—a cruel prompt of everything that had gone sour in his life.
"Anything coming to mind for you, Wright?" Miles encouraged again, as if he could sense the shift in Phoenix's mood.
Phoenix kept his gaze anchored to the cup. The questions no longer felt restricted to just the tea. Edgeworth's stare bore into him with the same unrelenting intensity he used to wield across the courtroom aisle—challenging, daring him to say what he was really thinking.
For a fleeting, uncomfortable second, Phoenix considered whether Miles had chosen this tea tasting with more calculation than he let on, or if he had any idea how deeply his careful questions were digging beneath the surface, threatening to unravel the walls Phoenix had built around the parts of himself he no longer wanted exposed.
"Bitter," Phoenix said at last, his voice dropping an octave as a shadow crossed his features. He didn't dare elaborate on how closely the word mirrored the friction in his chest. But he knew Edgeworth would never accept such a clipped defense. Phoenix's eyes flicked up, taking in the prosecutor—the rich red cashmere sweater that mirrored the deep hue of the Pu'er, its sleeves rolled neatly to the elbows in stark contrast to his own rumpled attire. Then, his gaze dropped back down.
"And... rich, I guess," he added with a half-hearted shrug. "It's got an aftertaste that sticks around longer than you'd expect…even after you've tried to move on from it."
After a searching look, Edgeworth let out a sigh, releasing his posture to sink back into his seat. "I see."
"Can we just… move on to the next tea?" Phoenix muttered. He averted his eyes as he smoothed down his beanie, suddenly eager for anything that might pull the conversation back onto safer ground.
"Very well," Miles said, already beginning to arrange the dried petals. "This next one is quite different in character from what we tried before. I'd prefer you to experience it without preconceptions, so for now, observe."
Phoenix didn't fight him; the energy to argue had drained completely. Instead, he clung to the hope that whatever came next would be easier to swallow. He watched as Miles poured another steady stream of hot water over the petals, this time into clear teacups. Immediately, the liquid transformed. The color bloomed from a faint, bruised violet into a deep, saturated blue—so clear it looked more like an artist's pigment than something to be drunk.
Phoenix lifted the glass, letting the warmth seep into his palms. He took a slow sip and held it on his tongue exactly as Miles had instructed, waiting for the flavor to break. Nothing came. Or, at least, almost nothing. Just a ghost of a faint green note at the periphery, vaguely botanical, followed by a total absence. It tasted like the mere suggestion of flavor without any actual substance. The sheer honesty of that emptiness felt unexpectedly confronting.
He lowered the cup. "It's—" he started, then choked the word back, because the first description that rose to his mind was one he refused to say aloud.
"Bland," Miles supplied, his tone neutral as he gauged Phoenix's reaction.
"I wasn't going to say bland."
"You were going to say bland."
"There's nothing there," he amended. "It looks like it should taste like something strong, and then it just… doesn't. It's all presentation."
"Yes," Miles agreed evenly. "That is accurate."
After the historical depth of the Pu'er—a tea that felt so much like Miles himself—this new blue cup felt like it had turned a blinding, uncomfortable spotlight right back onto Phoenix.
"It is known in traditional Ayurvedic medicine," Miles continued, slipping into that scholarly cadence he used whenever he could indulge in his more nerdy side. "The plant has been utilized in various historic preparations, though its precise applications remain sparse in Western literature. On its own, it completely lacks the body and structural depth required to stand alone. It is far more commonly blended, utilized to lend its vibrant color and a whisper of subtle complexity to other teas. Botanically speaking, it is Clitoria ternatea—or, as it is commonly known, butterfly pea flower tea."
Phoenix swallowed hard, the word 'butterfly' striking his chest like a blow against an unhealed wound. Dollie, or Dahlia Hawthorne. The spectral, delicate butterflies that used to flutter around her whenever she smiled. The terrifying sweetness of her face had been nothing more than an insidious façade, a beautifully constructed mask designed to conceal the rot underneath. It had taken a wrecking ball to his life, shattering his capacity to trust anyone with the most fragile parts of who he was. Looking down, the striking blue liquid in the glass lost all of its aesthetic charm. It looked like a stolen color, borrowed by something—or someone—who never deserved it.
"At least," Miles added dryly, "it has the decency not to pretend it has any real flavor, despite its medicinal nature."
Phoenix's brows snapped together, a flare of anger tightening his jaw. For a disorienting second, he wasn't in a London tea shop anymore. He was back in that courtroom nightmare with the bottle of Coldkiller X—the lethal poison Dahlia had prepared, meant for him.
"Wright."
Phoenix realized he had been staring blindly into the blue depths for too long. He wrenched his gaze away from the glass, scrambling to throw up a shield before Miles could read the storm raging behind his eyes.
