A thin layer of tobacco smoke settled around the evening bar, rendering the pale bartender pallid. A jumbled rendition of 20's ragtime drifted in from the corner, where a man sat. He jammed his fingers into the worn ivory keys, sharp motions- but never quite hitting the right notes. The rhythm was there, Edgeworth noticed, but not the pitches.

He sauntered over to the self-proclaimed musician, light on his feet and nursing a short glass of wine. The ice clinked around as he approached- Edgeworth's first mistake. The pianist burst out a makeshift ending to a much longer song and spun around in his seat, angling his head upwards.

"Deal is, I don't exactly work here." He snubbed out the cigarette which was otherwise balanced between his lips. "If you need something, you're gonna have to ask a barmaid."

Edgeworth settled into a smirk, downing the rest of his scarlet Cabernet. "Deal is," he begun, mocking the pianist's tone, "it's not help that I'm interested in."

"Listen bub, if you're here to start a fight, I don't have time. I'm barely making a solid living- it's a job. I'm not great, but they hired me anyway." He said, catching a quick glance at the man's 16-petalled sunflower in his lapel. The musician moved to turn in his seat, before a hand on his shoulder caught him off guard.

"My name is Miles Edgeworth, I am a prosecutor."

Not much of a surprise, the pianist thought, I would recognize that badge anywhere.

"Were you working the night of the murder?" Edgeworth asked, cutting into the man's thoughts.

This caught him off guard. A few patrons were cheering on the absence of butchered music, but Edgeworth silenced them with a sharp glare.

"I'm Phoenix Wright. That was the night of Thursday, right? Lots of murders happen around here. Yeah, I was working. What, you think I did it? I swear.."

Edgeworth cut him off quickly, knowing where this line of thinking could lead.

"I'm not accusing you of anything. I was wondering if you would be willing to stand trial as a witness, and tell me what you know. It wasn't just your average murder, Mr. Wright. Would you be available at my office, tonight at 9? A crowded bar isn't exactly the place to discuss a crime."

Phoenix pondered for a moment, temporarily excited at being involved in "not your average murder".

"Well, I get off shift at 8. I should be there in time, yeah." Edgeworth nodded- a silent confirmation- and handed him a cream business card. Then, turning on his heel, approached the bar and paid for his drink. He left the bar, elegantly roll-stepping down the long sidewalk.

Phoenix turned back to his piano, playing worse than before. He was lost in thought, considering many things. Firstly- and not most importantly- the devilishly handsome prosecutor. Sure, he was thinking of many things while talking to the man, and that caused him to be distracted. However, no one could miss that strong jaw, sharp grey eyes, and graceful stature. But that didn't matter.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the card – slightly bent from being hastily jammed – and propped it on the piano. Phoenix noticed immediately that it was hand-printed, elegant cursive. In a deep, blood-red ink, the prosecutor had written an address and phone number. He smirked to himself, starting up a new song.

Plenty of murders occurred around the bar, often late in the week. This one had been seen through his own two eyes. A stab in the lower back, a running woman, a missing knife, and a corpse. It was all standard- he rarely got involved, if at all. However, the prosecutor had told him it was something out of the ordinary. Phoenix didn't read the news, even if it meant admitting that he was less-than-proficient at reading.

A sharp slap on the back caught him out of his stupor, initiated by the bartender. Indeed, it was already 8 o'clock and Phoenix was excused for the night. He gave a wave to the man, shaking his tip jar violently. He was positive that no one had tipped him that night, but it was mostly for good luck. Initially unbeknownst to him, however, a crisp ten fell out of the jar. His eyes bulged, used to seeing dimes fall out of the jar – and considered it more than generous.

Phoenix held back a smile as he slipped the bill in his pocket. That was enough for a week's worth of meals, and maybe more! In an increasingly good mood, he held up his arm to hail a cab, feeling for the card in his pocket. A pale yellow one pulled to the curb, and he slid into the back seat. The cab smelled of tobacco and musk, not much of a contrast to the bar. He cleared his throat, reading off the address on the paper.

The cab arrived quickly, and Phoenix briefly pondered if he could have just walked. With a nonchalant shrug, he handed the driver some change for the fees, and strode into the building. It was quite extravagant, with high ceilings and varnished mahogany desks. Spider plants were nestled into the corners, plush red seats surrounding waiting tables. In the middle of the lobby, a secretary sat behind tall glass paneling.

He stepped up to the booth, feeling inferior in his wrinkled dress shirt and slacks – the standard bar uniform. A secretary sat behind the desk, rich cream hair pinned back with pearls. A tall black shirt was buttoned up to the middle of her neck. The woman behind the desk barely spared him a glance, asking who he was there for in a bored, monotonous voice.

"Uh yeah, hi. I'm here to talk to Prosecutor Edgeworth."

She sighed, taking a long drag from her thin cigarette. The smoke gathered at the top of the panels.

"Room 1202, 12th floor." The secretary stepped up to the wall, scanning a long row of silver buttons, before pressing the right buzzer.

