The last train was gone before he'd even reached the station, but he still felt the echoes of its wheezing metal fading in the void of night. His senses were dim – he'd had too much to drink before the concert, easing his nerves, and there was the predictable result. By the time his eyes had processed that he was stranded, his mind was bounding forward, dauntless. Echoes of her last song began to resonate with every inch of his body. It pulsed through him, an inviolable command. He smiled despite himself. A new dark made him twitch.

Hanging around the streets like something spectral, he revelled in that peculiar loneliness one feels only at their most free. There wouldn't be another train home until the early morning – he had the city to himself, to embrace in its totality, and enough rum-and-cokes in his system to feel fearless. The night was his. No-one in the city knew him, and he could walk its cobblestones tasting the alcoholic-emotional flavour of a living glee.

The mind was a cloud stretching at every angle, threatening to break and vanish into the dark. It contented itself in detached observation of its own body. He was studying his feet with ardent curiosity as he walked. It looked and felt so simple, walking, yet he was entranced by his perambulations. His stride was quick and steady – how did he manage it? Wasn't it remarkable that he was moving at all? It didn't matter as to where he was going; the beauty of the night-walk lay in the physicality of it. Everything was so inexplicably lovable! He was a living presence on the streets; (a moment passed - he recognised a figure turn into the footpath so as not to impede his movement) his being resounded upon earth. In the bustle of the everyday, so entangled in the movement, the happening of everyone else, it was hard to believe he was alive at all and not a golem shaped in clay, reanimated by the life-breath of another.

Was being drunk the only reason he felt so alive right now? No. Cilla's concert started it all. She inspired a new and private mirth. He remembered shame, a mixed cocktail of effeminacy and mute understanding. He hadn't worried he was weird, he knew that. He was at a crossroads in encountering women of whom, when tastes in music broached conversation, neither laughed outright at him for liking a girly pop singer, nor took his preferences as a code for homosexuality. A quizzical eyebrow was about as much as he'd get by way of social signals that he was abnormal, and that was fine. He couldn't relate to girls his age by pretending to be gay. He was painfully straight, and women could sense that about him. He made them uneasy...but those thoughts jerked away as soon as they'd began. He didn't need to worry about others. He was alone – he went to the concert alone, he'd enjoyed it alone, and now the city seemed empty, inhabited by stray bodies without distinct faces, abstracted and without judgment.

He pulled the sleeve of his anorak to the elbow. The anodyne black of the watch's digital display was too hard to read in the darkening night. Gooseflesh on his pale skin bristled. How long would he have to stay in the cold? His expenses: a concert ticket, a return train ticket, a watercress-on-rye sandwich and all the social lubricant necessary to keep the motor going. He had no money for a warm bed. Pulling the sleeve back, he crossed his arms and pictured her emergent from sunlight. A radiant girl with shining auburn locks, cheeks aglow, like rosy-fingered dawn, a hand outstretched, beckoning him closer. A gaze suggesting that he belonged. Her song overlaid the image, solidifying it. She was a waking dream.

He stumbled. Spasming. She was gone. He was alone in the alley and it was dark and it was cold, much colder than he'd realised. He was leaning against a dumpster to steady himself and the tips of his fingers slid across the surface of the lid all red and without feeling. What was he doing? Drunk and alone, shiftless, in the gutter without a plan, shivering his life away. How could he even imagine someone like her? It was an embarrassment on the name of her celebrity that a human reject could stand askew in coldest winter, picturing her radiance, as if attending her concert, seeing her perform some hours before gave him some right to contemplate the face of an angel?

Do the fleas in a dog's fur hope to be loved for what they are? Does plankton dream? He was something miniscule before the infinitesimal, dirt of the scorched earth after the end. He was defacing the object of his desire in his worship. Thinking too much of himself. He held himself inward, cheek to the alley wall, until the numbing cold began to feel almost warm again.

He dimly recalled a hotel past the street at the end of the alleyway – maybe he could sit in the reception there and warm himself for half-an-hour before he had to face the streets again. He started walking again – his feet heavy now, stumbling uncertain, awkward mounds of flesh and bone. As he staggered forward, the figure of someone coalesced from the shadowy dark. Slender, shorter than him, head bowed, arm against the wall, retching. He approached. They raised their head slowly, agonisingly to face him. Her slender body was half-caked in mud and she looked like she'd fell into a puddle. She looked sickly and her eyes were red and tearful. A stale, putrid of stench of alcohol escaped her lips. It was Cilla, she stood wavering before him like a zombie. She was in the gutter too. She was with him. She stared into him, her eyes huge, appearing like solid cyan stone. Fearful eyes. Another hallucination? No—he'd never imagined her in wildest reverie in the state she was in now. It was too real; it disorientated him. Her lips moved but she could not hear his voice. He felt his throat swell but knew not the words he spoke. And the seconds slowed weighted by a new gravity, and his eyes seemed to watch the girl before him as though they were a closed-camera somewhere above them, and away from her transfixing gaze he saw the gun in her hands.

