"Sir. May I…ask you a question?"
Kristoph looked up from his paperwork, placing his pen to rest.
No. Not this. Not now.
"Have I ever denied your curiosity, Mr. Justice?" The man leaned back in his chair, watching his protégé stumble through an apology. "It's quite alright, no need for that. Go on."
Forget it.
Apollo rubbed the back of his neck. "Well, it's not really a work thing."
Kristoph's quiet laugh brightened the dreary office atmosphere."At long last. A truly interesting matter."
Let go.
"How do you…how do you stay so calm?"
Just let go.
"Generally, I assume?" Kristoph said. Apollo nodded. "Hmm. I would have to say, simply remaining grateful of my existence is—"
JUST. LET. HIM. GO.
Apollo breathed, barely breaking free of the fog that had fallen over his mind. Was that a real memory? He couldn't tell. His head was swimming and his chest was hurting and his hands…his hands…
You need to stop, a part of him scolded. The part that kept screaming "let go" joined in, forming a chaotic chorus deep in his mind.
Stop let go stop let go stop let go—
His hands gripped Kristoph's throat ever tighter, pushing the man further and further into the broken glass.
I can't.
"What do you mean, you can't?"
Trucy hung upside-down on the couch, her bright brown eyes muddled with confusion. Apollo shrugged.
"I just can't be mad at him. I don't know why."
Trucy tried to tilt her head, but began sliding off the sofa instead. Apollo turned back to face her and nearly gave himself a heart attack trying to catch her in time.
"Thanks, Polly!" Trucy exclaimed, turning herself the right way. Apollo heaved, too winded to properly scold her. "Anyway…maybe it's because you feel betrayed? I mean, everyone does, especially Daddy, but…you worked for him…"
That's right. He betrayed me.
More pieces of glass fell to the ground, splintering into tiny shards. He was surprised that the whole mirror hadn't fallen down when he'd slammed Kristoph against it.
He deserves this.
After all, things wouldn't have escalated like this if the phone had been left intact. The base of Apollo's palm was littered with small cuts from handling the screen, each stinging as he pushed against Kristoph's jugular.
If he let me speak to Phoenix…
"You've spoken to Fraulein Vera, Forehead?"
Apollo's brain spun. Here he was, standing outside Courtroom 5, caught by surprise at the topic. "Er…yeah? Why do you ask?"
Klavier brushed back his hair, trying to seem nonchalant. "I was wondering if the good Fraulein would like to come to a concert of mine, perhaps? As an invitation…from a friend."
Apollo narrowed his eyes. "You're not…interested in her, are you?"
Klavier nearly slipped off of the wall he was leaning on, his smooth demeanor morphing into total shock. "What?! Mein Gott! Was zur Hölle? Ich shwöre bei Gott—"
"Okay, that's a no." Apollo raised his hands to defend himself from the mouthful of German swears directed his way. "I can ask her, but…"
"Ja?"
"Er…"
Apollo stared at Klavier for a few seconds, before looking away.
It only took a moment for Klavier to understand.
"Ah. I understand." Klavier cast him a reluctant smile. "If I were her…I wouldn't want to see him either."
He traumatizes people.
Kristoph's nails dug into his wrists, forming white-hot crescent marks on the verge of puncturing. He squeezed harder, ignoring the pain.
He hurts people.
Zak Graymarye. Drew Misham. Two fathers, taken from their daughters.
Klavier Gavin. A brother, left behind with a face he hates.
Phoenix Wright. A man who'd built his own family, nearly stolen from his life.
I should destroy him right now.
Apollo watched as Kristoph struggled to breathe, a twisted sense of satisfaction fueling the burning fury powering his muscles. For once, things felt absolutely, perfectly right.
The court case would be easy, of course. No one would question a two-time murderer being strangled out of self defense. His fingers pressed on Kristoph's windpipe, steadily cutting off the man's oxygen supply.
It would be so simple. He'd describe all the pertinent torture, leave out a few stray details surrounding this part, and then—
"Justice…"
Apollo caught the manic look in Kristoph's eyes and returned it with his own hateful glare.
Kristoph's arms fell to his sides. Apollo wondered if it was almost over.
A flash of silver. Apollo's eyes widened.
The knife.
When he had lunged at Kristoph, it'd been out of rage. Pure, unadulterated rage taking over every single cell in his body, giving him only one directive. Get rid of Kristoph Gavin. Nothing else matters.
