It came as no surprise to any who knew him when Kristoph was found Not Guilty. Not to his would-be scapegoat Phoenix Wright, who had studied him for years, and least of all to his brother Klavier.

The Judge was the only one surprised when Kristoph motioned to defend himself. "The last time a defendant gave his own defense was Phoenix Wright's second trial," he remarked. "Seeing as you confessed, you won't be as fortunate." But Kristoph was meticulous: with Klavier disqualified as his brother (and therefore potentially-biased), and that troublesome Miles Edgeworth conveniently incapacitated (at his clever contrivance), that left only Winston Payne to prosecute.

Running circles around Winston Payne was not even an interesting challenge, but for his life and freedom, Kristoph would deal with a dull morning. Wright's imitation of a letter was inadmissible as evidence. And his own confession? Simply a slip of the tongue, not made in sound mind. No, this was a proper court where evidence ruled, and without that farce of a jurist system, the court had no grounds to convict him. None at all.

Kristoph smirked at the Judge's distraught expression, his hand trembling so badly that the gavel skittered across his bench. "This court finds the defendant. . . Mr. Kristoph Gavin. . . n-not. . . g-g-guilty," he stammered out in disbelief.

"Thank you, your honor," Kristoph replied smoothly, sweeping out of the courtroom.

It seemed the police department was not prepared for his unanticipated victory. Apologetically, the Chief of Police informed him that the release paperwork had not been prepared. It would be sent first thing in the morning, and would he mind staying one more night?

Kristoph graciously inclined his head, the picture of poise and elegance. "All right," he agreed.


That night, he died mysteriously in his sleep.


In the coming days, everyone was a suspect. A pale and disheveled Klavier led the investigation to find his brother's killer.

"The preliminary autopsy shows atroquinine poisoning as the cause of death. Fatal concentrations were detected in his blood," Ema Skye reported.

He had seen his brother alive and well at half past five that evening, right before closing time, to congratulate him frostily on his undeserved acquittal. The body was discovered at six the next morning. That narrowed down the murder time to the span of one evening-and-night. Wordlessly, Klavier nodded and began drawing up a list of all who had access to the poison. . . and to the prison.

Number one on the list was formerly-disgraced ex-lawyer Phoenix Wright. He certainly had the motive. Possibly not the temperament for murder, Klavier mused, but perhaps he'd changed more from the naïve, idealistic fool of his former self. In the last year alone, he'd hatched and executed vicious plans, forged evidence, installed illegal surveillance devices, and, most damning of all, he'd knowingly allowed the Mishams to be poisoned. He'd taken note of the nail polish, had his suspicions, and still told the Mishams nothing.

"Me?" Wright sat in the questioning room, head cocked to the side, staring at Klavier with a blank expression. "Why would I do that?"

"You knew he was guilty, and you couldn't bear to see him walk free," Klavier guessed. "You must have been afraid of his revenge, so you took him out before he could get to you."

"It's a good theory, but it's just a theory," Wright said. "Check the security cameras. I wasn't anywhere in the prison yesterday or today."

"You could have planted the poison sooner!"

"The last time I was there was before the Misham trial," Wright said. "Kristoph's trial date hadn't been set. He didn't even have a trial date yet. Don't you think it's too coincidental that this happened right before his release? The poison was most likely planted after his verdict."

It was a hurdle, but not an insurmountable one, and Klavier knew one way Phoenix could still have done it. Or rather, a person who would have done anything for him.

It was time to pay the Chief Prosecutor a visit. Klavier burst into the office without knocking. "Why were you in the prison yesterday evening?" he demanded, brandishing the visitors log.

Chief Prosecutor Edgeworth startled, the tip of his fountain pen ripping through his report, and Klavier took the slightest twinge of pleasure in his pinched expression. Edgeworth pulled a hand over his face.

"Gavin, I understand that you are upset over your brother's death, and you have my condolences. I assure you, I was not involved," Edgeworth said crisply. "I arrived at the crack of dawn to interview maximum-security inmate Ms. Cadenza on matters of national security. How that unlucky timing played out is truly unfortunate, or I would have been prosecuting."

