Atroquinine Deadly: Oh, thank you so much! It's supposed to be sad(ish). There's a lot more where that came from, lol. Thanks for reviewing! Means a lot. *gives cookie of choice*

Sakana-Chan63: Well, Miles did tell Phoenix to meet him at his office. He'll spill the beans for our protagonist later on. Next chapter, I think. Thanks a lot for reviewing! I take more pride in my Miles POV parts, 'cuz I think I'm more descriptive, so this one should be better! *gives another cookie from jar*

Disclaimer: I don't own Ace Attorney or its affiliates. I only wish I did. That is a lifetime of happiness right there.

Enjoy, please!

Miles buried his head in his hands, massaging his pounding temples with a thumb and forefinger. His tea was cold, it was past 10 o'clock, and he'd gotten almost nowhere. The detectives and investigative teams had found no possible murder weapons that matched the wound at the scene, had no suspects besides the 'witness' (Anyone who had a motive also had a solid alibi), and there were almost no clues. All that was found was a piece of a ripped photo depicting the victim himself, and nothing else besides what looked like the background of the court lobby. The picture had been found balled up in the victim's left hand. There were no fingerprints to find besides the victim's. To most, this piece of evidence was worthless.

Miles, though, had his theories. His first and foremost thought was assassination. The picture could have been the killer's 'calling card' of sorts. It would explain how clean the scene had been. And right now, it was Miles' best guess. All that was left was the most important piece of the puzzle: Who exactly would've hired a professional assassin, and why? And, personally, why would one feel the need to assassinate Larry?

With a groan, Miles lifted his head from his hands and began to gather the paperwork together, which consisted only of the autopsy report, the case file, the picture, and scene photographs. It could all wait until tomorrow, when he was well-rested and could actually think clearly.

The hall was deserted, and the fluorescent bulbs that hung in the ceiling light fixtures were dimmed, low enough that Miles' eyes were forced to widen. Black briefcase in hand, he carefully made his way down the carpeted steps that led to the lobby and freedom. Only a few steps before the sliding double doors, however, he caught wind of a familiar voice.

"Mr. Edgeworth, sir!" Gumshoe called out behind him.

The prosecutor swore under his breath and whirled to face the detective. "What do you want?" he asked impatiently. He was glaring, and quite dangerously, without even realizing it until the former flinched back fearfully. Sighing, Miles closed his eyes and let his face relax from the hard lines of stress. Gentler, he repeated, "What is it, Detective?"

The incompetent burl of a man in front of him shifted his foot, staring bashfully at his own poorly-crafted size-14 boots. "We... we got an update on the case, like you asked us to, sir..."

"As much as I honestly appreciate it, Detective Gumshoe, can't this wait until tomorrow?"

"See, sir, that's just the thing..." He nervously rubbed the edge of his filthy green coat between a thumb and forefinger - did it possibly get any dirtier since the last time Miles saw him? - and still refused to meet the prosecutor's eyes. "See, the tecchies are still processing it now, so technically it's supposed to wait 'til tomorrow, but I wanted to tell you before you left: ...The weapon's been identified, pal. Sir."

Miles quieted his internal fidgeting - Miles Edgeworth does not do physical fidgeting - and stared the coated man down. "Are you quite positive?" he asked incredulously.

"Sure as a fiddle!" He seemed proud of himself for creating a simile.

...Detective, I do believe it's 'sure as can be'... 'Fiddle' is something entirely different...Choosing to gracefully overlook Gumshoe's previous statement, he inquired slowly, "And? What was it?"

"A switchblade of some sort. Jagged edges, the like. Found it on the street half a mile away. Spent all night trying to find it." The detective puffed out his chest proudly until his face fell. "Can't give it to you 'til tomorrow, though, pal. Sorry."

He would never admit it aloud, but Miles admired the man's undying loyalty, as well as - excepting the fact that it took some time to get him on the right track - his hard-working attitude. Reminding himself of such, Miles put on a small smile. "That's just as well. Good work." As he began to turn away, he added, "Now, go home, detective, and get some sleep. We have a lot ahead of us come tomorrow."

"But-"

"That's an order, detective." Miles was, by now, halfway out the doors to the parking lot, wearing a partial smirk. "Have a good night."

By the time Phoenix returned to the office that day, it was past 7 o'clock. Maya was still lounging on the couch, her legs dangling off of the armrests as she oscillated between dreary wakefulness and shallow sleep.

The shades were open, solely because Maya was too lazy to close them. The windows were now practically purposeless, as they filtered in nothing but the gloomy shadows from the darkening overcast skies.

