Author's Notes: Thank you all again for your wonderful reviews and comments! They mean the world to me. The Big Bang continues, bringing new chapters with it. Much love again to my beta and my cheerleader.

Trigger Warning: This chapter will contain some violence (nothing graphic) and some light elements of non-con (again, nothing graphic or explicit).


Part Eight

Phoenix opened his eyes, but all he saw was darkness.

His head felt groggy, as though he had stirred from one of the deepest sleeps he had ever experienced. He was sore and sluggish, his body not completely woken with him. He tried to move and realized he was standing, his arms stretched over his head and his wrists encased in metal. Handcuffs? He turned his head, searching for something, anything, he could see, but the darkness followed. Something was stuffed into his mouth, damp fabric held in place between his teeth and trapping his tongue. Frightened, he yelled out, a muffled sound made unintelligible by the gag.

The sense that he was trapped was overwhelming, bringing him to full awareness; it was matched only by the instinct to run. He jerked forward and learned he was only barely on his feet: his foot dangled in the air in front of him, unable to reach the floor. His arms, however, had pulled back painfully, with almost all of his weight suddenly transferring to his wrists in their metal constraints. He flailed and wobbled on the chain, trying to right himself. After a few attempts he found his footing again, though now he was shaking – from pain or fear, he couldn't say.

What was going on? Where was he? His pulse pounded and his breaths turned into shallow gasps of air forced into his nose instead of his mouth. Cold terror and dread washed over him, and the sharp edge of panic threatened to drive him mad.

Calm down.

Letting fear take over wouldn't do any good. He had to get himself under control. Though he was in great discomfort, whatever was happening, he could still think clearly. That was a start.

Funny, how much his own thoughts sounded like Mia sometimes.

He waited until his heartbeat returned to something more normal, let his breathing get more steady, and kept the panic at bay. He could figure out this situation one step at a time.

Moving much more slowly, he gingerly shifted his feet and learned how much his movement was restricted: only a half-step in any direction and his arms were pulled back again, keeping him in place. Stretching out his feet, he learned that his ankles were bound in chains, too. He was missing his shoes, standing on what felt like a warm metal floor in his socked feet. He shook his arms back and forth above his head, listening: more rattling chains, though they sounded heavier.

He called out again, louder, willing his voice to not tremble. It was difficult to form words around the gag; Hello? came out more as a long stretch of vowels than a tentative greeting. The word echoed slightly, giving Phoenix the impression that he was in a large room. He strained his ears and held his breath, listening for a response of any kind: someone talking, moving, or even just breathing. Nothing.

Okay. He was chained up in a big room somewhere with a metal floor. He was blindfolded and gagged, his senses and movement limited. He seemed to be alone. All signs pointed to him being brought here, wherever here was, against his will.

How did he get here? He wracked his head, trying to remember. What was the last thing he could recall?

Feeling uneasy, he sorted through his most recent memories and found them… lacking. There was a jumble of images and feelings, but they were hazy and broken, too difficult to grasp. The last solid memory he had was–

Dinner with Edgeworth last night. At least, he hoped it was last night. He concentrated, working through the memory. Pasta and samurai shows, and – and his awkward confession. His cheeks burned anew as he remembered admitting his occasional attraction to men. The look on his friend's face was nothing short of dumbstruck. He would have been greatly amused if he hadn't been so preoccupied with what it might mean.

And after that – Edgeworth had fallen asleep during the last movie, had shifted on the couch, his body going slack and falling slightly to the side. Phoenix remembered the weight of the prosecutor leaning against him, warm and languid. He'd stayed there with his sleeping friend long after the film shut off, enjoying the stolen moment, running his fingers lightly through Edgeworth's grey hair. He'd wondered if Edgeworth might ever see him in a new light or if his hopes were playing up again.

Then morning. And things fell apart in his memory here.

He had flashes of Edgeworth looking upset, and Phoenix felt pangs of guilt. Why? He concentrated, trying to remember more, but it was all so blurry and jumbled. Raised voices, anger… an argument? Had he had some kind of fight with Edgeworth? He could imagine it. With the way his emotions had been running high and too tightly wound lately, yeah, they probably did get in some kind of quarrel. And then what?