"I'd like to show you something that may remind you of your daughter," Miles said gently. He reached for a small wedge of lemon on the lacquer tray, squeezing several drops into the infusion.
Phoenix watched the acid hit the surface. The liquid's blue began to bleed, shifting where the citrus juice met the tisane. A deep violet seeped through, blooming into a vivid purple that swirled lazily through the cup with a creeping quality that Phoenix found deeply disturbing. As the color settled, the image of a fellow defense attorney emerged—one who had grinned like a trusted friend while orchestrating Phoenix's downfall, planting forged evidence, and relishing the collapse of a career he had been entrusted to protect. Kristoph Gavin had worn that same shade of betrayal so elegantly.
The blue was gone in an instant, overpowered and erased as if it had never been there. It didn't take much—all it had taken was a few drops of acid, a harmless trick of pH. Phoenix hated how easily the transition happened. He hated how completely one thing could wipe out another, leaving nothing behind but an unwelcome reality. The color was gone just like that. A sobering anger bubbled up through his chest and into his throat.
"Careful, Wright. Don't burn yourself," Miles warned, noticing the way Phoenix's grip was crushing the glass.
"I'm fine, Edgeworth," Phoenix muttered, nearly hissing. "Don't patronize me."
"It is simply concern, Wright."
"Sure. Whatever you want to call it," Phoenix bristled, his fingers flexing tightly around the cup. "The coddling and the crypticism are getting annoying."
"Coddling?" Miles echoed, brow furrowing slightly.
Phoenix let out a bitter laugh. "Quit the charade, Edgeworth," he spat. "What is all this really about?"
Miles met his gaze steadily, blinking. "I'm afraid I don't understand."
The denial only stoked the fire. "And bringing up my daughter, too?" Phoenix snapped, eyes darkening. "Was that some kind of sick joke?"
Miles' expression shifted, confusion giving way to caution as he noticed several other patrons glancing their way. "Wright," he said, voice dropping lower, "keep your voice down."
"Don't you ever get tired of telling me what to do?" Phoenix bit out, the years of swallowed rage finally breaking their banks.
"Wright." Miles' gaze hardened into a pointed stare, though a thread of disquiet lingered beneath it. "Take a breath. You are acting foolishly."
Phoenix's jaw clenched so tightly it ached. "Yeah… I guess I'm a fool for thinking you had a heart under that cravat."
He stood up so abruptly that his knee slammed hard into the underside of the low table. The chapan clattered loudly against the wood, hot water sloshing violently over the slats. The gentle murmur of the tea shop died in a second. Every head in the room turned toward them. Phoenix felt the oppressive weight of those stares pressing down on his shoulders, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Everything inside him was fraying at the seams.
Unable to bear another second listening to Miles, he turned on his heel, stalked to the entrance, snatched his hoodie off the wooden peg with a jagged motion, and shoved his way out into the biting London air. He did not look back.
Miles remained rooted to his cushion, wide-eyed and throat painfully dry. The elegant little tea shop, once a familiar sanctuary, suddenly felt suffocating. He was vaguely aware of the heavy silence and the judgmental glances fixed on his table, but none of it truly permeated his shock. All he could look at was the space where Phoenix had been sitting a moment ago, the harsh echo of the clattering chapan still ringing in his ears. His lips parted, but the words failed him. The fragile bridge they had spent the entire evening constructing—the concern he had tried to offer through the tea—had just snapped clean in half.
The biting winter air slapped against Miles the moment he shoved his way through the front door. His eyes strained against the sudden darkness of the alley as his pulse roared in his ears. He hadn't even stopped to grab his overcoat. His breath condensed into white clouds as he scanned the pavement. "Wright!"
Phoenix kept marching away, his hands rammed deep into his pockets. The bright turquoise beanie was the only splash of color against the dark street.
Miles broke into a ragged run to close the distance. "Wright, wait—"
"What the fuck do you want, Edgeworth?" Phoenix spat, whirling around. His eyes were bright, transfixed in a furious glare.
Miles winced, his instinctual defenses kicking in. "I'm not here to be someone's entertainment. Lower your voice and watch your tone if you—"
"Watch my tone?" Phoenix snapped, "You're unbelievable, you know that?"
Miles stilled. The remark—intended only to protect their privacy in public—had backfired catastrophically. Phoenix stepped directly into his personal space, trembling with a volatile mix of rage and hurt. Realizing the desperate need for damage control, Miles held up a hand. "Wright, I think there has been a misunderstan—"
"Spare me the pity," he bit back.
"Listen to me," Miles attempted as he forced his mind to assemble some semblance of logic. "It's become clear that there is something you have been withholding."
"Oh, so you decided to play some twisted little game to drag it out of me?" Phoenix snarled, voice full of venom.
