By the time Miles returned to the Prosecutor's office, the sky had turned a dull black and cold wind stung at his cheeks. He didn't like the cold. That rainy night was as cold as this. Brushing it off, he entered the lobby, but before he could make it to his office he was once again caught by the voice of the Chief Prosecutor.

'Mr Edgeworth!' the Chief said, strolling towards him. He skipped the pleasantries. 'I understand you visited Mr Atmey a few hours ago.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And that you used - mishandled your authority to make sure no one was at the scene when you questioned him.'

'Yes, sir.'

'And you find nothing wrong with this? Didn't I tell you to leave it alone?'

'With all due respect, sir, I don't believe whatever I am doing will reach the press. I'm being very discreet.'

'You're just chasing a ghost, Edgeworth!' he repeated.

'I don't think so, sir.'

'That's how it starts, Edgeworth. Believe me, at the rate you're going you'll end up like Payne.'

Miles winced. The tragically monstrous ballad of Winston Payne, the way he had descended into cocaine addiction and drinking, cultivating in a hit-and-run which had banished him from the normal world forever, was a dark stain on the Prosecutor's office. No one talked about the subject. It was a strict taboo everyone wanted to forget about. The very fact that the Chief had spoke Payne's name meant he was serious

'I knew Payne long before you did. He was an arrogant fellow. The trouble with people like them as that they climb so high there's nothing to save them when they fall down.'

'I know what, I'm doing, sir. There's a difference between us.'

'And what's that?'

'I aim to bring justice, sir.'

Miles's phone rang, and he grabbed it. 'Er, excuse me sir, someone's calling me.'

He turned around and walked away without waiting for a dismissal. He pressed the phone to his ear.

'Maya? I told you not to call - '

Her voice was hysterical, rising higher and tumbling over his easily. He listened to her. And then his eyes went wide and he dropped the phone. It broke into pieces onto the floor. Miles didn't care.


Atmey woke from his troubled dreams to footsteps pounding down the corridor. He sat up, blinking, trying to see past the dim light. Armando was still in his bed, and in the cell next to his, De Killer was as silent as always.

The footsteps jumped nearer, and suddenly Miles Edgeworth was at the cell door, his bangs covering his eyes in dark shadow. Atmey licked his lips and grinned.

'Come to reconsider, Mr Prosecutor? I knew you would relent in the end! My friends always said I could read people like a - '

A hand grabbed him by the throat, and his head was thrown forward. Atmey's nose slammed against the bars, and he yelped in pain, and then Miles was leaning in, his dark eyes inches away from Atmey's face.

'You listen to me, you bastard. If you're bluffing, and it turns out you don't know where I can find this ghost of mine, then I will hunt you down, Atmey, and I personally will see to it that you never get out again. Do you understand?'

Atmey gulped, and nodded jerkily.

'Now tell me, are you bluffing? Nod if you're not.'

Atmey nodded even faster. The next thing he knew, the cell door was being unlocked, and he was free. He staggered outside, marveling at how bright the world once again seemed.

Then he was thrown against the wall again. 'Tell me,' Miles said, his eyes horrible. 'Tell me where he is.'

'H-hold on, Mr Prosecutor,' Atmey said, regaining some of his composure and managing a sickly grin. 'A-a man's got to have some insurance once in a while, y'know, with those dark times - '

'Get to the point.'

'The point is, Mr Prosecutor, I'm not willing to hand everything over when that wretched hole is staring at me,' Atmey glared at the dark space with loathing. 'My fucking cell. Once I'm completely out of this building, I'll tell you.'

'No. You tell me now - '

'Arrogance, Mr Prosecutor, arrogance! You're forgetting who holds all the cards here! I assure you, I am an honest man, and I will tell you all you need to know, once you let me escape completely, as agreed.'

Miles's eyes grew even darker. For a moment Atmey thought he was going to punch him. Then Miles drew back and released a shuddering sigh.

'Follow me,' he said, and started down the corridor.

He had walked too close to the bars. From the bed in his cell, De Killer leapt forward, reached out, and then it was Miles's turn to get slammed into the bars. He dropped to the floor, the keys gone from his grasp, and by the time he got up, De Killer was sprinting away. He was out of sight in seconds.

Atmey was in hysterics. 'You let not only one,' he whooped,' but two cold blooded murderers escape! How does it feel, Mr Prosecutor, to be part of the great revolution of - '

Miles punched him. It felt wonderful to punch something solid. As Atmey reeled back, clutching his nose, Miles bent down to pick up the keys from the floor. De Killer had dropped them in his wake, which was something, at least. As Miles turned them over in his hand, he had a sudden, crazy, thought. When he turned to Armando's cell, Armando was already there, looking at him.

Miles cast a sideways glance at Atmey writhing in corner. He wasn't likely to be going anywhere in a hurry.