What happened afterward?

He felt a sharp lurch in his chest – something important, something he knew he should remember but couldn't. Whatever he'd done that morning, it was gone, and he felt some ambiguous, profound sense of loss.

Where was Edgeworth now? Had Banks found him? Phoenix tried not to think about what could be happening to him, if he were hurt or in pain or even – No. He refused to consider that possibility. He had to believe that Edgeworth was safe.

Why couldn't he remember anything?!

Something must have happened to him to make him forget. That realization brought with it a new surge of both anger and fear. He moved his head around again, trying to discern if any part was sore; perhaps he'd been conked on the head by someone. Memories of Mia tried to barge into his consciousness, her body slowly cooling under the window from her head wound, and he had to fight the urge to dwell on those thoughts; if he let himself get carried away the panic would return. He pushed them aside and brushed his head against his arms, searching for any bumps or wounds. But if he had been physically knocked out, there was no soreness left to remind him.

A second possibility occurred to him – what if he had been drugged? His memory issues could be some sort of side-effect. That opened the door to a whole new slew of worries: What could he have been drugged with? Was it dangerous? What other side-effects were there? An acute sense of violation accompanied those thoughts.

He considered yelling out again, but decided against it. Whoever had brought him here might not appreciate a noisy prisoner. Instead he focused on figuring out who would want to capture and hold him like this. Corrupt police officers, mafia goons, disgruntled friends or relatives of people he'd helped imprison, maybe someone from the counterfeiting ring… To his dismay, the list was longer than he liked.

Blindfolded, gagged, and restrained, Phoenix realized the only option he had was to wait.


It was difficult for Phoenix to know how long he was left alone, both before he woke up and after. He didn't have the best sense of time to begin with, and without any sort of indication he was unable to guess how many hours had passed.

The air around him had grown hot. More than that – it was verging on sweltering. Phoenix could feel the sweat pouring down his face, across his shoulders and down his back, his shirt sticking to his skin. His mouth was dry, the gag sapping the moisture away. He tried to keep as still as possible; any serious exertion, like fumbling around on the chain, led to more sweat. If his captors were turning up the heat just to torment him, well, it was working.

His stomach had taken to rumbling. Had he eaten anything today? Again he couldn't remember, but given the gurgling sounds he was inclined to guess no. And when was the last time he had something to drink? Between the heat, his hunger, and his thirst, he was feeling thoroughly miserable.

Finally… a noise. Metal groaning, pushing against more metal. Footsteps moving slowly. A soft hiss, like a gas stove being lit, and the chains above him shaking slightly. Those footsteps came closer, slow and measured, until they stopped in front of him. Screwing up his courage, Phoenix forced the word out as strongly as he could past his dry lips.

"He'o?"

As much as he wanted a response, he also dreaded what he would hear.

"Mister Wright."

He breathed in sharply at the unfamiliar voice. Masculine but soft, somewhat melodic. Entirely too calm.

Something rustled his hair at the back of his head and he realized the blindfold across his eyes was being removed. One layer wound away, then another, then –

Phoenix blinked, the soft light in the room too bright after so much darkness. A man stood in front of him, smirking, though the amusement didn't reach his almost-red looking eyes. Dark hair framed his face, long strands that stood out against pale skin. He wore a dark suit as well, and in the dim light he resembled some sort of eerie, elegant ghoul.

This was the man from the photograph, the one kept by Agent Chase, brought to vivid life. The man that had harassed Edgeworth, threatened him, the one that – kidnapped people and… the dead prosecutors and policeman…

Phoenix's eyes widened and he instinctively leaned back, as far as his fastenings allowed. The man – Christopher Banks – let out an unsettling low laugh, entirely devoid of mirth.

"Afraid already, Mister Wright?

Banks cupped his hand against Phoenix's cheek. Phoenix winced, the gesture too intimate as to be mocking. He wished he could properly speak, so that he could yell and curse and scream at the man who'd hurt his friend and captured him. For that matter he wished his hands weren't chained above his head. He considered lifting both feet off the ground, enduring the pain in his wrists, to kick Banks as hard as he could; and though the thought was appealing, something about the hard look in those eyes told him that the retaliation would be brutal.

