"Don't."

He had never meant to say it that way. The dark tone. The bitterness dissolving in the cold. Apollo masked his face with a trembling hand, hunching over himself.

God, he should've just stayed alone.

"Come on, man," Clay soothed, continuing to rub his back. "You're not like that."

The bright stars grew blurrier and blurrier. Apollo looked away, ashamed.

"You don't know me."

He shifted away, but Clay's hand followed him. It traced the outline of his spine, light as ever: nimble fingers running down each vertebra, pressing every bone.

"I don't?" Clay challenged. The young man leaned closer. "What about all those things you've mentioned?"

Apollo didn't respond. Clay sighed.

"Your dad's death? Your foster father? Getting abandoned?" Apollo flinched at the word. Clay softened his voice. "That's a big part of you…isn't it?"

"It's not," Apollo snapped. He shoved Clay's arm, angrily brushing away the tears streaking down his cheeks. "Stop acting like you know everything."

"But I don't!"

"Then drop it."

Clay hesitated. A myriad of emotions flitted over the young man's face, each fighting for consideration.

Confusion. Irritation. Melancholy. Helplessness. Apollo could read them all.

"Look, you're upset. I get it," Clay eased at last, his countenance settling. It seemed concern had triumphed. "But you need to let me in."

"Let you in? What the hell does that mean?" Apollo scoffed. His gaze sharpened when his friend moved to explain. "Like I said, Clay. Don't push it."

"I'm not trying to push it."

The two stared at each other for a moment, stubborn will locked against stubborn will. Clay's eyes burned with defiance. Apollo's, with desperation.

"I've known you for so long, Apollo," Clay began, refusing to break his gaze. "You've dropped details about this before, but now…now, I can tell how much harder it's getting for you."

Apollo started to feel uneasy. He squirmed, ready to walk away from the conversation.

Clay grabbed his wrist, holding him down.

"You can't ignore it forever," the man stated. Apollo felt his resolve to escape double under Clay's determined grasp. "This isn't normal. Considering what you went through, it's probably some kind of trauma—"

"No, it isn't," Apollo protested. He gritted his teeth, failing to suppress his frustration. "My dad…Dhurke…they didn't traumatize me. They treated me as well as they could, and I—"

"Stop. Don't you dare," Clay warned. The young man covered Apollo's mouth, soundly muffling any guilt-ridden rationalizations. "You're not to blame, and you know it."

A line was crossed.

Apollo's blood boiled. He ripped off Clay's palm, casting a furious glare.

"Shut it, Terran."

Clay ignored him. Instead, Apollo found his friend gripping his shoulders, shaking him back and forth with reckless abandon.

"Don't you see? These sorts of things have long-term effects!" Clay exclaimed, "We're only in college now, but what about when you go to law school? When you get a job? You need to understand what it's doing to you—"

Apollo tensed. "Let go."

Clay didn't listen. "Talk to me, man. You have to tell someone everything—"

"No. Leave it and let go—"

"Just let me help you, Apollo."

Worry. Weariness. Warmth. Apollo saw Clay's feelings morph once more. This time, they had something in common.

A gentleness that said—

"Please, don't be afraid."

And in that instant, Apollo gave in.

In a single, smooth motion, he turned and drove his fist into Clay's face.

I should've known.

Apollo winced at the memory. He curled in further, the scene still hanging heavy in his mind.

I should've known how Kristoph would react.

The years he'd spent regretting that day had clearly taught him nothing. He laced his fingers across the back of his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

I deserved it, anyway.

Unbidden, the conversation played in his brain again. He dug his nails into his scalp, feeling his hair twist under his grip.

"Please, Mr. Gavin. Let me help you."

A gentle grasp. A genuine gaze. He'd been sincere when he looked at Kristoph, noticing the tinge of uncertainty trapped in the man's eyes.

That sliver of anxiety quickly morphed into contempt.

"Help me?" Kristoph spat. Apollo paused, resisting every urge to step back.

"Just…listen to me, sir."

The criminal wrenched his wrist away, sleeve slipping out of Apollo's grasp. "It seems your overconfidence has turned you insolent as well."

A dangerous tone. Any other moment, Apollo would have been calculating every possible route out of this conversation. But this time…

This time, he wanted in.

