"Get up, Phoenix Wright!"

Standing above him, rolling her whip back into her hands after cracking it against the edge of the unfamiliar bed, stood Franziska. She looked angry, eyes flashing as she pulled her arm back again –

"Wait, no no, 'm up, I –" Phoenix reeled, bleary, to his knees, getting tangled in the sheets and stopping mid-sentence to cover his mouth as nausea rolled through him. "…awake…"

"Good," Franziska sniffed, still glaring. She tucked her whip beneath her arm, then shoved a glass of water into his left hand, and two pills into his right, curtly said, "You have five minutes to shower," and left the room.

Phoenix stared woozily after her. Looked down at his hands. Swallowed the pills, the water, tripped getting out of bed.

The shower helped a little bit. He felt more alert, he could remember Franziska scolding him yesterday, but the time between there and wherever here was still remained totally blank, and – and she was waiting in the kitchenette, whip tapping against her hip, with a palpable fury radiating off of her. She jerked her head up at the sight of him, pointing at the table.

Phoenix sunk silently into his seat, watching her warily. After a moment of just staring, she spun around to snatch a plate off the counter behind her and slam it down in front of him.

"Eat," she hissed.

"Uh," Phoenix replied. He looked down at his eggs and bacon. "What about-"

"I ate three hours ago, fool!"

"…Oh."

The silence was brutal. Phoenix tucked in, reluctantly at first, but the simple food was good and he abruptly realized he was very hungry. His head was starting to clear a little bit, just enough to fully process the dread evoked by Franziska standing by the counter, just watching him eat. She didn't even sit down, or look away once. Phoenix could feel himself starting to sweat.

Once his plate was empty, Franziska impatiently whisked it away. She filled another glass of water and forcefully set it down before him, then glared until he drank that down too. When he finished, she put it under the tap again –

"I'm sorry," Phoenix blurted, unable to take the tension any longer. He'd never been cared for so menacingly in his life. "And thanks."

"You were a pathetic sight last night," she told him, eyes narrowing accusingly. "More pathetic than I've ever seen you, which is difficult to achieve."

"…Thanks," he said again, much less gratefully.

"You were hopeless," Franziska snapped, "something I never thought I'd see on such an idealistic fool as you."

"Yeah, well," he laughed bitterly, "I don't know if you've heard…"

"Shut your mouth," Franziska commanded, and she sounded so upset that he did. Her hands were squeezing around her whip, her lips trembling a little. "I've read the news. I know exactly what happened, Phoenix Wright."

He could hear the disappointment in her voice; felt shame roiling in his gut to match.

"The last time we spoke," she said, red rising on her cheeks, "I told you, there are people who believe in you. I told you –"

"I'm sorry," Phoenix told her softly, aching: "I'm sorry, Franziska."

"No!" She shook her head back and forth. "Don't give up – fix this!"

"I don't know how." He took a risk, and reached out to touch her hand. She gripped back tightly, taking a step closer. "I don't think I can."

"You can and you will!" she demanded, and Phoenix couldn't help but smile. She was trying so hard. His heart felt bruised, painfully swollen.

"…I'll try."

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