Chapter Text
Miles Edgeworth couldn’t wait to get home, a fourteen hour plane ride wasn’t the easiest journey. Especially when you got off the plane at one in the morning... He couldn't help but sigh before getting into his car and driving to the prosecutor's office. Unfinished paperwork wouldn’t finish itself, and he certainly wouldn’t mind the peace and quiet.
Yet another case successfully prosecuted, it was an easy win. Both the evidence stacked in his favor, and that man wasn’t sitting on the defense bench with his miraculous luck—or bluffing talents.
It looked as if the prosecutors office was trying to stare him down, the tall building towering over him. Miles stared longingly at his 30th floor office window—dreading the stairs more than the paperwork at this god-forsaken hour.
Assuming that nobody would be at work, he reached for his keycard to be let into the main doors. There wasn’t a receptionist in sight to help him, as they’d likely gone home hours ago. The hall lights were on, a thing they usually turned mostly off after everybody was gone. Miles headed towards the stairwell, taking note of the lights. Looked like he wasn’t the only one working late.
Approaching the door to his office, he reached for the key in his suit pocket, hesitating just enough to realize the door wasn’t locked. Miles knew he had locked it, usually always one to double-check his office. Glancing both ways down the hallway, the quick check brought up nothing suspicious; Maybe he was just misremembering? He never was the one to trust his memory.
Swinging his office door open, the dark room—illuminated only by the light of the moon—was a comforting beacon to tired eyes. Setting down his briefcase, his hand reached for the desk lamp. Before he could reach anything, let alone turn on a light, he felt himself get grabbed tightly from behind. A death grip forcing him to stay still.
“Unhand me this instant!” Miles shouted, whipping his head to the side. In an attempt to see the face of his assailant, only for his head to be forced back in place. “Who are you!? What do you want!?” A thousand questions flashed through his mind, yet none were answered.
“Don’t move,” the assailant hissed—voice muffled by the mask covering their mouth. With no audible way to identify the culprit, not even their gender could be discerned. Panic began to rise in Miles’ chest, but he attempted to stay calm.
“You prosecuted the wrong person, Miles Edgeworth.” The voice Taunted, the anger and excitement just barely audible under the muffled tone. The assailant's nails dug into his skin, nearly breaking it.
“That case was open and shut!” Miles snapped, frustration growing by the minute—especially at this hour. “All of the evidence clearly pointed to the defendant's guilt in the matter. I merely did my job.”
He stated this with a certainty that reflected his thoughts—a belief that the assailant didn’t intend to kill him. Surely they didn't? He was a high profile prosecutor after all.
“I don’t think you quite understand your position here,” sneered the Assailant, a gun muzzle pressing against Miles’ head. The feeling of the cold metal made the man stiffen—his heart rate quickening involuntarily despite his stoic face.
“I understand perfectly well,” he replied, attempting to stall or find some way to escape. “What do you want from me?”
“That’s an easy question.” The assailant chuckled. “Your eternal silence.” The laughter quickly died in his throat, leaving nothing more than a chilling edge. Miles quickly knew that past the fading amusement, the figure still savored the sinister thrill of toying with a life.
“And why, pray tell, would you want me silenced?” Miles inquired. He tried to keep his voice as steady as possible—refusing to show any weakness. He was aware of how dire the situation was; but lest he panic, would likely have him killed faster.
“You’re onto our little… organization. We can’t have that, can we?” The perpetrator smirked, hostility dripping from his lips.
Miles couldn’t help but let his eyes narrow at the comment. “Organization?” he echoed. “And you believe I pose some sort of threat to it?”
“Oh? We know you’re a threat.” The figure laughed at the naïve statement, especially one that came from the oh-so-esteemed prosecutor. “Our little organization doesn’t take threats lightly,” the figure continued—a smile just barely audible in his voice.
Miles nodded slowly at the attacker’s words, aware of the implications in it—especially as he just recently put a major criminal behind bars. There was a possibility this wasn’t a general revenge from the organization, but actually one targeted directly towards him. The notion of that made him worried. “Let me guess,” he said. “You’re here to make sure I stay quiet.” The bluntness to his voice didn’t go unnoticed, a mask to hide his fear.
“Bingo!” the invader hummed. “Right once again, Miles Edgeworth. You truly are the demon prosecutor.”
Miles’ eyes darted around the room. He desperately needed to survive this—an escape route, a weapon, something. His panicked mind kept going back to the same things that man always did—bluff. “You're wasting your time. Killing me won’t change anything. Others will take on the investigation after me. And once they do, you stand no chance.”
The assailant, voice laced in annoyance, caught the bluff almost the second it came from his mouth. “Deceit and games, huh? You really don’t want to take this seriously?” the figure smirked. “They’ll never even know I was here, let alone who killed you.”
“Perhaps.” Miles conceded, his eyes still calculating some good ending—any good ending—but the confidence in the perpetrator's tone told him otherwise. The only chance he had was to keep bluffing hoping someone would find him—or even just hear something.
“Even if you manage to dispose of me, you will only be buying yourself time. I’m not the only lawyer alive. We will take you down. With or without me”
The brave façade began to falter off Miles's face, as the assailant seethed with rage from his repeated bluffs. They seemed to be doing the opposite effect that had been intended. Miles felt the gun press closer to his head, the cold metal touching his temple. The fear of the situation creeping into his heart, the forced stoic demeanor he had always worn like a badge, was slipping and fast.
Almost as if it was a mechanical savior, he heard a faint voice come from the attacker's earpiece. “Don’t use the gun, it’ll alert too many people.” With almost a start of relief, Miles relaxed. The subtle relief quickly squashed by the realization the assaulter wasn’t alone. Someone was pulling the strings, watching from afar.
Pulled from his thoughts by an annoyed scoff, the attacker did not like being told what to do. Miles took a quick mental note of this interaction, it would be helpful once this was over—if he even survived until then.
The assailant grabbed a small metal case out of their trench coat pocket, their grip loosening just enough where Miles could fight. He took that opportunity the very second it managed to present itself, kicking against the attacker who quickly grabbed him again.
“Wh- what are you doing?!” Miles barely managed to escape his mouth before a hand quickly covered it, forcing a small capsule down his throat. Despite him fighting back to not swallow it was quickly coaxed down his throat, the bitter taste coating his tongue.
Snickering in satisfaction, the figure let go quickly before rushing towards the doorway, pausing in it just long enough for a farewell greeting. “I bid you adieu, Miles Edgeworth. I wish I could stay and watch, but I really must go.”
As if to taunt him, by the time the attackers words reached Miles’s ears, pure, unfiltered agony began to course through his veins. This, he thought, may be the end of the great prosecutor once known as Miles Edgeworth.