In a smoky atmosphere with smooth jazz murmuring in the background, everyone has a story to tell.

The last breath of smoke left his lungs and he stubbed the cigarette out into the glass ashtray, disturbing the small mountain of ash with a satisfying, yet gentle crunch. A few wisps of gray curled upwards in a milky dance and he leaned back, straining against the folds of his tuxedo. He had chosen a silken blue shirt to accompany the matte black material of the suit, hoping that it would make his eyes "pop", as Maya might say. It was open at the collar, revealing a broad chest and a small silver cross necklace.

In truth, he was nervous. Very, very nervous.

But it was his story to tell, now.

A casual move rubbed the sweat from his palms onto the pressed tablecloth. The table was set elegantly with a single rose between him and an empty chair, plates and extensive silverware decorating the surface. He felt out of place and couldn't afford it anyway, but he felt it was appropriate, given the situation. Besides, wasn't the old cliché that things were worth doing right if they were worth doing at all? He hoped it wasn't too extravagant. This was why he never picked the date plans.

As a beautiful young woman took the stage in sequins and blonde hair, he narrowed his eyes and began to prepare a speech within his mind. What would he say? It was certainly an awkward situation, starting over. Putting the past behind oneself and kicking things off in a new direction was not easy in anyone's shoes, and, given their past, his own least of all. He was willing to try, though.

Both of them were.

The first few notes of sad, gentle blues rang out through the microphone when a dashing young man walked through the doors. He was dressed in navy velour with a shimmery cravat, hair combed precisely and face carefully guarded. His feet glided across the floor and his eyes searched; he was an awfully beautiful predator. The mournful song serenaded his journey across the floor, setting an ironic scene. The man reminded him of power, of a rippling, purring panther moving through the jungle of elegance. A sad backdrop seemed both inappropriate and fitting at the same time, given their tales to tell.

His feet shifted uncomfortably as he stood, allowing the other man to take note of his location and move in for the kill. Bullets of sweat broke out across the back of his neck, dampening his shirt, and as he was approached he was terrified. All he saw were gray eyes; all he smelled was expensive cologne. His heart thundered within his chest but he tried to look relaxed, calling on long-forgotten bluffs to supply him with confidence.

One alabaster hand was held out to him when the man arrived.

"I believe you are the man I'm looking for, correct?" A small grin danced dangerously along the curve of his lips, looking so alien on a face that had, up to that point, only been bathed in mystery. "My name is Miles Edgeworth; I am a prosecuter."

His fingers slid comfortably against the other man's palm, and in a moment of triumph, he realized that he was not the only one with clammy hands. Instead of applying a firm shake, however, he gathered the offer delicately and placed a feather-light kiss on flawless knuckles. The skin was chilled and refreshing against his lips, and he glanced up, catching the surprised gaze of his beloved predator.

"It's nice to meet you, Miles. You can call me Phoenix."