((AN: My apologies for the wait, everyone. A bunch of shit happened and uprooted my life, but things have calmed down and I started playing the trilogy re-release. So, finally in the mood to write again and I'm back to at least get this one finished up.))

Embrace the Night - Chapter 6

His mind felt as foggy as the bathroom mirror before which he stood, towel around his waist, hair wet and disheveled.

With slow movements, the prosecutor took the hand towel from the ring where it hung and wiped off the reflective glass, immediately regretting his decision to do so. He stood there, staring at his own image: he was too pale and had lost at least fifteen pounds in the past two weeks. He almost always had dark circles beneath his eyes, but they were much heavier than usual, giving his normally sharp grays a hallow look.

Funny… He was starting to look as much a corpse as his captor.

For what had to be the hundredth time since he'd entered the bathroom to shower, Miles glanced toward the door: it was still closed and locked. As hazy and disconnected as he felt, he still had just enough awareness to be paranoid. With trembling fingers that seemed to have lost all their dexterity, he picked up the first article of clothing and released his grip on the towel, simply letting it fall to the tiles below.

The door was still closed and locked.

He drew on the undergarments, then the black socks, every word of his conversation with Phoenix earlier that night playing on random in his head. He'd tried to sleep, but he had failed and just stumbled out of bed to get a shower in while he was alone and unchained. He was so trapped in his mind and the fierce and confusing debate raging within that the world around him was mostly a dull and numb haze. It was a familiar feeling, and he hated it.

The door was still closed and locked.

Miles picked up the dark gray dress pants and mechanically pulled them on, feeling at least a tiny measure of relief with each article he donned, even if it really wouldn't save him should the beast return. He slid the black leather belt around his waist and clasped it, requiring the accessory thanks to his rapid weight loss.

The door was still closed and locked.

Next was a black button-down with long sleeves, and he was certain it took him at least a full minute to do up all the buttons, barely paying attention to what he was doing. Surely, after all he'd said, Phoenix wouldn't barge in on him like that again… wouldn't do that to him again… No, there was no way to be certain about that, because – whatever Phoenix's intentions were – he had a vicious, savage side to him that he could scarcely control.

The door was still closed and locked.

At last came the jacket, the same dark gray as the trousers. It was far too hot and humid in the bathroom for this garb, but he didn't really notice. It was an automatic process for him to smooth out all the wrinkles in the jacket and ensure the collar lay flat and even, and then he just stood there, staring once again.

The door was still closed and locked, and he supposed that – if it opened now – he would at least be decent. His hair was still a mess, but he honestly didn't feel like sorting it out. Normally, he wished to look his best no matter how stressed out or depressed he felt; it was his outward appearance that was important to others after all. However, in this place, it didn't matter in the slightest. He looked dreadful, and taking time to style his hair wasn't going to fix that.

It was at this thought that Miles realized the true extent of the damage. The last time he'd been this apathetic and hopeless was the weeks following his suicide note and subsequent disappearance. He'd spent days locked in a hotel room, hiding from the world and neglecting the image he portrayed for it, contemplating carrying out the action which his note had implied. He had come out of that slump, of course, but his prison back then had been figurative, created by years of misguidance and crushing guilt.

This prison was real, and he feared it would be what finally broke him.

As he picked up a razor and shaving cream – figuring he should at least care enough to keep up this much maintenance – he wondered if he would be fairing better if this place had been a proper prison. If nothing else, he would know how he should be feeling in a proper prison: fear, anger, hatred, misery, and loss. He wouldn't have to contend with this confusion, this uncertainty. Miles Edgeworth hated being uncertain, loathed any lack of understanding on his part. If he could not even sort out his own emotions, how could he ever hope to find truth in the rest of the world?

Although, he supposed he didn't have to worry about that right now: the rest of the world was off-limits to him, so all he had was himself and his own situation. That thought wasn't exactly a comfort, however, and it caused him to think about what chaos his disappearance must be causing. This time around, they had no note; they had his abandoned car with the driver-side door left open, parked on a deserted back road, and his torn, discarded clothing lying in the woods.

Unless, of course, Phoenix had cleaned up after himself; he hadn't felt the need to ask.

Miles set the razor back down on the sink and looked down, noting absently that the front of his shirt was now wet. He should have shaven before putting the shirt on, but he'd been far too preoccupied with covering himself as quickly as possible. Besides, he didn't really care: it was water. It would dry.

At last, with a deep breath to brace himself for something – or someone - that could be waiting right outside, Miles unlocked and opened the bathroom door. Only the empty library was there to greet him, but he didn't feel relief as he stepped over the threshold into the much cooler, drier atmosphere.