His stomach churned, suddenly horrified: if Christopher Banks had taken Phoenix, then what had happened to Edgeworth? Why had Banks taken him, if Edgeworth was his original target? Phoenix had no special connections to the police or to any other prosecutors. Kidnapping him would attract attention, certainly, but not enough to throw the law enforcement division into a desperate scramble to find him at all costs. What was he doing here?

Phoenix had the sick, startling sense that his being here had something to do with hurting Miles.

What do you want?

He tried to ask around the gag, tilting his head away from Banks's fingers. It came out as gibberish, and Banks gave him a one-sided smile.

"What's that?"

Phoenix glared, putting all the venom he could muster into his eyes. He wished he had Edgeworth's glower, that he could shrivel a man just with a look. But Banks, unfazed, let out a condescending chuckle.

"All right, if you want to speak so much, then let's play a little game."

Banks circled around behind him. He let the hand on his cheek drop down to his chest and over to his left side as he moved, his other hand coming up to Phoenix's right side, fingers splaying across his ribs. Phoenix felt Christopher move close to his back, not enough to touch, but enough that he could sense the heat from his body through his thin dress shirt. A threatening imitation of an embrace.

"I'm going to remove the gag."

The words were spoken next to his ear, breath too hot and close.

"We're going to have a conversation. You ask me a question, I'll answer. But in return you'll answer one of my own. Refuse and I will hurt you. Make any loud noises, I will hurt you. Any attempt to injure me, and I will hurt you deeply. One question, one answer."

Such a low, quiet tone, holding the promise of pain if Banks was not satisfied. Phoenix attempted to repress the shiver that tried to move down his spine. He didn't quite succeed.

"And since you are a lawyer, there's one more thing: I only want the truth."

He recalled Edgeworth's creed to uncover the whole truth no matter how painful. How the noble ideal could be so easily twisted when wielded by someone with a warped perspective.

"Are the terms clear?"

He nodded, and a moment later felt fingers at the back of his head once more, untying the gag. The cloth slipped across his face, pulled back behind his cheek, and Phoenix was relieved to finally close his mouth, move his tongue around, re-wet his lips.

Banks stepped back around him, keeping a bit of distance and looking him in the eye once more. He raised an eyebrow, expectant.

After a few hoarse coughs, Phoenix finally asked the first question: "Where am I?"

Banks shook his head. "So mundane, Mister Wright. Look around."

He could see that he was in a long narrow room with metal walls, like the inside of an old boxcar or transport container. Parts of it looked corroded, as if it had last seen use some years ago. He must be in a shipping yard, or since the container was old and somewhat rusted, perhaps a junk yard. Glancing up, he followed the chain links above him, across the ceiling and to half a dozen heavy metal weights, the anchor to the line holding him up. Unless a link snapped, there was no way for him to untangle the chain knotted around them.

His gaze snapped back to Banks, who looked at him placidly. The man tilted his head, considering. "Why are you here?"

Phoenix blinked, confused; that was the question next on his lips. "I thought you were going to tell me."

Banks stepped forward, hand raised once again to Phoenix's head. He ran his fingers through a section of damp disheveled spikes, just once, his fingers tangling loosely at the ends. "That's not an answer." He pulled slightly, a warning.

Phoenix felt his pulse pick up again, his nerves on edge. Was he supposed to guess the right response? Or was this some sort of test? Depending on his answer, he might give away something about how much he or others knew about Christopher Banks or the counterfeiting ring. What if he let slip some important detail? Did the man realize the FBI was already investigating?

The best way to respond was to hedge his bets. Be truthful, but uninformative. Give nothing away: a poker face. "I'm here because you brought me here, I think. Because I'm worth something to you in some way."

Banks smiled. "You're not worth anything to me, Mister Wright. Nothing at all."

The fingers tightened and Phoenix's head snapped back, his scalp burning where his hair was wrenched. He gasped, the pain not unexpected but still sharp. "Then why are you keeping me here if I'm not worth anything to you?" He bit the question out through clenched teeth, grimacing.