And a force knocked him back, and his eyes fell upward. Where the world felt hazy before it roared with life now. The coldest nights had the most starry skies. That was something he knew before he'd ever directly perceived it. A fact of life, true regardless of human observation. Still, it was something he observed with a delirious, waning delight. The stars above the city seemed to mirror the thousands of lights of street-lamps and buildings. He lay on the ground, seeing it at a distance, but not without the feeling of being tangible and alive. It seemed to last a lifetime.

Monday, 4th December

9:32

Wright Anything Agency

They say you can never know how much you appreciate something until it's gone. They're probably right, but fail to mention how you can never know how much you appreciate something being gone until it is. Apollo, Athena, Trucy – none of them greeted me when I got to the office. Everything was quiet. It was like being in a warm bubble-bath, but with a suit on. I sat by the window with my morning coffee and noticed some birds building a nest on a tree nearby. Never been much for birdwatching. It was nice. Peaceful. Noiseless. Nobody jumping out from behind brandishing a whip or objecting to my acquired calm. Not boring at all, actually – I don't know why birdwatching would have that reputation. I made a mental note to buy a guidebook at the next bookshop I encountered. There were no major trials coming up this month, so maybe I could take a break, go out to the country...I'd have to take a bus, or maybe a train...was there any national parks in the area? I could treat myself to a really neat set of binoculars and camp out somewhere, just me and the birds...

Oh God. Birdwatching? Trucy's right. I'm getting old. Think I found a grey hair this morning...Old age, huh. I guess it's supposed to come pretty gracefully for a lawyer. Affords us a certain dignity, a gravitas, a... je ne sais quoi. I've been around the block, I know the score. I don't think there's a single case that could really shock me anymore. Trials should come naturally, work should be almost relaxing. Why is it that if I'm left alone for five minutes, I start to confront my own mortality?! I don't miss Apollo. I'm sure he's raising hell in Khura'in – maybe 'raising hell' is the wrong phrase. I'm sure he's doing well. Athena is still coming into her own as a lawyer, but she never lacks for tenacity. Her energy inspires everybody. She was so excited about her new case, I struggled to get coherent details. The victim was found dead on a beach with nothing on him, save for an unused bus ticket and a scrap of paper in the pocket of his trousers that said in big black letters 'HERE ENDETH'. Nobody knows where he came from, or how he died – the prosecution are pursuing a poisoning charge and going after a strange would-be 'alchemist' Athena was somehow roped into defending... She's certain that the guy is innocent, but even if she gets him off the hook, I doubt he has a red cent to pay legal fees. That's one big mistake Athena's picked up from me – not knowing how to get money for your hard work! Not that money's the most important thing in the world, it'd just be nice to go to a fancy restaurant now and then, and maybe not have to be satisfied with daydreaming about such an opulent purchase as a nice pair of binoculars...

Trucy's gone off to assist Athena. She's been struggling with magician's block for awhile; waiting for a dash of inspiration to create a new magnificent illusion. So she was seduced by the drama of Athena's new case, and ran off with her. Can't wait to talk about the frequencies of Trucy's absences from school at the next parent-teacher meeting... I guess even for something as important as education one can make sacrifices if it's for something they're really passionate about. If Trucy comes home with a great new trick, I'm happy. I'd also be happy if she stopped playing the bassoon when she comes back. Teenage girls with creative difficulties come up with such awful coping methods. I have no idea why she thought playing discordant notes on a bassoon in the early hours of the morning would provide an atmosphere for thaumaturgical discovery. To be honest, I was afraid to ask. With that racket gone, I can finally have some alone-time. Me, Phoenix Wright, successful lawyer, in his office, alone with his thoughts...

I wonder what's on TV?

Local news, a press conference. A tall, bald white man in a shocking white suit stands before a podium decked out in microphones with numerous news company logos slapped on. The image quality is oversaturated; he is grimacing at the camera, the skin around his mouth and neck loose and wrinkled. Then he raises his head, eyes unblinking at the camera in front of him, lips now turned into a cool sneer, a display of complete control.

'I have little to say to the media at this present time. Information is scarce, and to embark on speculations so soon would be damaging to both the victim and my client. She has surrendered to the authorities and is now in police custody; she will speak to no-one but her legal counsel as authorised by me while in detention – do not test the patience of myself or the authorities in attempting any form of gonzo journalism. I would make it known that the authorities are conducting an investigation of equal importance regarding the actions of the deceased as they are into my client's actions last night. We are, of course, suspending the tour immediately and aspire to work in complete co-operation with the investigation. I expect reportage of the case as it stands will restrain itself with the facts as they are made available and that there will be no crass, tawdry sensationalism on the part of anyone. A man has been killed, and regardless of my client's involvement in his death, she is as deeply troubled in his passing as any honest citizen. I will take questions. Be brief.'

A voice from behind the screen. 'Is it true that the victim attended Ms. Kay-White's concert in the hours before his death?'

'I'm awaiting confirmation on that detail.'

'How is this impacting the wider scheme of performances planned by your record company, Mr Coen?'

'I will say nothing of music in this conference – it is not my concern at this moment.'

'Do you have anything to say about rumours of Ms. Kay-White being violent towards members of staff at her hotel?'