"Don't offend me, Wright. Unlike you, I don't need some stupid rock to tell me you've been hiding secrets."
Phoenix scoffed, a bitter sound tearing from his throat as he shouldered past Miles. "Leave me alone."
The words hit harder than the physical collision. Miles reached out, his fingers catching the rough fabric of Phoenix's shoulder. "Wright!"
"I said: Leave. Me. Alone." Phoenix didn't raise his voice—the delivery made it infinitely worse.
"You've been wanting to be alone for the past seven years," the prosecutor called after him, voice cracking under a sudden surge of emotion. "Isn't it about time you started letting someone in?!"
Phoenix halted mid-stride, knuckles white. He whipped his head back, his expression twisted. "Rich coming from you, Mr. 'Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death'. You're the one who left like a coward!"
Miles swallowed hard, the old wound flaring painfully. "That was different, Wright."
"Oh?" Phoenix's laugh was incredulous. "Really?"
Driven by a rare flash of pure impulse, Miles marched over, blocking off Phoenix's path of retreat. "Yes. It was. I was done hiding by then. This is different." He reached out, his hand snapping around Phoenix's wrist. "This is you running."
With a sharp, uncharacteristic huff, Phoenix ripped his arm away and shoved past Miles, each stride putting more distance between them and leaving no room for argument.
Miles clenched his fists at his sides. "Stop!" He could feel his heart hammering wildly in his ears. "Where are you going?!"
Phoenix didn't break his stride. "Anywhere you aren't."
The words struck colder than the London winter. Miles stood paralyzed, a sudden numbness spreading far deeper than the wind now biting through his cashmere sweater. Nothing in the world mattered except the man slipping away into the dark, and in a wave of desperation, the name tore from his throat before he could suppress it: "Phoenix!"
Phoenix wavered, his footsteps faltering for the very first time.
Miles' voice dropped, hoarse and defeated. "Please...don't leave."
A silence stretched between them, broken only by the distant hum of the city traffic and the erratic fog of their breath. Then, Phoenix's shoulders finally slumped, the fury draining out of his posture all at once like air leaving a punctured balloon.
"Heh, the great Chief Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth making a plea bargain?" Phoenix muttered. Miles didn't miss how the mocking smile died long before it reached his eyes.
"Wright—"
"I'm tired, Edgeworth," he interjected quietly. He looked smaller standing there, shivering in his thin hoodie with his beanie pulled low. "I'm so fucking tired of pretending to be the man I'm not anymore—the man everyone else expects me to be."
Miles felt his chest tighten painfully. He had never heard Phoenix sound so worn down—the man who used to charge into courtrooms with an unquenchable fire in his eyes now looked like he was barely holding his own pieces together.
"I never harbored expectations for you to be anyone but yourself," Miles said softly. "I only ever wanted the truth."
Phoenix slumped onto the curb with a sigh, head dropping into his hands as he yanked the knit cap down, covering the messy black spikes he no longer wanted anyone—least of all himself—to see. They were one of the last visible remnants of the man he used to be.
"How do you think it makes me feel…watching you from the sidelines?" Phoenix muttered into his palms.
Miles took a small step closer. "Do not underestimate what you have done with all of these cases, Wright," he said, quiet but firm. "You were never on the sidelines."
Phoenix let out a shaky laugh, shuffling uncomfortably on the cold concrete. His fingers dug into the fabric of his beanie, gripping it tightly. "I don't know why you keep trying to reach out to a deadbeat like me."
"You're not—"
"Yes, I am. Look at me." Phoenix lifted his head, his eyes thoroughly exhausted. The dim streetlights reflected off a glossy, empty stare.
This man—the one who had saved his life more times than he could count, the one who wore his heart on his sleeve even when the world had tried to rip it out, the one who would put the lives of everyone he loved above his own without hesitation—this brilliant, stubborn, wonderful man.
"Do you truly believe I would allocate my time to someone I deemed worthless? No. You look at me, Wright." Miles reached out slowly—giving Phoenix every opportunity to pull back—and lifted the beanie from his head, holding his gaze. Tonight, he wasn't about to let Phoenix do to himself what Miles had once tried to do—and he wasn't going to look away.
"You have no idea," Miles uttered softly, "just how I see you, Wright."
Phoenix stared at him for a long moment, the silence stretching again before his gaze dropped back to the pavement. "I just…I can't do this anymore," he whispered at last.
Miles knew a single misstep would shatter what was left of their tether, but he could feel the distance deepening with every second he didn't speak—and he refused to let it become irreversible. Not like this. "Wright—"
"Look… I'm sorry," Phoenix interrupted, the anger slowly draining from his expression. "Can we just—let's just pretend today didn't happen."
Miles sucked in a breath. "No. Absolutely not."
Phoenix's head snapped up. "What do you mean 'no'?"