Other things did matter, as it turned out.
Kristoph raised the knife upwards, pointing it right towards Apollo's face. There was no escape here. If he continued choking the man, he'd get stabbed in the eyes. If he let go, he'd probably get stabbed in 56 other places as well.
This is it.
His grasp remained steady. Kristoph gasped for air, his other hand managing to loosen Apollo's grip by a fraction.
"Not…you…" Kristoph spat. "Rem…remem…"
Apollo kept his gaze trained on the knife while trying to discern Kristoph's broken words.
Not you. Remember.
That was all he was doing, though. Swimming in memories, each drowning him over and over. It was as if he were swallowing water under a burning shower, breath turned to droplets, steam filling his lungs—
"I wanted to ask you something, Mr. Wright."
This one was real. The other memories had felt strange—corrupted, with an almost nightmarish quality to them—but this one he truly knew. He remembered the long shower, trying to bury things away. He remembered the towel sweeping through his hair, Phoenix watching him evade. There it was…the ticking clock, the deep humiliation, the grape juice churning in the wine glass.
Phoenix had asked him if he wanted to talk. After a moment, he'd accepted the offer. This was that conversation.
The one after the Vera Misham trial.
"What makes someone a murderer?"
"Well…that's a tough question, Apollo," Phoenix said, gesturing to the couch. Apollo waited a few seconds before sitting on its edge. "It can be lots of things. Anger, greed…sometimes, even just for attention."
Apollo pulled the towel off his head, feeling damp strands of hair brush against his forehead. "Do you think he did it for attention, then?"
"No." Phoenix shook his head. Luckily, the ex-attorney didn't need context clues to figure out who this was about. "If it weren't for us…he would've gotten away with it. There's no glory in that."
"Oh. Okay."
Apollo glanced away. He'd expected this, and yet…something about it still upset him. Maybe he would never understand. Senseless acts, driven by something too complicated for him to come to peace with—
"There's another reason why people kill," Phoenix interjected. Apollo looked back up.
"What?"
A steely glint sharpened Phoenix's gaze. The man took a long sip of his grape juice and leaned forward, seeming far older than his years.
"Fear."
"Fear?" Apollo repeated. The way Phoenix had said it sent a shiver down his spine.
"Yeah." Phoenix swished the juice, his face pensive. "Think of it this way. Sometimes, to escape truly desperate situations…people dig themselves into a hole." Another swirl of the glass. "They think they'll just climb out later. But things keep getting darker, and they sink lower and lower." Phoenix's hand stilled. The ripples in the juice disappeared. "Eventually, there's nowhere else to dig. So now, to get out of that situation, they have no choice but to seal up that hole and live with that darkness for the rest of their life." A sip. A sigh. "And every day, they pray someone doesn't dig them up."
Apollo shifted uncomfortably. "But then…how do you get out of the hole?"
"How do you get out?" Phoenix said, raising an eyebrow. Apollo nodded. "Hmm…once it's sealed, there's nothing much you can do but drag yourself out and confess. Not many murderers take that route, though." Phoenix put a finger to his chin. "In fact, there are some that just keep sealing away that hole with more and more layers."
"No, no. I meant when you're still digging."
Apollo shrank when Phoenix looked him directly in the eye, clearly scanning his face.
After a second, the piercing stare softened.
"Apollo…the only way to start digging is by rejecting the truth," Phoenix said. Apollo tugged his bracelet, scratching the skin on his wrist. "And if you still find yourself there, somehow…you have to reach up and let someone pull you out."
Anxiety rushed through Apollo's system. "But—"
Phoenix turned, placing a hand on Apollo's shoulders. "No matter the situation, someone will always be there. They'll help."
Apollo bit his lip. "What if…what if I don't have some—"
"You do, kid," Phoenix said. And Apollo could see it all—the sadness, the sympathy, the deep concern all woven into Phoenix's expression, accompanied by a small smile. "You do."
This isn't me.
The knife in Kristoph's hand clattered to the ground.
Apollo pulled himself out of the past, snapping back into focus. Kristoph met him with vehement desperation, continuing to pull at his fingers.
I've sunk too low.
Apollo stared into the cracked mirror behind Kristoph, finding himself caught in a multitude of parallel reflections. Fractures spread like a sinister web through the glass. He could find a part of himself in each fragment, separated from the whole.
Gritted teeth. Tense muscles. Terrified is what he'd become within a sliver of time.