'No.'

'My sources say she was drunk and possibly on illicit substances after the concert, perhaps even during. Do many artists on your label use illicit substances, Mr Coen?'

'I'm sure not as many as they who fill your newsroom, sir.'

Coen's comment filled the conference with a mixture of laughter and uproar. The congregated journalists began arguing amongst themselves. Coen stood imperious above them, sneering as a prince before his peons. His condescension toward the journalists egged them on. The conference ended, returning to a newscaster's response, the headline accompanying the story in bold lettering: 'POP IDOL CILLA IN CUSTODY FOR MURDER INVESTIGATION'. I turned the volume down, but kept the TV on. A popstar in suspicion for murder? That kind of story was grist for the media mill no matter how you put it. No doubt it was going to become a fixture in the news and the papers for the weeks to come.

Watching the news always made me kinda uneasy. It was something everyone was just supposed to do – watch the news, read the news, see what's happening. From my window, I could see birds building a nest in a tree, and watch people walk up and down the street, getting on with their busy lives. The sky was blue, the sun was out, the day was warm but not too hot, the wind was gentle. It was a nice, simple morning. The world didn't seem so bad. That sort of feeling doesn't last long if you turn on the TV and go online, though. War, famine, millions in poverty...People hear about so many awful things in the news that they go numb. They have to pretend to care, but not allow themselves to really care. Because what can they do about all the bad things out there? Everyone's just trying to get through the day.

I was reading a newspaper the other day about an interview with one of the country's leading forensic pathologists. Sure, I've seen some terrible things having to work as many murder trials as I've done, but this guy had been working for over 30 years, performing autopsies on thousands of bodies. He was a professional, but the horror of his work built up slowly, destroyed his mental health, and contributed to the collapse of his marriage. He kept going to work because he felt he was doing some good. If the autopsy reports in my cases weren't medically accurate, maybe innocent people could've gone to prison, so I know he was doing good, but he voiced something I'd never put to words despite feeling it gnawing away at my insides. The dead don't come back, not even with spirit channelling. They don't get a real grasp of life again, of what living is like. I like to think that over the course of my career, I've done good – more good than bad. I've helped people when no-one else would. At the end of the day, the criminal in my sights doesn't escape justice. But justice itself doesn't bring good into the world. It's a response to a crime, an effort to balance the scales. If I work to the very best of my ability, I make the world a little bit fairer, a little bit less cruel. But the dead stay dead. The justice I serve can't provide for them.

I kept one eye on the news report while I poured another cup of coffee and took one of my heavy legal tomes from my bookcase. Cynical as it is, murder's good for business. A lawyer that isn't in touch with the big and small cases of his profession isn't someone to trust. To a degree, I'd made it pretty far without truly standing on my own feet. I had Mia helping me far past the point a mentor should help anyone. Maya, Pearl, Ema, Trucy – they all stood by my side and supported me in rough times. I taught Apollo and Athena as best as I could, but I found they taught me a lot as well. They still do. Without Edgeworth, how could I be the man I am today? I should never rest on my laurels. My name might mean something in the legal world, but I didn't get where I am by my efforts alone. That's why I've started trying to expand my knowledge of legal theory. Case histories, obscure by-laws, jurisprudence...I don't intend to get caught cold in the courtroom confronting my ignorance again. A lawyer should never stop learning. The book I'm reading now is The Evolution of Prosecution to the Present Day, a weighty tome – must be fifteen-hundred pages, in small print – by someone named G.A. Carver. I wonder if, in my twilight years, I might sit down and write some legal memoirs about my long career. If I did so, would my author name be 'Phoenix Wright'? Or should I go for something more formal like 'P.S. Wright', or 'P.P. Wright.' I guess the extra initial would be for my middle name. What's my middle name again? Did Mom and Dad even give me one?

My concentrated efforts to recall my own name were interrupted by the phone ringing.

'Hello, this is Wright Anything Agency.'

'Hello, this is Babel Records. Our company is interested in soliciting the services of Mr. Phoenix Wright for an upcoming trial. If Mr Wright is in the office may I be able to speak with him?'

'No problem; you are. I'm Phoenix Wright. To whom am I speaking?'

'Oh, M-Mr Wright... you answer your own phone. I'm Friday, the assistant of Mr. Coen, the owner and president of Babel Records. I don't suppose you've heard of us?'

'I hadn't, but I just turned on the news, so—'

'Yes, we were afraid you might've seen something in the media before we had the chance to talk to you in person. Mr. Coen would be very interested in meeting you – you're available to meet him, I trust?'

'That might be possible, I'm actually quite busy with various forms of legal work at the moment, so—'

'We're certain you're a busy man, but with your attorneys Apollo Justice and Athena Cykes away from the office at present, we're sure your firm is not so inured in work you cannot hear out Mr. Coen's proposition. You will of course, be billed for your time regardless of whether or not you choose to represent us following the meeting. We'll pay any fee.'

'In... that case...What time works for Mr. Coen?'

And just like that, I was out of the office and heading to the city's financial district and the offices of Babel Records. A guy's gotta earn his bread somehow. G.A. Carver can wait another day.