The prosecutor's office was quiet now. This time of night was the only time it would be quiet after the scuffle with the Lana Skye case. Edgeworth figures he's the only person there, and if anyone asked he was doing paperwork. Nobody would question the Demon Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth meticulously working.
But then again, if they saw him with the knife, perhaps they'd think something different.
Miles had been to only one funeral in his life, and he'd cried too much to really remember it, but he knew the idea that you were only worth as much as what people said at your funeral well enough. And now here he was, knife in his hand, thinking about what people would say at his funeral.
He hadn't wanted to use a gun-guns held too many memories. Knives were a little slower but they'd get the job done. He made sure to rub his fingers all over it so nobody thought it was a murder. Miles sure as hell didn't want Phoenix's job to be any harder.
Who would think of him at his funeral? Who would say they had loved him and admired him? He was only Miles Edgeworth. A few lawyers had spoken at his father's funeral and said he was an inspiration, but Miles Edgeworth was not an inspiration. Miles Edgeworth was a monster. Miles Edgeworth's mind was black and his heart was empty.
Franziska would speak, he knew that. She would be stiff and her makeup would be impeccable, she'd wear that black coat with the mink fur and her black gloves. She wouldn't smile but there would be a particular sadness on her face. She would perhaps say her brother was very important to her, her German accent making her speech difficult to understand. But her expression would say enough.
Gumshoe would be there. Maybe that fool would cry for him, but Miles didn't know what Gumshoe would admire him for. He was sure Gumshoe cried at television programs, not shedding a cheer for his superior would be out of the question. Would Gumshoe say a few words at his grave as well? Would he speak in that silly vernacular of his, addressing the crowd clad in black as "pal" and putting on his silly smile despite the tears in his eyes?
Larry Butz would cry, too. He wouldn't speak. Larry didn't know how to give serious speeches-he'd gotten an F on every project he'd had to speak in class for. But Larry would stand there, in a tattered black t-shirt and black shorts for lack of a formal outfit, and listen. And for once in his life, maybe Larry Butz would not have any joke to make and would go home heavy-hearted.
Phoenix Wright.
Phoenix Wright would stand over his grave with his voice cracking and his knuckles white and would scarcely be able to speak for fear of crying.
And he'd say that although many thought Miles was not a good man, Miles was the most important person in the world to him and Miles was the one who had inspired him and he had had hope for him, but now he was here speaking at his funeral so maybe he'd have to give up law because Ms. Fey and now Prosecutor Edgeworth had suffered because of his career, and he'd stop there and just cry and leave early and go back to art school in the next couple of months.
Miles' hands shook on the knife.
He thought of the press, of the cameras and how he'd yelled at them to just leave, just leave him alone! He thought of the detention center camera's photo that had ended up on the cover of the local newspaper. "Demon Prosecutor Brought to His Knees."
He heard an unlocking sound down the hall and began to sweat. He just wanted it all to end. The world was crashing down around him and he didn't know how to make it stop. The nightmare of the elevator and the gun and the scream was gone now, replaced with a nightmare of Von Karma's sneer and voice coated with false kindness telling him that perhaps he would make a Von Karma after all.
His grip tightened around the knife that glinted in the tacky light of his desk lamp.
Phoenix Wright sitting at the detention center for hours, saying he'd listen to whatever he said and not judge him and he just wanted to know the truth, the truth, the truth.
Dick Gumshoe firmly telling him he was over-exerting himself, he should go home every once in awhile and not work so late and maybe drink some coffee or take breaks.
Franziska calling him after the Hammond trial, and letting him be the only one who was allowed to hear her voice crack when she talked about Papa.
Miles held the knife to his chest, not applying pressure, just holding it there. Then he dropped it. The clattering noise it made him jump back slightly.
He picked up his legal pad and a red Sharpie. In the bright red, he wrote in his best script:
"Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death."
And when he returned to his apartment he packed his bags for Europe and was on the next plane before the sun came up that day.