A week or two passed after that fateful talk. Edgeworth had been working late on a Friday—what else was he supposed to do in the middle of a trial?—and the phone had rung. He'd looked down at the display: it was Wright's work number. Edgeworth sighed in annoyance, but picked it up. "Yes? Please keep it brief, Wright, I'm busy.""

"So, um," said Wright's voice, sounding nervous as hell. "Edgeworth. I didn't really know who else to call."

This was already starting off badly: it sounded like the beginning of a long confession about a screwup at trial, or something personal about missing Maya. He raised a hand to his temples, sighing. "About what?"

"Well, you see, there's a guy here..." Edgeworth heard Wright swallowing on the other end of the line. "He wanted me to call someone who could help him. And I know you could, right?"

"Help him with what?" Edgeworth asked irritably. "Wright, I don't have time for this."

There was a silence. He heard Wright talking to someone else; then there was a whisper. "Miles... Miles, he's got a gun." Then, in a louder voice, "I really want to trust this guy, he seems like he's really in trouble. He got arrested, he's on the run, but he didn't do it. That's why I let him into the office. And he needs your help, he said I could have one phone call."

That was enough. Edgeworth had been working for fifteen hours straight, and had a pre-trial hearing in the morning for which he still had to finish paperwork. "Wright," he snapped, "this isn't funny. I remember it being hilarious when Maya said it at the pizza parlor, but this late at night while I'm at work, I'm not amused."

"But I'm not joking," said Wright's voice, pleadingly. Edgeworth detected a tremor, and mistakenly thought it was laughter.

Furiously, he answered, "Then tell him you trust him. That you know he didn't do it. But guess what, Wright? I don't trust him. Nor do I trust your judgment, calling me like this."

"Wait!" Wright protested. "Please, please don't hang up, Miles!" Edgeworth was already reaching out to replace the receiver, and the sound of his name being called over the line was faint.

Just before it reached the cradle, a loud crack rang out from the receiver. It clattered to the desk.

So now he stood in the hospital, grieving and guilt-ridden and miserable. Edgeworth hadn't even called Maya to tell her yet: she was back in Kurain, and no one would think to call her but him. He hated himself for not doing so. Unless he could summon the courage to tell her that he'd gotten their best friend, the man he loved, shot... Edgeworth was alone.

That was the worst part.

"Sir?" came a light voice. He turned to see one of the ICU nurses. "Sir, I know we said no visitors, but..." She smiled. "Well, let's just say we admire you, for all the work you do in our city, Mr. Edgeworth. And you won't disturb anything, right?"

Edgeworth felt the breath catch in his throat. "No," he said quietly. "No, of course not."

She didn't say anything else, just extended a hand toward the room. Edgeworth stepped forward; it had been a long time since anyone he'd known had been in the hospital, and just being in the place made his skin crawl.

"I'll come back soon," the nurse said, and left him alone. The glass door hissed shut behind her.

There was almost no one else in the hospital; it was almost three in the morning. Wright had made it alive through the surgery, but the doctor had said his ever seeing dawn was questionable. Edgeworth wanted to cry, but there was nothing: nothing but the heavy guilt.

He suddenly felt as if he had to say something: that if the silence of the room, interrupted only by soft beeping and hissing, went on any longer, he would go mad. "I—I'm so sorry," he blurted out softly.

Wright's hand was lying at his side, one finger clipped to the heart monitor. Edgeworth reached out and took it. "We made fun of you for trusting everyone. And now you're here, because I didn't trust you." They had held hands before, and Wright's fingers had never been so cold.

Edgeworth couldn't go on for a moment. He looked up at the monitors, then down at Wright's face. Half was obscured by the oxygen mask, but those long-lashed eyes and placid brows were still visible, uncaring and dreamy. Edgeworth reached out with his other hand, touched his friend's forehead.

"And I know I could say I'll get him, that I'll find him guilty in court." Edgeworth swallowed; he never would have been able to say these words to a conscious person. Alone in this darkened room, though, allowed him to say exactly what was in his heart. "But that wouldn't make a damn difference, especially since that's what I do for a living anyway. And if you don't live, Phoenix... I—I know it's my fault you're here, that all I had to do was trust you, but please... oh please, God..."

He saw that his fingers were trembling, and snatched them away before he could do any damage, crossing his arms tightly. Edgeworth took a deep breath, wanting to take a running jump out a high window, but there wasn't one nearby. He wanted to kiss the man in front of him, but couldn't even get near his lips. Wright had been shot in the chest: he wasn't breathing on his own, and if he were awake he would be in terrible pain.

A sudden urge to kneel on the floor and pray for forgiveness raced through Edgeworth's heart; but he resisted, standing as stiffly and awkwardly as he'd stood at the defendant's bench in court. Oh, God, he thought miserably. It's time to call Maya.