It was as he moved farther into the room that voices drifted to him, faint and unintelligible through the heavy study door. He froze mid-stride, and the haze lifted, allowing the full weight of apprehension to nestle deep in his chest. He strained his ears, listening to discern if he knew the voices, even if he could not make out the words. As far as he could tell, he did not recognize any of them, but he distinctly heard two different male voices and a female voice.

They were right outside the door.

His heart galloped straight up into his throat, his breath becoming quick and shallow. He had no idea who they were, and while they could be there to rescue him, they could also be more of those… creatures. Phoenix had mentioned his… Master or Maker or whatever – having some friends present a little over a week ago. As foolish as it was, he had an overwhelming urge to hide. His gaze darted around the room, desperately searching for a suitable place to conceal himself. In the end, he made for the bedroom, and like a child afraid of a thunderstorm – or as if an earthquake woke him up in the middle of the night – he slid under the bed and flattened himself against the wall.

Each passing second felt like an eternity as with baited breath he waited for any sound, and though he'd been expecting it, the sound of the outer door opening made him lurch horribly. What startled him more, however, was that he found himself hoping it was Phoenix entering the study and not the strangers.

His hopes were dashed as a sing-song female voice floated to him from the library. "Here, human, human, human! Come out, come out, wherever you are!"

Miles curled up in the fetal position, all dignity forgotten as a man's voice reached him. "We can smell you, human! Come out and we promise we'll play nice!"

As they spoke, they were getting closer, and Miles knew that his attempt to hide had been just as foolish as he had predicted. Regardless, he was frozen with terror and was not about to willingly show himself to the monsters invading his holding cell, which only now seemed to have been some kind of twisted sanctuary. Three sets of footsteps were approaching him this time, and all too soon, three pairs of legs were visible standing right beside the bed.

…And then the bed rose up, thick and sturdy wooden frame leaving the floor to rise above the head of a man that looked like something out of Ancient Greek mythology, all tanned skin and knotted muscle. Beside him stood a more averagely-built man wearing Victorian-style clothing, arms folded coolly across his chest.

The other member of the group was suddenly crouching over him, a wicked smile on her would-be attractive young face. She was blond, looking like the type of girl one would see at the mall in a sorority t-shirt. Instead, she wore black leather, and her smile and bright blue eyes held only cruelty.

"Ooo, he's a cutie," she remarked with a giggle before seizing him by the upper arms and dragging him up at lightning speed. The bed was returned to its proper place and he was dropped onto it, flat on his back to stare up at the three of them. "Alastair didn't mention he was cute!"

The black-haired Victorian man furrowed his brow in a slight scowl. "And why would Alastair say a thing like that, especially about a boy?" He had a thick British accent, much more prominent than the hint of one Miles had picked up while growing up in Germany. An indignant little voice in the prosecutor's head protested being referred to as a 'boy', but he was far too petrified to say anything; it seemed an entirely irrelevant point in the shadow of what he was facing.

"Oh, this is going to be fun," the woman purred as she leaned over him, caressing his face with both icy hands. "What's your name, little human?"

Miles said nothing, just staring up at her with wide gray eyes and face almost as pale as hers. Cold hands moved down to the sides of his neck, thumbs trailing over his throat and applying just the tiniest amount of pressure: a subtle threat – or perhaps a promise.

"Perhaps he cannot speak," suggested the Spartan.

The woman giggled. "Let's see about that."

Miles was trying not to look her in the eyes, but she leaned over him further and suddenly he could not look away from them. That all-too-familiar feeling of being trapped and dragged out of his own mind overcame him, and he was powerless to stop it. He was in her grasp, and while he knew what it meant, that fact suddenly had no baring on his thoughts or will.

"What's your name?"

Her voice enveloped him as he stared into eyes as blue as ice, holding the look of the predator he saw occasionally surface in Phoenix's darker eyes. He had no choice - he wanted not – but to do as she said, to answer her question.

"…Miles Edgeworth…"

He was abruptly released from that hold and found himself back on the bed, lying before the three wolves cornering him like the helpless lamb.

"Miles, huh?" The woman gave him that cruel smile that never seemed to leave her violet lips. "That's a fitting name. I like it. Dinner is going to be so much fun tonight…" She leaned forward more, now pressing her chest to his and lowering her face to the side of his neck, taking in a deep breath through her nose. "Mmmm… So good…"

The largest man made a noise of irritation. "Enough, Nina. Let us just drain him and go."