"Because you are worth something to someone else." The answer was hissed at him, Banks pulling viciously one more time before his hand released him.

The sense that his capture had something to do with hurting Edgeworth returned, magnified. Phoenix moved his jaw, trying to relieve the stinging at the back of his head, and he considered that answer. Yes, he could serve as a hostage for the ring. And again his head filled with a list, this time of people who cared about him and could pay a ransom him. But the way Banks spoke made Phoenix think this was something personal – and that meant the only person they had in common.

Banks's turn. "What are you worth to Miles Edgeworth, Mister Wright?" The question was asked softly, but that couldn't disguise the malice suffusing Banks's voice.

His stomach did another painful flip at the prosecutor's name. Unbidden, his mind supplied an image of Edgeworth across the courtroom from him, mocking him for his errors; looking flustered in his office surrounded by papers; hiding away in shame in the Hazakura courtyard; eyes closed, enjoying a fresh cup of tea; smiling softly at Maya and Pearl; smiling at him; staring at him from the doorway of the shower; him thinking, working, sleeping, calling him Phoenix.

What was he worth to Edgeworth? He wanted to be worth everything.

"Edgeworth has money, if that's what you're after."

Banks grinned, the white tips of his teeth showing. It reminded Phoenix of a predator, a panther or some other sharp-toothed hunter relishing its prey. Phoenix felt a flash of white-hot fear – not for himself, but for Edgeworth, and his next question slipped past his lips. "What have you done with him?"

"Such concern. It's almost touching, really."

Banks's smile slowly slipped off his face, replaced with a mixture of suspicion, anger, and something like incredulity. "I've done nothing. But you seem so worried."

Too late, Phoenix realized he had made a mistake; his concern was his undoing. If Banks was obsessed with Edgeworth, as he seemed to be, then he probably wouldn't like anyone else with eyes on the prosecutor. Did Banks see him as competition? The thought would seem absurd, if he wasn't currently hanging from a chain in fear for his own life and the life of the prosecutor.

"It makes me wonder – what is Miles Edgeworth to you?"

There was no good way to answer. Phoenix glared at Banks, weighing his options. "A colleague and a friend."

Banks met his stare for a long time, eyes narrowed, calculating. Finally he circled around Phoenix and picked something up – a lantern – and began moving toward the door to the container. Darkness edged around Phoenix as the dim light moved away.

Phoenix's pulse ramped up, that fear running hot through his veins again. "W-What are you going to do with me?"

Banks halted, setting the lantern down at the entrance. "Absolutely nothing." He tugged at the chain and after a moment it loosened, just enough to allow Phoenix to collapse onto the floor.

His knees hit the hard metal, pain arcing up through the bone. Phoenix hadn't realized how stiff his arm and shoulders had become, and as his arms fell in front of him more pain shot through his nerves. He couldn't stifle his howl of agony, the scream echoing off the walls. As the echo faded the light was suddenly extinguished, and the last thing he could see was the silhouette of Banks against the dim evening light closing the door to the container.

Phoenix yelled and screamed until his voice went hoarse, his throat too dry, and thrashed around making as much noise as he could until he finally lost consciousness.

No one came for him.


When Phoenix next woke, lying on the increasingly warm floor, his knees curled up into his chest, it was due to the most basic human need: he needed to relieve himself.

A number of obstacles stood in the way. Obviously there was no restroom, not even a bucket or some other crude waste receptacle. Even if there were, he was stuck in the middle of the container. Rising to his feet, the extra slack on the chain only allowed him a few footsteps of movement, not even enough to reach the walls.

The most disturbing thought, one which gave him pause, was his immense thirst. He'd had nothing to drink for at least a day, no moisture even from food. He'd heard of situations in which people were trapped, like in cave-ins, where they had to do unsavory things to survive. After giving it more consideration than he'd ever admit to, he realized that short of licking it off the floor, there was no way he could drink anything. Besides – wasn't re-imbibing your own waste supposed to be worse for you than a lack of water?

Seeing no other option, he moved as far to the back of the container as the chains allowed to relieve himself. Great. He was starving, parched, and boiling, and his body was still aching from being held up so long, and now there was a terrible smell to add to the list of things tormenting Phoenix.