It was time to reach up.
Kristoph's weakened touch grazed the tips of his fingers, running over them one by one. Apollo's grip loosened, peeling away.
The instant Apollo let go, the man collapsed in a heap on the floor, body convulsing with fits of violent coughing.
"You…" Kristoph wheezed, doubling over. No other words followed.
Apollo looked down at the murderer and the shattered glass. He looked up and saw his own broken reflection. There he was—nothing but a horrified shadow standing above a half-dead man.
It was then that reality hit.
"I almost killed you," Apollo murmured. He watched Kristoph fighting for air, feeling as though his ribcage was collapsing in on itself. "I almost…I…oh, god."
He clapped a hand on his mouth, a surge of nausea turning his stomach inside-out. He'd almost murdered someone. He'd been so close—a few seconds more, and it would've been done.
Kristoph placed a hand against the wall and gradually rose to his feet, his shoulder pressed against it for support. One of the man's hands remained around his neck, no doubt tracing bruises that were just beginning to form.
"I…I…"
There was nothing he could say. Apollo reached out for an instant, recoiling as soon as he touched Kristoph's lavender blazer. Every single particle in his brain was thrown into mayhem.
I choked him I strangled him he's going to torture me kill me the rules the rules the rules what were the rules I'm dead he has a knife where's the knife I don't know where I don't know why but I have to go I have to get out of here I have to get out of here I—
"Have to get out of here," Apollo said, his frenzied thoughts slipping out of his mouth.
Kristoph turned at his words. The man's pale face burned itself into Apollo's brain, complete with scarlet scrapes to the temple and purpling contusions above the collarbone.
"Justice," Kristoph croaked. Before he could say anything else, a hacking cough smothered his sentence.
Adrenaline kicked Apollo into high gear.
"I'm getting out of here. I'm sorry. I'm not, I'm—" Apollo's gaze darted around the room for a moment, before settling on the exit. "I'm leaving."
He swung open the bedroom door and promptly slammed it shut, racing into the living room. There was no time. It took him a split second to arrive at the front door, unlatch the lock, and—
A slicing pain struck his fingers as his grasped the handle. He sucked in a breath and pulled away, finding gashes spread along his pinky to index finger. He ignored it and began scrabbling at the back of the handle with his other hand, managing to peel something away after ten precious seconds. There it was—single piece of tape.
Stuck to the tape was the head of a disposable razor, stripped to its core.
The sound of crunching glass echoed from within the bedroom. Apollo tossed the razor to the ground and twisted the handle, trying to pull open the door.
It didn't budge.
More footsteps. A thud. Apollo undid the chain lock and made sure the normal one was also open.
It still didn't move.
The bedroom door began creaking open.
Stuck. Something had to be stuck. Apollo knelt down to inspect the hinge, only to find a bar of soap wedged right in the gap between the door and the floor.
He tried pulling it out. It was too slippery to hold onto, especially with his sweaty hands.
"That's far enough," Kristoph rasped.
Apollo made the mistake of looking back. Kristoph now stood in the center of the living room.
No no no no no NO—
No other way but to break down the door. He began kicking the door hinge, hoping it'd give. Pain radiated through his toes at the abuse, but he didn't care if he broke them all as long as he broke free—
With a particularly forceful kick, the soap jammed under the door slid out into the hallway.
"Wait."
A bony hand grabbed the back of his neck. Apollo's heart stopped.
He could hear Kristoph's labored breathing behind him. He could feel the criminal's clammy skin, his vice grip. If he turned around now…that'd be it.
"You can't—" Kristoph began.
Apollo shoved the murderer away and flung open the front door, stumbling into the hallway.
He sprinted to the stairwell, feet barely tapping on each step before flying to the next one. Chipped paint fluttered to the ground as he jumped the last four to reach the first floor, landing directly on his knees.
The pain from that maneuver crippled him. He tried to get up, only to stagger back to the ground from the sheer agony of the initial impact.
"Help! Someone get some fucking help!"
No response.
Apollo crawled closer to the first-floor hallway, dragging his body with his arms.
"Call the police!" he cried, "911! Goddamn it, call 911!"
Not a sound.
He paused for a moment, holding back to urge to vomit. In that time, no doors opened. There were no exclamations from within the homes, no hurried whispers, nothing.
A ghostly silence prevailed.
Apollo lifted himself up by the nearest door handle and banged his fist on the entrance. The knocks echoed within the room, but there was nothing else there.