"Today happened. I have zero interest in pretending otherwise—and I do not believe you truly wish to either. Furthermore, I am uninterested in continuing this conversation in the street." He took a hesitant step nearer. "Come back inside with me. Or, at the very least, allow me to walk with you. Please, Wright."
The corner of Phoenix's mouth tugged upward, though it fell short of a smirk. "I never thought I'd live to see the day Miles Edgeworth pleaded," he murmured, more to himself than anything. "Least of all to me," he shook his head in disbelief.
"What can I say? You've had a considerable influence on me over the years." Miles held out the beanie, resting it across his palm. "Whether you choose to take credit for it or not."
Phoenix studied Miles' outstretched hand for an unmoving moment. Then, hesitantly, he reached out and took the beanie. He let it lie limp in his palm for a second, his thumb tracing the handstitched letters—PaPa. It was a title Trucy had given him, and one he still felt like a fraud for wearing. His eyes lifted again to meet Miles'.
Miles spoke gently, careful not to crowd him. "You saw something worth saving in me once, even when I gave you every excuse to leave. At that time, I know I wasn't exactly—" he paused, clearing his throat, "—receptive. But you stayed anyway."
Phoenix's head slumped forward, shrouding his face in shadow.
"You pulled me out of my nightmares more than I can count," Miles ventured. "It's time you stopped punishing yourself for a crime you didn't commit."
"I…" Phoenix started, but the words withered and sealed themselves behind his teeth. What could he even say? He stared down at his lap as his fingers twisted into the knit fabric of his beanie.
Phoenix Wright, attorney-at-law, was gone. That was a fact, and one that never got easier to swallow. What remained, Phoenix wasn't sure. Now, he was a replacement father; a cynical card player; a nobody under a hat. The man sitting on this curb had long since stopped trying to define what was left of himself.
"You believed in me," Miles continued, his gaze pinning Phoenix to the spot. "You recognized who I was before I had the courage to see it myself.
"After I filled in for you as a defense attorney all those years ago, I told you that I would leave the rest in your capable hands. I meant those words then, and I mean them now. Regardless of your badge and legal standing, you have always been fully capable—and you will always be my equal." Miles offered a hand, "I trust you. It is time you remembered to trust yourself."
Phoenix looked up at Miles' outstretched hand, recognizing it for what it truly was. This wasn't pity. It was the same unwavering faith Phoenix had given Miles during the DL-6 trial. Miles Edgeworth—one of the most fastidious, uncompromising prosecutors—trusted him implicitly. He didn't look at the disheveled clothes, the lost badge, or the rumors and see a disgraced lawyer or a shady poker player. He saw the man who had dragged him back from the brink all those years ago. To be perceived so clearly by someone who knew his worst parts—and still chose to stand there—made it impossible for Phoenix to maintain his bitter front.
Miles took another small step closer. "Besides… While I've always known you to have a certain affinity for mess, sitting in actual dirt doesn't suit you." His hand remained between them, and along with it came a fond smile. "Come. Get up."
Phoenix tugged the knit cap back over his hair. This time, however, he didn't pull it low to hide himself as a wry chuckle escaped his throat. "Heh. Even after all this, you still can't help but bully me around?"
"You call it bullying—" With a firm grip on Phoenix's hand, Miles hoisted him to his feet. "—I call it something else."
"Oh?"
Miles' face twitched with a hint of dry humor as he tidied his sleeves. "I call it giving a damn."
A spark of mischief danced in Phoenix's eyes as his brow arched, a chortle slipping past his lips. "Well, if we're going to talk about things that don't suit people, I think I prefer you as Mr. Fancy Vocabulary. Swearing ruins the image, Chief Prosecutor."
"As I said," Miles replied, adjusting the cuffs of his sweater, though the warmth in his eyes remained, "I am a changed man. Entirely your doing, Wright."
A sly grin crossed Phoenix's face. He took a slow step forward, bumping his shoulder lightly against Miles' arm as he fell into step beside him. "Hey, Edgeworth."
"What is it?"
Phoenix tilted his head with a lopsided smirk. "Next time, I'm choosing the place. Your choice of café sucks."
A soft huff escaped Miles. "Did I say something moments ago about trusting your judgment? Clearly, I must rescind the statement."
Phoenix barked out a laugh.
"Very well," Miles conceded. He suppressed a sudden shiver from the wind, crossing his arms tightly to preserve his dignity. "You may choose the establishment. But I reserve the right to veto anything served in a plastic cup with a straw."
"Deal," Phoenix chuckled, gesturing with his chin toward the sidewalk ahead. "Now come on. It's freezing out here, and you left your coat inside after that dramatic exit of yours."
Miles rolled his eyes as they fell into step together, letting the irony slide with a subtle smirk. "Shall we?"