"The psychologists! All the psychologists you saw, at the prison!" Apollo exclaimed. Kristoph's eyebrow twitched. "They had it all wrong. Every time they'd ask you about your childhood, they'd—"

"Become lost. As I stated previously," Kristoph interrupted, his words holding an air of finality. Apollo set his jaw, unfazed.

"They'd always be searching for a motive," he persisted. "A quick reason for the books. But no one…no one thought to help you understand."

Kristoph leaned closer, curious.

"Understand what, Justice?"

Apollo stood still.

"What made you kill someone."

The murderer's eyes gleamed.

"Bravo. Sincerely—bravo," Kristoph said. The man lifted his hands and clapped, seeming all too eager to mock Apollo's breakthrough. "You've figured it all out, have you? Shall I appoint you as my new psychologist? Considering your poor skills as an attorney, perhaps a career change would be for the best—"

"Mr. Gavin—" Apollo began. The criminal cut him off with a bout of sharp laughter."Brilliant of you, to piece things together with a few false tales," Kristoph taunted. "And without Wright to hold your hand, as well."

An uncomfortable feeling settled in Apollo's chest. "I…I know you told me the truth. Everything about your family was true—"

"So you believe."

Apollo crossed his arms, running a few fingers over his bracelet. It hadn't gone off once when he'd heard those stories. Yet the second Kristoph insisted it was all an act…

That malevolent smirk had faltered. Just for an instant.

"I can tell, sir. I can always tell."

Kristoph's gaze flashed.

"Of course."

The man drew closer, fingers edging towards Apollo's face. Apollo's skin prickled.

"I can see it now," Kristoph continued. The murderer gently lifted Apollo's chin and studied his expression, scouring for answers. "There's something about you that I simply cannot comprehend…"

The intense gaze made Apollo shrink. He tightened his fists, panic sparking in some deep crevice of his mind.

"Something uncanny," Kristoph finished.

And in one swift movement, the murderer grabbed his face threw him to the side.

The sudden force staggered Apollo. He stumbled and barely regained his balance, knocked a few feet away from the windowsill.

Not good. Apollo looked up, only to find Kristoph's cold fury closing in on him.

"Perhaps it is your pitiful attachment to me," Kristoph hissed. The man strode forward with remarkable haste, each step more aggressive than the last. "Or your disgusting need to remain in control."

Apollo held out a hand, hoping to stop the advance. "I'm just trying to—"

"Ruin things, Justice."

Kristoph reached for his wrist, but Apollo pulled back immediately. He walked backwards, keeping his palms raised in a placating gesture.

"You need me, Gavin," he said. "To help you. You need to let me help—"

"Don't."

Kristoph halted, only an inch away.

Apollo lost the strength to move.

Then, it happened.

Kristoph pulled him forward by the front of his shirt, other hand positioned to strike. Apollo looked away and squeezed his eyes shut, preparing for the blow. He should've known, right? He really should've known.

But the beating never came.

After a few seconds, he decided to risk a glance. His heart beat wildly as he swiveled his head towards Kristoph, as if preparing to break out of his body the moment the battering began.

It stopped when he caught a glimpse of Kristoph's look.

The man's piercing glare had lost all its steel. Instead, conflict muddled the criminal's gaze. Kristoph's lowered arm still raced with pulsing veins, but…it had been dropped to his side. Even the grip on Apollo's shirt hung loose, hanging only by a—

"Get out of my sight."

And Kristoph let him go.

Apollo buried his head into his pillow, wishing that he could scream endlessly. Nothing was helping. Not the comfort of his own bed. Not his cat, clawing through her cage. Granted, he'd never expected to be allowed back in his room alone, but he didn't think he'd feel so…so…

"Miserable," as Clay had called him, right after he'd broken down over punching his own best friend.

He sighed. He hadn't even done the punching this time.

Surprisingly, no one had.

It should never have gone that far.

He stretched, slipping off the mattress with his blankets wrapped all around him. The fact that Kristoph wasn't watching him meant close to nothing. After scrambling to his room, he had almost no energy left for existing, let alone taking advantage of the situation.

Freedom was worthless.