"He's been paged. You can go, elevator is on the left." She returned to her thick novel, dismissing him.

Phoenix looked questioningly at the woman behind the desk, pressing the up arrow on the wall. The elevator opened with a quiet buzz, allowing him to step in. He pressed the button for the 12th floor- they went up to 30. How many prosecutors did the city need? Some generic elevator music flooded the chamber, likely used to drown out unneeded conversation. It clicked into place, allowing Phoenix to leave and walk down the hall.

He hesitated before the office door, straightening out his gelled hair and brushing lint off of his shirt. With a sharp knock, the door almost immediately opened. Edgeworth held the door open, standing at a distance and ushering Phoenix inside. A table was set with an ashtray and teapot, as though the man had expected him to come in smoking. (He certainly would have, if he wasn't trying to impress.)

He sat awkwardly on the couch, back slumped a bit. The prosecutor held back his coattails, seating himself in a magenta wingback chair with a straight posture.

"Hello, Mr. Wright. Thank you for coming in. However, it's only 8:30. Were you that eager to see me again?" he asked, filling a cup with dark tea from the pot.

Phoenix flushed slightly, just realizing that he never bothered to check the time.

"I uh… don't have a watch. I thought it would take longer to get to your office, and I didn't want to stall in the lobby, so…" he scratched the back of his neck, terrified that he could lose his cool after just one remark. The pianist wondered how he'd be able to get through the meeting without being waterlogged by nervous sweat.

"Ah, it's no matter. The important thing is, you got here at all. Now why don't I ask you a few questions about the murder, first?" he took a sip from his tea, and Phoenix nodded – scared to even open his mouth.

"Alright. First of all, we know the simple things from the bartender. Seated in your bench, I would imagine you could have experienced it first-hand, correct? Can you please describe what the victim and murderer looked like?"

"Sure, yeah. The murderer… strange person, you know? Trenchcoat. A female, considerably shorter than the victim. Probably a kid, but what would they want with a guy like that? The victim – he was a real tall guy, broad shoulders. He had glasses- they fell off when he was stabbed. Shattered, if I remember. That's about all I know- it was dark out. Everyone was in a panic." He replied, nearly out of breath from his reply.

"Thank you. Now, the bartender informed me that the victim was in the bar earlier that night. He said he was busy, serving a wealthy patron. I was also informed that you were on your break when the murder occurred. Did you see him?"

Phoenix nodded affirmatively.

"Yeah, I saw him all right. A really strange guy – I kept an eye on him. I like to watch people. Not in that illegal sorta sense, but people are interesting, you know? Anyway, he was sittin' alone in the corner. Plenty of glasses around him, I was thinking about the bill. Probably a rich guy too, his suit was crisp, I could tell that it was just ironed. Almost like he was waiting for someone, you know? A date, probably. He ordered one glass at the beginning of the night but just kept getting more. Probably left him in the dust, that girl. The man looked upset, he flinched when people walked past him." Phoenix took a break from speaking, clearing his throat and pouring a cup of tea for himself.

"Anyway, I could tell right away that he wasn't just checking to see if it was his girl or not. It was the cautious kind of flinch, the kind when you're anticipating something bad? An' he only did it when a woman walked past- only short women. I put it together real quick. He was anticipating something, almost like he didn't want her to show up? Anyway, once he got up, I went back to my piano, and didn't really pay the guy much mind. He left, pretty drunk, as far as I could tell. And when he left…"

The prosecutor cut him off quickly, clearly not anticipating that much information out of the scruffy man. There was something, a glint in his eye, when he was pouring out that information. Edgeworth had an idea.

"That's quite enough. I must say, I'm enthralled with your reasoning skills. You've given me more information than I was expecting, good solid information. You made lots of conclusions that I believe to be correct. I only left a 30 minute bracket in my schedule for this meeting, so I must dismiss you."

Phoenix grinned nervously, giving a quick "you're welcome" and headed to the door.

"However!" Edgeworth began, starting towards the door. "I was wondering if you would like a job in the office, as my assistant. I've got a detective, but he's not too reliable. You have a very keen eye for details, and I think you would be a valuable asset to the office. I would also guarantee a much better pay than you receive at that bar."

Phoenix swallowed deeply, trying to mask his excitement.

"I… yes! Of course! Thank you! I can't stand that job, you know… I'm terrible at piano. No one else would hire me, I don't exactly have that many skills…"

The prosecutor cut him off, holding up a hand.

"You'll start tomorrow, if that's alright? This investigation is going to take quite a while, and I can disclose the specifics once you're officially associated with the office." He allowed a small, forced smile- and nearly lost his composure when Phoenix's eyes lit up.

The man agreed readily, looking ready to burst with joy. He held out his hand for the prosecutor to shake, and he took it firmly, ushering the man out of the office without much of a rush.

Returning to his office, Edgeworth adjusted his silk cravat, and sat before a stack of papers. The crime wasn't a simple one, and he would need all the help he could get.