"Ah, ah, ah," objected the other man, holding up an index finger. "I think Nina's got it right. We want to make a point to Alastair, right? Well, since he took his pet with him when he left, we'll just have to settle for his baby's pet. Just draining him and leaving doesn't really send a powerful message."

"Of course it does." The huge man snapped indignantly. "There is no need to draw such things out. We kill him to show we have no fear. No need for such pointless games."

The woman – Nina – snorted. "Just because you don't believe in fun doesn't mean we can't have any. You just go stand over there while we enjoy ourselves, and then you can join in when it's time to eat."

As he listened to them argue over whether or not to torture him before killing him, Miles could feel himself retreating. Not physically, of course, but the pure terror and realization that he was about to die was enough to make him start to dissociate, to flee for the void and abandon his body to these savages. Their voices seemed to fade away, growing quiet and fuzzy until he could no longer understand them. He knew that once he let the numbness take him, he would never feel again, never wake again.

Father… Mother... If there truly is a life after this… I am coming home…

Eyes, like wells of churning ice, filled his vision and her voice filled his head, chasing away his defensive numbness with a void of their own.

"Now, don't go to sleep on us, Miles. I don't want you to miss a second of this."

When he dropped back into his own body and the world around him, he was fully alert, to his utter dismay. It was in this moment that he knew not a shred of mercy would be granted him, and after all he had been through at Phoenix's hands, he had never been more terrified than he was now. He was seized by the collar of his shirt and dragged off the bed, his knees hitting the hardwood floor with enough force to jar him. It all happened far too quickly to follow, but when everything slowed down, he found himself with the thick chain anchored above the door wound around him in a confining web, the woman wrapped around him from behind, and the British man standing before him.

"Mmm..." Nina moaned, cold mouth on the side of his neck, licking the skin over the major artery. At the same time, the man before him was busy unfastening his pants, smirking down at their victim's fear. As the man freed himself, Miles tried to turn his face away, the only defiance allowed him in his current position.

However, even that was snatched away. The man seized his jaw and forced him to turn his head back, while at the same time, the woman extended her fangs and bit down hard. He could not stop himself from crying out at the stab of pain, and the man took advantage of his parted lips, forcing himself inside.

Miles gagged as the cold, hard member slid in deep, pushing its way into his throat despite the defensive reflexes. Miles was rigid, paralyzed, and revolted at both the man extorting pleasure from him and the woman eagerly sucking at the burning wound she had ripped open on his neck, her bite having been so much more vicious and messier than any Phoenix had delivered. Their intention was to hurt him, to abuse and torture him, to send a message with the state of his dry, defiled corpse left for Phoenix or Alastair to find. All he coudl do now was shut his eyes, and he was waiting for them to take even that escape away from him.

However, it wasn't a command that caused his eyelids to fly open: it was a sound. Familiar and disturbing, flesh and bone ripping, blood splattering. He found himself staring up at the man violating him, a foot of blood-stained metal protruding from the left side of his chest, his mouth hanging agape, eyes bulging.

Then, that creature began to dissolve, flesh drying and crumbling. He not only saw but tasted the decay into ash, causing him to retch. In seconds, a pile of bloody ashes and Victorian-style clothing lay before him, and he doubled over to vomit on the mess. He didn't have the presence of mind at the moment to realize he'd been released from the grasp of the woman behind him, but her shriek of horror and rage reached him through the pounding of his own heart in his ears.

"GERALD! You... YOU KILLED HIM!"

The next voice that reached his ears was familiar, but so foreign. Never in all the time he had known the man had Miles ever heard Phoenix Wright sound so enraged. The shout was inhuman, a bestial rage making the description 'roar' more appropriate than 'shout' for his tone.

"How DARE you!? Miles is MINE! None of you had ANY RIGHT to lay a FINGER ON HIM! You will DIE FOR THIS!"

Gasping for breath after expelling the contents of his stomach, Miles dared to glance up. There he saw Phoenix standing wild fury burning in his vivid blues, fangs extended, holding a strange weapon in his hands. It looked most similar to a spear, but what wasn't coated in blood appeared to be made of silver, an odd choice of metal for such a weapon. The man was a terrifying sight, but in this moment, Miles was so very grateful to witness it. He would have rushed to Phoenix and the protection he could offer had the chain snaking around him not made moving his arms or legs impossible, trapping him there on his knees.

From his right, he heard a low chuckle and the sound of heavy boots on the floor. The thickly-accented voice of the Greek-looking man drifted to him, significantly more calm than either of the other two. "Put those baby fangs away." The man came into his peripheral, massive arms folded across his chest and a mocking grin resting on his lips. "You are no threat to us, fledgling."