Maybe this was part of Banks's plan, to make him go crazy with hunger and thirst, or to pass out from the heat. How long could a person could go without food or water? He vaguely recalled something about only lasting a few days without water. And by sweating so much he was rapidly losing what hydration he still had.

He knew he should try to keep stationary, to not exert himself so as to limit the sweat. Still, he felt compelled to try escaping, especially since there was enough light for him to see what he was doing. With his arms in front of him he fiddled with the handcuffs. No matter how he twisted his hands, though, he couldn't unlock them. He tried pulling his arms apart to snap the links in the middle, to no avail. There was no way to remove the cuffs from the metal hook connected to the pulley. Desperate, he tried pulling his hands through the cuffs' openings. His wrists were already bruised, scratched, and irritated; by the time he stopped trying he had started bleeding, his skin scraped raw.

Huffing in frustration, he gave up and turned to his feet. Again, he was unable to either remove or break the chains or slip his feet through the metal. Now his ankles ached as well.

Finally, he tried lifting himself with the pulley chain, like climbing the rope in gym class, to tug on it and try to break the links. The chain proved too resilient; all he earned for his effort was more soreness, more irritation at his wrists, and more wasted sweat.

Exhausted, he collapsed on the floor again. But even the flooring conspired against him – it was unbearably hot, too scalding now to lie against. He had already endured one day of baking in this box. The heat was stifling, making his clothing cling to him in a way that felt oppressive and sticky.

Well. Between staving off heatstroke and the loss of his dignity, survival came first. He undid his slacks and shoved them down until they caught around the ankle chains. Using his feet as leverage, he was able to pull at the seams until the fabric tore in half. For the first time in his life he was grateful that his clothing was cheap and inexpensive – easier to rip apart. The dress shirt followed, leaving him in his boxers and undershirt. The latter followed a moment later, and Phoenix breathed a sigh of relief as his torso was finally freed. He maneuvered the ruined clothing into a clumsy pile he could rest on, off of the metal floor.

God, he was thirsty.

He had to keep his mind occupied. He'd had some practice meditating, sitting with Maya under freezing waterfalls – Don't think about water! – while she recited some obscure chant hundreds of times. Crossing his legs as best as he could, he tried to clear his head.

That proved rather difficult. Apparently fearing for your life, and the life of a friend, and being tired and hungry and miserable was not conducive to a calming, meditative state.

Instead, other thoughts crowded in. He thought of Maya, her head hung low and lip trembling as she worried over him. He wished he could cheer her up, that teenaged vision of her in his head, and vowed to pay her a visit in Kurain when the police found him. He pictured Pearl, too, with her adoring eyes and happy giggles; he had to survive this, because he couldn't bear to be yet another person who left her behind. He even thought of Agent Chase, strong and determined, and wondered if his kidnapping screwed up her investigation.

Most of his thoughts, though, centered around Edgeworth. He hoped he was safe, and selfishly, a part of him wished that Edgeworth was searching for him. He had been chasing after Miles his whole life, after all; for once the prosecutor could run after him.

My whole life.

Well, enough of it to count. Miles was the first person to inspire certain feelings in him, something more than just friendship. As a teenager he never stopped picturing what his friend might have looked like, his round face grown into sharp lines, his body turned into broad planes and angles, his eyes older and just as clever. Did it all start with Edgeworth, his attraction to men as well as women?

Maybe once this was over with, once he was safe and Banks was imprisoned, he could find the courage to admit his feelings to Edgeworth. Though the prosecutor was clearly out of his league, perhaps Edgeworth would be flattered enough to not immediately end their friendship. Or – and his stomach churned from something other than hunger – he feared Edgeworth would turn him away completely.

Edgeworth had always been a significant part of his life. With a start Phoenix realized that, until Banks arrived, he was the closest thing Edgeworth had had to a stalker. He'd written him countless letters, even changed his entire career just for the opportunity to see him again. But he'd never expected anything in return. That is, he wanted many things, but he never felt entitled to them. At least he never broke into Edgeworth's accounts or texted him obscene messages or kidnapped his friends to get his attention.