She cracked her eyes open at the sound of the door unlocking, and actually attempted to struggle into a sitting position when she heard the shuffle of tired feet upon the floor. Lifting her heavy head, she searched around the office. Her eyes squinted against the hard, sudden flashes of light emanating from the muted television.

She jumped, startled, when Phoenix appeared, seemingly in the blink of an eye, to crouch close to the floor next to her.

"Nick..."

"Maya," he started, frighteningly serious. "I have...something incredibly important to say." He faced her squarely. "I will not beat around the bush to spare any feelings. I will be frank with you. Larry..." He drew in an agonizing breath. "Larry... is dead. He was murdered."

The sharp intake that stretched her lungs could only be described as a gasp. "Huh..?" Her bones hummed. "H-he... He what?" She had heard Phoenix perfectly clearly, as he had spoken plain English, and yet clarification was left wanting.

Her vision became blurry without warning; but then, so had the news - abrupt and unwanted. As she looked down at her violet-clad lap, she saw - fuzzily - her own hand beginning to clench unconsciously. A tear unlatched itself from her eye, and Phoenix held her close to him as she began to weep softly. His own fingers were white-knuckled as he gripped her arms.

Larry was -had been, Maya reminded herself - a friend. No matter how many girls he tried to date, no matter what idiotic idea came next - he would be sorely missed.

She mentally shook herself, and steadily her flow of salty tears dried. She was a Fey - Hell, she was the Master of Kurain - and therefore must stay strong. She could not -would not- cry.

Suddenly she felt her body being rocked back and forth in a gentle swaying motion. She had been unaware that she had blanked out with her head in the clouds for several minutes now. "Nick..." she heard herself whisper, with an oddly cracked voice, "...I'm sorry..." She knew that Phoenix had been closer to the deceased than she had. She pulled away to study her friend's expression, which was downcast and depressed, his eyes almost glazed.

He looked up to meet her gaze when he felt the pressure of her observations, and tried to smile weakly. "He wouldn't want us to be upset," he murmured, more to reassure himself than anything else. Slowly, stiffly, he rose from his crouching position, causing the young spirit medium to need to look up to see him, and she noticed a small, dark, damp patch on his shoulder where her tears had fallen.

"B-but… But how? Why?" she couldn't stop herself from asking, despite how desperately cliché it was.

Her spiky-haired friend shook his head, and indication that he'd rather not say right yet; he needed more time. Quietly, solemnly, he said, "I... have to go... Trucy needs me..." He watched her closely as she rose also, as if calculating her response. "Will you be alright... getting home by yourself?" He referred to the small hotel room she stayed at, not far from the office.

She gave a tiny nod to console him of this fact, though her eyes were still filled with desolate sadness as they searched the room to land on anything but Phoenix.

He pulled Maya into one last embrace, holding her against his chest as he gave a tight squeeze, before turning away painfully and leaving the office in silent darkness behind him. The girl was left to stare after him, long after his lanky figure had retreated through the door. Falling back upon the couch, she twisted around to stare blankly and blindly at the television that still flashed and blinked merrily, as though there was not a care in the world. Angrily, Maya violently punched the off button, though even after the annoyance was reduced to nothing but a black, lifeless screen, she continued to stare in its general direction as her thoughts wandered to topics she could no longer recall only a few seconds later.

But isn't that the way with everything in life? Maya asked herself sadly. To grow and prosper, only to disappear through mists with no way of returning?

He fingered the thick, waxy paper, feeling the fingerprinted smoothness of the photograph between his thumb and index. A small smirk was plastered upon his mouth, where it had stayed for about an hour now. It grew as he observed the next person at the end of the picture.

Some said he was mad. He'd heard their whispers, their rumors. It didn't matter; it would all be over soon. They'll see. And they'll regret it, too, while he was procuring his inevitably glorious rise for the future.

Maybe he was insane. If he was, he didn't care. He would have a method to his madness. A tiny chuckle began to rumble throatily from the pit of his stomach, and then grew as he stared even harder at the flat – yet so vital – object that he held in his left hand. In his right, there rested a miniscule glass bottle, corked and sealed with wax. It was so old fashioned of him, but it didn't matter what the container looked like. What mattered was the five tablespoons of fine white powder inside that he had readied for just one person. Five, incredibly lethal tablespoons of strychnine that he was using mostly for show.

His chuckles, as terrifying as they were, quieted now, but his self-assured smirk remained. With a cock of his head, he continued to stare at the torn photograph. Perhaps he was mad.

OOOOH, more of the 'missing photograph' mystery is explained!

The next chapter reveils a lot more, trust me, but the plot is still weighed heavily with the stench of despair.

hee... hee... hee...

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