"What do you think, Calico?" he prompted, kneeling beside the cat's cage. He cast a tired smile when she batted against his fingers. "Isn't it pointless to get out of here?"

Two demanding mews verbalized the feline's staunch disagreement. Apollo laughed under his breath.

"Alright, alright. But I can't let you out just yet." He fiddled with the crate's lock, losing whatever little joy he'd gained. "It's not safe."

With all the physical confrontations, mental abuse, and existential crises that had happened in the span of a few days…he'd rather trade places with her, honestly.

Quite a pretty kitty, aren't you?

"Pretty kitty," he muttered. Calico purred.

Apollo stared.

No way.

"Pretty kitty," he said again. This time, his cat rubbed her head against the cage door, clearly hoping for some affection.

Apollo stuck his fingers through the bars and rubbed her ears, his mind vaulting into a whole new realm of shock.

My cat loves a murderer.

He was going to be sick.

He shuddered, turning away from Calico. Of course, it made sense. Kristoph had been the one caring for her lately…or, rather, pampering her. Besides, the man hadn't really hurt the cat. The most he'd done was scare her in the beginning, to keep her away from—

Wait.

Apollo stood up, pacing around his room. An idiot. That's what he was. After all those times recounting the confrontation, not once had he considered that…

Kristoph decided not to hurt me.

In a similar situation with Clay, even he had lost it. Sure, he'd felt guilty and was remorseful right after, but in the end…well, he'd still punched his closest friend.

Kristoph, on the other hand, had resisted.

Why did I hit Clay, anyway?

Two reasons. The first—he'd been upset about Clay's insistence to help. What had Clay even known about him, anyway? About his life? About…trauma? Any "help" Clay had tried to offer felt meaningless—after all, Apollo didn't even know what it entailed.

So that's what had gotten him angry in the first place. And the second reason…

I was in denial.

Clay was right in the end, of course. Even after decking him, Apollo had known he was. Still, the second he'd been backed into a corner, he'd lashed out.

Kristoph hadn't.

He's not denying it.

On some level, Kristoph must have recognized that Apollo was speaking in the criminal's best interest. In fact, considering how perceptive the man was, it would be strange if he hadn't caught on. And yet, despite his violent nature…he'd held back. Why?

Reason 1. Apollo hadn't bothered defining what "help" meant.

He glanced at the cracked mirror on the other side of the room, shivering. Kristoph had been right. It'd be stupid of him to demand stories from the man all day long, in a feeble attempt to conduct pseudo-psychotherapy. A law degree didn't qualify him to unravel someone's deep-rooted trauma—especially when he hadn't even dealt with his own.

He could only do what he knew.

I can change his perspective.

Courtroom drama had given him his fair share of grief. In the end, though, it had also gifted him valuable qualities: persistence, an eye for perjury, and…persuasion.

I'll convince him his father was wrong.

An indifference to murder wasn't a natural thing. It was something that had to be bred—or trained for, in Kristoph's case. No matter how much the man insisted that his father had treated him well, that's where he'd learned it all.

And, if he managed to get that far…

I can make him realize what he's done.

Apollo bit his lip, pacing faster and faster. That would be the toughest part. Kristoph had never known what it was like to value a life without conditions. Every person the man had interacted with had been played as a pawn—a rusty cog, only to be disposed of when time ran out.

Even now, the days were slipping away.

What can I say?

If there was one thing to remember in this situation, it was that Kristoph had the upper hand. After all, Apollo wasn't the one in control. One wrong move could still cost his existence.

He could just kill me if he thinks I'm too—

A crunch.

Apollo jumped, his foot retracting the second he sensed he was stepping on something fragile. All that walking back and forth had made him lose his place. He knelt down, inspecting what he had just crushed.

It was his cell phone.

Spidery cracks spread along the chipped screen, fragmenting his shocked expression. Gingerly, he lifted it up, minding the tiny glass fragments sparkling on its surface. He'd thought Kristoph had gotten rid of it already. It was a surprise to find it lying here, albeit broken beyond repair.

Apollo ran his fingers along the edge, cursing himself. This was what had almost shattered him. He aimlessly pressed his thumb against the home button, wondering whether he could ask Kristoph to toss it in the fire.

The device flickered on.