Why had Banks become so obsessed with Edgeworth? Phoenix remembered the look on Banks's face, the tinge of jealousy. Was that born of true romantic feelings? Some possessive part of Phoenix balked at the thought. The man hardly knew anything about Edgeworth. Didn't understand what he had been through or how he had changed, or know how to help him break down those emotional walls. Couldn't appreciate his search for truth or his fanboy devotions. Hadn't waited patiently, hadn't seen all his faults and strengths and moments of weakness and triumphs. Had never looked at him and known that he was special, a trusted confidant, a partner.

No. Banks couldn't truly love him. Not like–

Phoenix reeled, the hunger and thirst and heat and long-burning realization making his world spin.

Not like I do.


The metal door scraped open again. Phoenix had found himself drifting in and out of consciousness, his world reduced to a haze of heat, hunger, and ever-present thirst. He was awake now, and saw Banks's shadow creep inside. The lantern was lit again and Phoenix watched as Banks pulled on the chain, hauling him to his toes. His body protested the movement, his arms aching as they were lifted back up, and he couldn't stifle a low groan of pain.

Once he was secured in place, Banks approached, a ragged smirk on his face as he looked at the near-naked man.

"Getting comfortable, Mister Wright?"

He sounded amused, like a young boy admiring a clever whirl in an anthill before kicking the mound over.

Phoenix didn't have the energy to glare anymore. "Water," he choked out, his voice dry and cracked. "Please. Give me some water."

Banks laughed. "I already told you: I'm not going to do anything with you. That includes feeding and watering." There was something sadistic in that docile smile, a gleam in his eye that betrayed the sick pleasure he took from controlling others or from making them suffer.

Phoenix's stomach contracted painfully, as if it had heard Banks and was gurgling in despair. He let his head dip low, refusing to allow Banks the pleasure of seeing just how miserable those words made him.

"I thought you would make an excellent guest for me," Banks continued, as though it were perfectly normal to refuse a suffering man any sort of relief. "The only person to defeat the renowned Miles Edgeworth – I thought people would be concerned about you!"

Banks leaned forward, hand whipping around to snap Phoenix's head back up. "But do you know what has happened instead?" Those maroon eyes were wide, rapidly scanning Phoenix's own. "No one is looking for you. Just a couple of unimportant, low-ranking officers. Imagine my disappointment!"

Phoenix blinked, confused. That couldn't be the truth. Edgeworth was looking for him, right? And the FBI was here, with Agent Chase… and Gumshoe, even… His head felt fuzzy, his thoughts slowed from exhaustion.

"I thought Miles would attempt to find you, at least."

"Don't- Don't call him that."

The words tumbled out before he could stop them, his inhibition withered. It shouldn't matter, it shouldn't, but it felt wrong to hear someone like Banks employ Edgeworth's first name. As though he knew Edgeworth. In response he earned a vicious backhand across his mouth. His teeth nicked the corner of his lip and he could feel a trickle of blood slip down his chin.

"Don't ever speak to me like that."

Banks's voice turned hard, cold as steel, his expression morphed into seething fury. As quickly as the outburst of violence occurred, the man schooled himself back into his pristine, calm demeanor.

"Why do you care how I refer to Miles?"

Phoenix caught the emphasis on Edgeworth's name, goading him into saying something stupid again. Swallowing hard – which hurt, since his throat was so dry – Phoenix kept his mouth shut, refusing to answer.

Another poor decision: Banks's hand leapt to his throat, gripping, choking. "I asked you a question." The fingers squeezed tight, and Phoenix felt his eyes water, his breath completely caught. Finally, when he felt on the verge of blacking out, Banks let go, and Phoenix spent the next moments coughing, a horrid wheezing sound of air scraping over dry tissue.

"I'm sorry," he managed after a while. "I don't care."

Banks had watched his coughing fit impassively, studying him with a detached air. His eyes flicked over Phoenix, lingering on all the exposed skin. Phoenix knew he should feel repulsed, or at least embarrassed, but he was preoccupied with trying to breathe again, with keeping his head from spinning.

