Gumshoe was the one who told him the news.

He showed up at Phoenix's office, eyes rimmed red and voice a thick, throaty mess, and passed the note across Phoenix's desk.

The plastic evidence bag crinkled when Phoenix picked it up. For a moment, his eyes could only focus on the details – the letters were strong, clear. The kind of cursive that showed the writer used it every day, the kind that came out of a hundred-dollar pen. The note had been crumpled at least once before, and he found himself wondering in whose fist. Gumshoe's? Maybe. Or had Edgeworth hesitated, even after writing out that sentence so neatly, so confidently, had he trembled and shook his head and balled up his farewell, thrown it away and – but, here it was anyway. If he'd hesitated, it couldn't have been for long. He'd picked it back up out of the trash, smoothed it out, and then he'd walked out of his office and gotten into his car and driven off to – to –

"W-we still haven't found a body anywhere," Gumshoe croaked. "Or his car. He could just be –"

"No," Phoenix said, and very gently put the letter back down on his desk. He pictured Edgeworth's face, when Gant had said they were the same. "No," he repeated dully, "I don't think he is."

"Thanks for telling me, Detective," Phoenix said, and stood up. He turned his back, staring out the window at the Gatewater across the street. "I'll… let you know if I see him."

Gumshoe mumbled his thanks, but he didn't move. Phoenix glanced back, just enough to spot him out the corner of his eyes: slumped down low in his chair, lower lip thrust out in a strangely masculine pout, his hands stuffed inside the pockets of his overcoat, clenched fists pushing at the fabric.

When Phoenix turned back towards the window, his eyes dropped against his will to the space just beneath it. The space where he'd found Mia. He stood very still, staring at the spot where his mentor had died alone in the dark, and it was a slow, subtle thing, the way it gradually got harder to breathe. The way he understood, bit by bit, what the note meant.

Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

His breath hitched as the first tear slid past his nose. He didn't bother to wipe it away – wasn't sure if he'd be able to move even if he tried. He felt… above all else, cold.

What had it been, a gun? Phoenix couldn't picture that somehow – too messy, too much trauma for whichever person found him. Besides, he'd have had to acquire one first. The same issue occurred with poison – not to mention, there was a greater chance that he could only halfway succeed, and wake up damaged in a hospital somewhere. A rope was easier, but something about that just didn't strike him as Edgeworth's style, and it still left a body to deal with. Maybe he'd just driven that red sportscar of his straight off a cliff. A quick drop and a sudden stop –

Phoenix grabbed at the back of his chair for balance, a sob erupting out of him so loud and violent it shook his balance. He tried to swallow the next one back, turn his tears quiet at least if he couldn't stop them completely, but…

It was that word, chooses. That was what kept tripping him up, that was what had cut through any impulse of denial and rocketed him straight to horrific acceptance, because… yes, Edgeworth had chosen. Phoenix had seen the temptation in him before, after von Karma, but he'd thought his old friend wouldn't ever give in to it. He'd thought that, maybe with his help, gradually, they could get past it. He'd been trying to be there. He'd been waiting for Edgeworth to reach out. He'd – but instead, Edgeworth chose this. It was no mere impulse. He had weighed his options and then decided, he'd – the handwriting was so crisp, so clear, Phoenix could picture him setting down his pen with a sad, satisfied little smile – he felt sick.

A hand pressed down on his shoulder.

"P-pal," Gumshoe said roughly, but Phoenix spun away, shoulders hunching in even as they shook with each new rough gasp for air. His vision was blurry now, and this time he lifted an arm to swipe at his face, uncaring of the snot and tears he'd just smeared across his jacket. He opened his mouth wide for a deep, shuddering breath.

"You can go, now," he said, and finally turned to Gumshoe. He – it was stupid, but something about the hangdog look on the detective's face made him try to put on a smile. "Thanks again for letting me know."

Gumshoe hesitated, arm still hovering between them. He said, "It's not your –"

"I know," Phoenix hissed, so furiously he startled even himself. All the more because, in his head, all he could think was over and over again, I couldn't save him, I relaxed too soon, I wasn't there, he didn't let me save him, Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses – "It's his."

He took another deep breath; again, it hitched wetly in the middle. Gumshoe had reared back, and was staring at him with furrowed brows, and Phoenix wanted more than anything, more than anything just to be left alone, he didn't care if he had to burn bridges to make it happen.

"Goodbye, Gumshoe," He said again, and maybe there was something hard in his voice now to make it finally stick. The detective left slowly, still frowning back into the room… but nonetheless, he left.

Behind him, Phoenix sunk back down into his chair, pillowed his head in his hands, and closed his eyes. After a moment he picked up his phone, eyes still closed, and called the most recently-dialed number.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I can't take your case after all. I'm sorry."