I'm alone.
The eerie quiet pressed onto his lungs like a hydraulic press, snuffing out any hope of outside intervention. The building was empty. If he didn't find a way out, Kristoph could crush his skull and hang his skin from any floor.
Light footsteps were descending down the steps.
Apollo pushed himself away from the door and hobbled to the main entrance as fast as he could. As long as he got out of here, he'd be fine. He'd run down the street screaming, everyone would notice something was wrong, and he'd break out of this nightmare at last. He twisted the door handle and pushed.
A crunch. It didn't open all the way. Something heavy was blocking the other side.
He tried again. Another crunch…more prolonged this time. He managed to open it just far enough for one of his eyes to see outside.
A thick sheet of snow lay amassed at the door's wake, crumbling with each shove. Apollo kept trying to swing it open, but each attempt only yielded centimeters more progress than before.
He grasped his hair when he heard Kristoph reach the platform, ready to descend down the final flight of stairs. All the doors were blocked. Why were they all goddamn blocked? Was any of this real? Or was this just a personalized hellscape, built to torture him until he drove himself mad?
But it didn't matter. Hell or not, if Kristoph caught him, he'd be chopped into pieces. He backed up and braced his shoulder, lunging at the door one final time.
It hurt. He felt his bones shudder as he hit it, so sharp that he grabbed his arm close and hissed the second he pulled back. Maybe he dislocated something. Maybe not. He didn't care. What mattered was that the door had been pushed open enough for his body to squeeze through, into the outside world.
"Justice!"
Right behind him. Kristoph was right behind him. Apollo dove through the opening and into the snow, clawing his way through until he was completely out of the door's range.
"Justice!"
So close. Apollo panicked and pushed himself to his feet, sinking into the snow. It reached above his knees, dense and packed from the gusts of wind sending flurries right in his direction.
Phoenix. Get to Phoenix.
He trudged through the snow, feeling the ice bunch up at the bottom of his pants. The sheer cold hit him like pine needles being driven deep into his flesh, stripping away his skin. He was woefully unprepared for the weather, of course, but as this was a monster storm…well, he knew he'd have been screwed either way.
Still, that was fine. As long as he got to Phoenix, this cold would be nothing. Phoenix would pull him out, call the police, and this would all be over.
He squinted. The wind made his eyes dry, and he could barely see in front of him due to the dense snowfall. Plus, it was extremely dark—he had to guess it was at least 2:30am by now, going by the voicemails.
"Stop!" Kristoph shouted. Apollo marveled at how close the apartment was…only to turn around and realize that walking in snow was an incredibly taxing process. "You'll—"
The wind howled so fiercely that it drowned Kristoph out, much to Apollo's relief. He kept moving forward, shivering in the freezing temperatures, praying that he'd find someone that'd help.
A few muffled thumps…all from the direction he came from. Kristoph was trying to open the door, no doubt. He tried to lift his legs and run, but his foot ended up hitting a particularly dense piece of ice, crippling him further.
"Fuck," he muttered. He could feel his nerves beginning to settle…and with that, his pain tolerance. His limbs ached as eternity passed, each step wearing him down until he simply collapsed in the snow.
The faint sensation of snow scraping against his cheek made him wince. The cold was making it very hard to think. Any attempt to muster enough willpower to get back up was numbed by the glacial conditions. All he could do was dig his fists into the snow and crawl a few millimeters every minute.
More time passed. The gaps in his movement grew. He could feel his energy being siphoned away by the frigid temperature, body wracked with uncontrollable shivers each time he tried to go a little farther.
Did I make it?
Maybe he had managed to reach them already, and he didn't even know it. Ages had passed since he'd started trawling through this torturous storm. Apollo craned his neck upwards, hoping to find himself at the Agency's doorstep.
He found himself looking down his block, observing everything as he'd seen it from within the apartment building. The amber glow of the streetlights, with one constantly flickering. The mailbox a few meters away, looking no closer. He couldn't even see the nearby deli—something that would have taken him less than ten minutes to get to on an average day.
It was as if he hadn't moved at all.
Apollo buried his face back in the snow. He could no longer feel anything at all. The cold had been driven deep into his bones, transforming them into nothing but deadweights.
He was so tired.
I'll rest for a bit.
His eyes fluttered shut. The chilling draft moved more snow over his paralyzed form.
Just…five minutes.