"Do you have—"

Edgeworth held up a finger. "As I was about to say, if you'll go to the evidence lockers, you'll find my body camera with my entire, unedited visit." He sighed then. "This city's defense attorneys have shown that you never know when a video will prove invaluable evidence. As you will see, at no point did I interact with your brother."

It was still possible, Klavier thought, poring over the video frame by frame. For several minutes, Edgeworth's hands are not in view. It's conceivable that he may have handed something off behind his back. A letter, perhaps with instructions? The paper would have been easy to destroy. But how would he detect a letter? This line of reasoning would almost certainly be a dead end.

Ruefully, he considered going back to Wright. The man could walk into any crime scene, and luck would smile upon him, and he'd pick up a key scrap of evidence in a trash bin or something. Klavier himself could count on no such luck.

Instead, he'd try starting at the other end. At five-thirty, they'd shared a bottle of celebratory whiskey on the rocks, the best that Klavier could find on short notice: a polite offering to the brother he'd have to go on seeing if he wanted to stay in law. Tampered whiskey? he wrote on his notepad, then crossed it out. He'd brought it sealed, and they'd shared it, after all, Klavier gulping his down, and Klavier himself was alive and well. "Visiting hours are almost over," he'd said through gritted teeth, when in truth he couldn't stand the smug expression on Kristoph's face, as if escaping justice were a game. He'd left in a hurry, leaving the half-emptied bottle behind for Kristoph to gloat over at his leisure.

The bottle would still be at the crime scene. He sent a quick message to Ema to have it tested.

Who could have had access to his brother that night? He sent for the footage from outside his brother's door, sped it up, and watched it from start to finish, making note of every small discrepancy, ever minor shake of the camera. No one came in or out, but perhaps it had been taped over. Sighing, he added his notes to the growing pile of theories and transcripts. . . .

The creak of his office door jarred him from his thoughts. "The bottle was clean, and. . . I have something else," Ema said, low and anxious. Klavier looked at her again, noting her hunched shoulders and downcast eyes. "I have the final autopsy results. There were traces of nail polish found on his teeth. . . they think it was. . . I'm sorry," she finished regretfully, almost a whisper. "They're still searching for a letter or a motive." Not meeting his eyes, she set the autopsy report on the table and fled.

Klavier read the report, then read it again. He didn't put it down until he'd read it through a third time. He sank down onto the couch and buried his face in his hands, shoulders shaking.


Helpless, wheezing laughter escaped through his fingers. "So you knew," Klavier murmured.


Kristoph had seen enough atroquinine poisoning to recognize the first, faint chest pains. His eyes widened in a confused jumble of emotions: shock, betrayal, and fear, but most of all, outrage. "How?" he gasped.

It had to be the whiskey, but that made no sense. He'd prepared the glasses himself, adding two cubes of ice to each and breaking the seal on the bottle. He'd handed a glass to Klavier, who'd taken it carelessly and hadn't seemed fussed about which he received. Klavier had drank his entire glass in quick, large swallows, without hesitation. And Kristoph knew his brother did not have a death wish.

His eyes fell on the glasses: his own empty one, and the melted ice pooling in the one Klavier had left behind.

"Ah," he murmured.

He pictured Klavier, a terrible, avenging force, mixing a single drop of atroquinine into his ice tray. Meting out punishment where the courts could not. Klavier had a flair for grand, dramatic gestures. . . and for taking the law into his own hands.

Not that he himself was any different. Kristoph snickered. It was a pity he couldn't see how alike they were.

The next time he hunched over, wheezing for breath, his torment was tempered by pride. If he had to die, at least he'd been defeated by a worthy foe.

Besting him deserved its own reward. He reached into his drawer for the nail polish.


"So you decided to help me in the end," Klavier said out loud to the empty office. His notes would tell a picturesque tale of a grieving brother's sincere investigation, and Kristoph's quick thinking—a last falsification of evidence—would set an indisputable scene.

"Thank you, brother," Klavier said, raising a glass. "It's nice to know you cared for me after all."