Multicolored lines stretched and spazzed across the display, glitching his list of notifications. Apollo froze.

It was working.

He blinked once or twice, watching the phone flash a series of white bars between the bright texts.

It. Was. Working.

He shot to his feet, trying to make out whatever was on the screen. First thing's first, he had to call the police. Or text them, in case Kristoph was listening in. He'd hide in his closet until they arrived, only crawling out once he heard them break down the door.

Or maybe he should contact Phoenix. It'd been days…the man had to be worried. If anyone would know what to do, it would be Phoenix Wright, for sure. Besides, he could finally say how sorry he was about everything, how he never meant what he'd said and…and…

Klavier had already messaged him.

Justice please don't go out. I'm begging you stay inside

Strange. He hadn't expected Klavier to reach out after their last encounter, never mind with such a frantic tone…

Stay there, don't leave. Herr Wright and I will help you, please believe us, don't go

Apollo held his breath.

Phoenix and Klavier were trying to help him.

They know. God, they've figured it out and they're gonna get me out of here and—

DON'T LEAVE YOUR APARTMENT.

All-caps. It was an order.

They had planned something.

He tried to scroll further, but the phone's screen glowed a blinding white. Then, without warning…it finally died.

Adrenaline coursed through Apollo's system.

They're going to save me.

His hands shook, fingers twitching on the inky screen.

I'm going to LIVE.

Apollo placed the device back on the ground, being extremely careful to leave it exactly as he found it. If Kristoph found out, he'd be a goner. All he had to do was lock himself in this room until they got him out, and he'd be free at last.

Free at last…

For some reason, the idea started to depress him.

Moments ago, escape seemed pointless. But now…now, he wondered. What would it be like when he got out? Would Phoenix forgive him? Would Klavier? And what about all the police questioning? The inevitable trial? Kristoph being hauled to prison again, right in front of his eyes?

Would Kristoph resent him?

He sat on his bed, feeling the weight of the world press down on his shoulders. He'd resolved to help the man, not abandon him. Besides, with Phoenix and Klavier arranging to set him free, didn't he have some ground now? If he played it safe, could he—?

No, no. Out of all the things he could be thinking, he knew he shouldn't be worry about that. He was the one who had suffered. He didn't deserve another shred of pain.

But would he really be satisfied being the victim in this case?

I've always been the ace.

Apollo took a deep breath.

After one last moment of peace, he opened the door and entered the living room.

The minute he stepped out, Kristoph's eyes flicked towards him. The man was tending to a smaller fire this time. The last of the logs crumbled under the same old iron poker, each piece of wood turning ashen with a few delicate prods.

"Speak," Kristoph commanded. The icy tone, accompanied by the unflinching gaze, stopped Apollo in his tracks.

Still, he stared back.

"I want to play the game."

"What?"

The murderer turned away from the growing flames, dragging the poker out of the glowing embers. Apollo crossed his arms.

"Let's play the game."

Bitterness warped Kristoph's face. The criminal tossed the iron bar aside, striding closer to him.

"And why should I agree, Justice?" Kristoph seethed. "I've taken everything from you. You have nothing to give."

"What about my life?"

The man halted, casting him an incredulous look.

"Don't be ridiculous."

Apollo drummed his fingers.

"If you win, I'll drink your drug-laced tea on Thursday. This time…a lethal dose." Kristoph furrowed his brow, opening his mouth. Apollo held up a hand and continued. "All on my own. You wouldn't have to think about ending me anymore—I'd do it myself."

Silence. Apollo brushed back his hair, feeling pushed to explain further.

"You know how drugs work, Mr. Gavin. I'd be lucky if I didn't die, but even if I lived, I'd be messed up for the rest of my—"

"I know," Kristoph snapped. The man seemed just about ready to finish the job himself, but didn't protest. "And if I fail?"

Apollo paused. Kristoph glared at him, equal parts impatient and intrigued.

"Well, Justice? What do you hope to gain?"

Apollo sighed, closing his eyes.

"Your trust, sir. I'd just like you to trust me."

A/N: The "dead man's hand" is a two-pair poker hand consisting of black aces and black eights. These cards were reportedly held by an Old West gunslinger, Wild Bill, when he was murdered while playing a game.