"I've been thinking about our conversation," Banks said, voice soft. "It occurred to me that you might be thinking of Miles in a way that you shouldn't." He trailed a long finger under Phoenix's chin, smearing the blood, and forced him to look up again. "What makes you think he'd ever notice you?"

Phoenix's voice came out in halting rasps. "I don't know – don't know what you're talking about."

Wrong again. Banks reared back and threw a clenched fist into his side, hitting him hard around his kidney. The pain shot through, radiating to his stomach and his chest, and Phoenix instinctively tried to double over. The strain on his wrists was unbearable, the metal biting into exposed flesh. He let out an agonized groan, eyes screwed shut against his throbbing nerves.

"What could you offer him? What good are you?" The questions came in quick succession as Banks let his mask slip, a sort of righteous anger making his eyes blaze and his lips sneer.

When Phoenix couldn't answer, still staggered and trying to catch his breath, Banks let out an impatient growl. He began raining blows on him, lighter and less painful but faster, furious, on his stomach and chest and arms. The sound of flesh hitting flesh echoed sickeningly against the metal walls, each strike a dull thud that left a throbbing ache. Phoenix shook on the chain with each hit, hiding his face against the inside of his arms and gasping for air.

Finally, Banks relented. He stepped back from Phoenix, breathing hard, his hair disheveled and his face beading with sweat. How different he seemed now in his pristine suit, like it was a costume over a hideous core.

"You are nothing," he snarled, content to answer for Phoenix. "A poor, stupid attorney. No money, no prestige, no power. No good looks. No connections." He counted off Phoenix's failings, voice growing more satisfied with each one as Phoenix wheezed and tried not to pass out.

Banks backed away a few steps and removed a cheap flip phone from his trouser pocket. Phoenix watched him fiddle with it as he panted and took stock of his injuries. He'd have some bruises, but fortunately Banks had been more concerned with hitting as fast as he could instead of inflicting damage. He hurt, yes, but he'd fallen off a burning bridge and survived, hadn't he? As strange as it was to admit, he almost preferred the physical abuse to Banks's crazed questioning.

After a moment Banks jammed the phone against Phoenix's face. "Say goodbye to the prosecutor," he ordered.

Phoenix's eyes flew wide and he stupidly drew in a huge gulp of air, irritating his throat further. "Edgeworth," he spluttered, voice dry and cracking and injured, "Edgeworth I'm–"

Abruptly Banks yanked the phone away and hurled it against the container wall next to Phoenix's head. Little bits of plastic and circuitry scattered and the shattered phone skid across the floor. Phoenix flinched, any still-forming plans about getting the phone and using it to call for help splintering along with it.

With a smug look, Banks turned on his heel, kicked the phone husk further away, and made for the container entrance. Despite Phoenix's panicked protests, he loosened the chain and dropped Phoenix on his knees again like a deadweight. The pain shot through him, the light disappeared, and the door grated closed once more.


Phoenix woke up, his face smushed into the remains of his dress shirt. He pushed himself up into a sitting position, feet stretched out in front of him. He felt – terrible. His body protested every movement, bruises rising and purpling, his throat still sore from Banks's chokehold. Oddly, his heart was pounding, racing as though he was running.

The thirst remained. His tongue clung thick to the roof of his mouth, his saliva sucked away. He'd do anything for just a drop of water. His hunger, though, had reached a point where he almost didn't feel it anymore, his stomach's empty churning a constant that he could ignore. The heat, too, felt somehow less, like he had turned numb to it. He wasn't sweating anymore, and some distant part of him recognized that as a bad sign. But his head was so… fuzzy, the thoughts tangling up like cotton candy.

How much time had passed? There was no way to tell. It felt like days, like an eon.

There was a noise behind him, a shuffling sort of sound. He whipped his head around, the world spinning nauseously, but he saw nothing. Another sound, farther away, on the other side of the container. Again he turned to look, but could see nothing. Feeling deeply unsettled, he tried to drift off into sleep again. Except the feeling of raindrops hitting his face prevented him from drifting off. He raised his hands to wipe the water away and realized nothing was there. How could rain get inside a closed room anyway?

