A lone figure sat in his cell. No longer did he have the comfort of his ridiculously expensive custom chair, nor his various books he had learned to treasure, nor did he have his collection that he dearly loved. Instead, all that kept him company in the cement cell was a dirty prison cot and a cesspool of a toilet in the corner. Before, his indignation at this kind of treatment would have been a tranquil fury that could cause even the most hard boiled of cell wardens to buckle in upon themselves. No more.
He sat there a broken man, stripped of every dignity. Stripped of his rank as a Defense Attorney; the Bar association had looked down upon murder, but the revelation of his forgery and framing of Phoenix Wright had been all the excuse they needed to unanimously strip of him of his license. Not that he needed it; his right to freedom, from which he could practice law, had long disappeared.
Stripped of his dignity, his purpose. 'The law no longer needed him', as it had been pointed out. He had been replaced; replaced by the common swine. The –jury-; a board of fools unbound by the regulations that kept the regular moronic judges in line. His hair, bound in a need and orderly lock always, had been dishriveled along with the rest of his appearance. What was the point? He was washed up, useless… devoid of use.
Stripped of his honor. His brother had deserted him, disowned him; he had figured as much. He had used Klavier as much as he had used Phoenix Wright, as much as he had used the Mishams. His brother had always looked up to him, he knew so. Klavier's passion had always been music; he knew that he wouldn't have even considered law if his brother hadn't gone before him. And yet, as soon as his brother had learned of his passion, he had jumped right in there, to be beside him. Klavier had became a Prosecutor solely so that he might, one day, fight in the same case as Kristoph. Little did he know that, one day, he would have to persecute that same brother.
He was on death row now. Before, when he had been convicted of the murder of Shadi Smith, he had been able to avoid such a fate due to his long range of contacts in the prison and legal system. Not anymore; to some in the Bar association, forgery was a more heinous crime than murder. With two counts of premeditated murder, one count of forgery in a court of law, and a personal lawsuit from Phoenix Wright himself for the slander and damage against his name that was being resolved without his presence, due to his assets being seized. Wright… how he hated him. Even now, the disgraced attorney laughed at him… despite the hell he had put the man through, he still saw nothing but friendliness and humor in his eyes. Maybe even… pity. That was why he hated Phoenix. He was no attorney. The man was incapable of hate, one of the few emotions Kristoph understood. He destroyed the man's reputation, his life work, sent his life spiraling into ruin… and still, he pressed a lawsuit not for personal gain or revenge, (indeed, the man knew he had already won. There was no way to worsen the wound) but so that he would be able to properly take care of his 'daughter'.
Kristoph felt like crying. It was all so… unfair. He deserved it, he deserved so much… and instead he lost everything… But, he wouldn't. There was one thing left that the defense attorney had remaining. He had his self respect. He would leave with that simple dignity; Kristoph Gavin would not cry.
He heard a sip. His head spun; he was in solitary. The guards almost never came by. And yet that sound felt like it came from within the cell. He lashed out, growling. His control over his emotions was long gone; the Calmest Defense in the West was no more, leaving bare an injured animal. A snarling beast, lashing towards everything that it disliked, trying to salvage any little bit of revenge it possibly could.
And yet, he saw nothing. Absolutely nothing, and yet at the same time he felt a… presence.
He sniffed. And on the air, the vaguest wiff of… bitterness. Dark bitterness, like the spiral of his life. The scent spoke to him; he had never noticed it before. It smelled like the deepest, darkest coffee… something to warm the heart, after losing everything.
"The only time a lawyer can cry is… when it's all over."
He heard a soft voice whisper on the breeze. And with that, his last guards broke down. He felt something snap within him; he fell into a fetal position.
And, for the first time in over thirty years, Kristoph Gavin cried.
He felt the presence turn, and leave. He hardly cared. Kristoph Gavin was no more; that man was dead. Dead his own hand.
The presence moved away from the cell, and paused thoughtfully, before lifting an invisible mug to its equally nonexistent mouth. It took a sip, and paused thoughtfully.
"The smallest things have the largest effects…" he thought idly to himself. How a small stamp had altered the destinies of two desperate forgers, how a small lump of metal had changed the destinies of a troupe of miracle workers, and how a small piece of metal pinned to the front of a suit changed the life of one solitary man.
He glanced down at his coffee, inhaling its melancholy scent.
Perhaps the fragrance of black coffee, in its own way, changed the destinies of more than one man.