Nina seemed to be struggling to compose herself, forcing a laugh to get past her rage. "Heh... heh heh... Yeah, that's right... You think you can kill us? Kore here is over two thousand years old, and I'm no itty-bitty baby myself. You might have surprised Gerald, but you've got nothing left." She laughed again, this time sounding much more confident and collected. "Besides, even if you were a match for either of us, you're outnumbered, sweetie."

"You never were the brightest girl, Nina, but I did believe you could at least count properly."

He had only heard the voice once before, but the circumstance had burned it into his memory. Miles knew that Alastair had joined them without even looking up to confirm it. The older vampire stepped up beside Phoenix, long flowing black hair cascading over his shoulders, seeming to add to the fluidity of his every move. His eyes were a startling green, and while he appeared to be much more calm than Phoenix, they burned with just as much rage. "I'm not surprised you would sink so low, girl, but Kore... I'm disappointed. I never pegged you for a coward."

The largest man scoffed. "Coward? I prefer it this way. Now I can tear your head off with my own hands, pathetic sympathizer."

At this point, the talk ended. Something - or someone - struck Miles, sending him skidding across the floor to the far wall. A fight erupted, a fight he could scarcely follow thanks to the speed at which each party moved and the stupor into which he'd been sent. He heard shouts, grunts, vicious growls, yelps, and foul swears all flying every which way. He could see enough to discern that Phoenix was fighting with Nina while Alastair and Kore did battle. In only seconds, every piece of furniture in the room had been upturned and broken in some way or another; not even the walls were spared the violence.

It was when he saw Phoenix thrown to the ground that he decided he could no longer watch. Miles closed his eyes and turned his face away in lieu of being able to cover it while his arms were still bound to his sides by the chain. Two weeks prior, he himself had intended to kill Phoenix, but now the idea of watching him die - especially knowing what it would look like - terrified him. Despite all the former defense attorney had done to him, he was now the only thing that stood between him and those monstrous villains that intended to torture and kill him. Well... he and Alastair, but if Phoenix wasn't around, it was likely the latter would just kill him anyway.

Miles cried out in fear and surprise when he felt someone grab him. He was taken from his spot on the floor and out of the room, away from the fighting, and when the movement stopped and he opened his eyes, he found himself out in the hallway beyond his cell. Phoenix was crouching over him, covered in bleeding wounds and looking unsteady. Still, with what appeared little effort, he took hold of the thick chain Miles had tried for hours to break and snapped it in several places, causing the links to unravel and fall away. Miles could move again, in theory, but his body felt like stone.

"Get up," Phoenix ordered, sounding haggard and nearly panicked. "Get up, and run. Get out of here."

Miles just stared up at him, his reeling mind barely able to register the meaning of those words. Forget understanding what was happening, what he was being told to do. Run? Run where? He couldn't leave this place, nor could he outrun these creatures. Was Phoenix serious? Was this a game, a test?

"Dammit, Edgeworth!" Phoenix grabbed him by his upper arms and stood, hoisting the dazed prosecutor up with him and setting him on his feet. "Go! Alastair won't be able to hold them off by himself for much longer! The sun will be up soon, so they won't be able to chase you! Just go!"

Miles continued to stare, opening and closing his mouth a few times before words finally came out. "But... they... won't they just... track me tonight after...?"

"Find a vehicle, a cab or something," Phoenix instructed frantically. "Get as far away from here as you can before sundown and then hide! Go!" Phoenix gave him a shove toward the stairs leading up, causing him to stumble and nearly fall to the floor. A hand on the wall just barely kept him upright, and when he lifted his head to look back over his shoulder, Phoenix was gone.

...And then, he was running, sprinting like his life depended upon it, which it most certainly did. He hadn't the faintest inkling of where he was going and would not be able to retrace his steps later, if he survived that long. It was simply an aimless, mad dash, somehow taking him out of the building, which he took not even the briefest of moments to observe. He would never know what the ground level of Alastair's manor looked like, nor the outside of it. The only thing he saw was what lay ahead of him, and even then he only cared that it was an open space, free of obstacles that might slow him down.

By the light of dawn he flew at speeds he never thought himself capable. He kept running long after his body should have fallen to fatigue, functioning purely on the massive amount of adrenaline created by terror in its truest form. If anyone saw him, he did not see them. If anyone called out to him, he did not hear them. If anyone gave chase, they never caught him.

For the first time in weeks, the California sun touched his face, but he was oblivious to its warmth.