Fantastic. He was hallucinating. At least he recognized it, which was enough to allow him to ignore his senses telling him things that couldn't possibly be real, and try to let his consciousness slip into the comfort of sleep.

Distantly, he heard someone calling his name. It was a familiar voice, low and feminine, but filled with a deep, aching sadness: Maya. Every protective instinct in him flared and he tried to answer, tried to tell her to run away, keep herself safe. He wondered if this was yet another hallucination, or if she was psychically trying to speak with him.

Or – and he felt a hysterical laughter threaten to bubble up and overwhelm him – perhaps she was trying to channel him. Which meant he was dead, he had succumbed to the heat and thirst and was stuck here, a spirit unable to pass on. It was too much to consider; he told Maya's voice that he was sorry, so sorry, but he had to sleep.

He opened his eyes again and found Christopher Banks staring at him.

Phoenix was on his feet again, hands hauled above him, and his knees were so weak they could barely hold him up. He hadn't heard Banks enter this time.

Banks studied him, contemplative, and he stood on his toes and reached up toward Phoenix's hands. He felt the handcuffs tightening on his wrists, the metal resting snug against his raw skin once more. Banks made satisfied noise. "Can't have you slipping out of these."

He must have closed his eyes again. The sensation of a hand cupping his cheek jolted him back to consciousness.

"Rise and shine." Banks's voice was soothing, comforting. "Can you stay awake for me?"

How much time had passed? Was this the same visit? He knew he had to answer, so he let his head wobble slightly back-and-forth, hoping it was enough of a response. Banks smiled, and Phoenix still had enough of his wits to realize he should be afraid. That hand slid down, wiping away the remaining flecks of dried blood on his chin.

"Look at me."

Phoenix, vision somewhat blurry, focused on the man in front of him.

"That's better." Banks stepped closer, moved his head next to Phoenix, and lowered his voice conspiratorially. "Have you ever thought about it?"

"Wha-?" The word was a dry croak, barely a word more than a noise.

Fingers slid gently down his sides, along his flanks. "Wondered what he would be like. Miles." Phoenix shivered; those fingers were moving slowly, sensually, and alarm bells started blaring through the fog in his mind.

Banks turned his head and let his breath whisper across Phoenix's ear. "Lying in your bed, every inch of him exposed for you to see. Like a perfect statue."

No. That was the very last thing Phoenix wanted to think about right now, even as his mind supplied images from every guilty fantasy with Banks's words. The fingers reached his boxers, teasing back-and-forth against the waistband.

"What he sounds like, all the little noises he makes. The expressions of pleasure on his face. What he feels like, deep inside."

Oh god. Banks's hands had slipped lower, skillfully stroking him through the thin fabric. It was – Phoenix couldn't help the physical reaction, but he jerked back, consumed with the sense that this was wrong, so wrong, and deeply unwanted.

Stop! He wanted to scream it, but all he could managed was a gasping noise, almost like a cry of pain.

He could feel Banks smile against his cheek. "To feel him moving against you, strong and relentless. Touching you, making you writhe with desire."

Those hands grasped him more firmly, matching his words. Phoenix twisted around, trying to get away. Banks let him move, chuckling lightly, and instead ran his hands up along Phoenix's chest.

"I had him first," Banks murmured, voice turning possessive. "You think he would ever do this to you?"

Phoenix tried to breathe deeply, summoning every last ounce of strength and willpower he had left to glare at Banks with all the disgust and vitriol he could muster, and to form the words clearly:

"Just shut up."

Once more Banks laughed, airy and amused. He pulled Phoenix's head around and crushed their lips together. Phoenix sputtered, wincing as Banks shoved his tongue inside; his mouth was plundered quickly, thoroughly. He wished he had enough saliva to spit.

Banks leaned back, eyes narrowed with hate.

"Do you really believe you could satisfy him? That you could have him, like I did?"

Phoenix was going to pass out soon anyway – he could feel the blackout creeping in – and it made him brave and foolish. "He was never yours."

His lip split open again from the punch, but the pain was distant, fading. The last thing he recalled was the door slamming shut, and then blissful darkness took over.

The only thing Phoenix had left to sustain him now was hope.