'Mr Armando,' Miles said. 'Would you like to leave your cell?'

'What's all this, Mr Prosecutor?' Armando said, and he was not smiling. 'I thought you were a man of the law.'

'Come on, Mr Armando,' Miles said, jiggling his keys and stepping forward.

'Nope.'

'What?' Miles stopped.

'Right now I'm driving across a rocky road, Mr Prosecutor. But despite all the bumps in the potholes, it's still a road, and I'll be glad to follow it.'

'Mr Armando...'

'There's nothing out there for me anymore, Mr Prosecutor. Every car has it's lifespan, every engine splutters sooner or later...and every coffee cup turns bitter no matter how hard you try. This cell is my home now, Mr Prosecutor, and just letting me out won't change things one bit.'

To the side, Atmey was slowly getting up, and Miles knew he didn't much time. He nodded briefly. 'If you say so, Mr Armando.'

'Good luck, Mr Prosecutor.'

'You too.'

Miles left the cell and scooped Atmey up. 'Let's go.'

'You - you punched me! Inconceivable - '

Miles dealt him a hard kick in the back, and Atmey went flailing forwards. When Miles caught him before he fell, the voice that came out of his mouth sounded like a different person.

'Move. Or back in the cell.'

'Y-yes, sir, Mr Prosecutor!' It was hard to tell whether he was being sarcastic or not. The two of them flew out of the dark confines of the cell block and into the light of the lobby. There were no guards around, just as Miles had planned. He had sent them all away. No doubt the Chief Prosecutor and the others would eventually uncover his role in the grand escape, but surprisingly Miles found himself caring very little about that. It was strangely liberating.

Unexpectedly, Atmey veered off course, and Miles chased after him. He found him in the evidence room, digging through an overturned locker.

'Just getting my precious belongings, nothing to be worried about!' He snapped at Miles. He withdrew a grimy cravat, tucked it into his shirt proudly, and continued digging.

'We don't have time for you to play dress up,' Miles growled.

'No, no, wait, it's in here, just wait, you cretin!'

Finally, Atmey withdrew a crumpled envelope. He thrust it at Miles. 'There! That's all he gave me! He told me to give it to you!'

Miles clutched the envelope as if it was his lifeline. 'Did you see his face?'

'No! He was wearing some sort of stupid mask - now if there's nothing more I'll take my leave now, thank you very much!'

He pushed past Miles and left. Miles knew he should be angry at himself for letting a homicidal - two homicidal maniacs in fact - go free and walk about in the streets. He also knew he was past caring about such things. He had been cocky, too cocky, but this time he had known what to do. The envelope he was squeezing in his hand was worth it.

He stood there for a few minutes, trying to reconcile what he had done, succeeded horrifyingly easily, and turned to leave. He found himself face to face with a guard.

'Sir,' the guard said. 'You are under arrest. Anything you say can and will be used against you - '

Miles tried to push past him, but more guards appeared, blocking his path. He punched and he kicked, but for it was worth he was against a brick wall. They grabbed hold of him as one and marched him out.

'Let - go!' Miles gasped. His hand, mercifully, still held the envelope. 'Here - this envelope - it's a clue! Dammit, the ghost, the culprit, I can find him! Let go!'

'You are advised to remain silent, sir,' they droned at him. 'Anything you say can and will be used against you.'

'Look at this! Look at it!' He waved the crumpled envelope at them. 'This is evidence! Listen to me!'

They wouldn't. To them, he was a criminal and they were the law. His cries fell on death ears as they dragged him out of the prison - for the moment.


Nick saw the news just a few blocks away. It was on a television display on the side of the street, and as he walked past it, his feet and his heart stopped dead, caught by the single word, 'Gumshoe.'

Nick doubled back and stared at the television screen.

A man had fell onto the train tracks at Kurain Station, six hours ago, and his body had been pulverized beyond recognition. He was only able to be identified by the person he was traveling with, one Maya Fey. The eighteen year old girl, who was in hysterics, maintained that the victim, named Dick Gumshoe, had not fallen by accident, but instead had been pushed. She named a blond man in a purple suit, named Kristoph Gavin, as the killer, and a search was currently underway.

The porridge, once so warm in Nick's belly, burnt out at once. Nick stumbled backwards, veered to the side, and vomited over his trenchcoat. All the while, the words he had forced onto Miles came back to haunt him.

He's playing a game with us, and he's playing a good one...

While Nick had been meandering uselessly around the city, Pearl's killer had slipped right through him, like a ghost. While Nick had been chatting with Edgeworth, the killer had followed Gumshoe and Maya, boarded the train with them, killed Gumshoe, Maya next in his sights. And Nick was miles away, unable to do anything but find hats.

Nick was willing to bet the police would be useless, too. Somehow, he knew that once the man named Kristoph Gavin had been caught, nothing more would change. Gavin was just another pawn, another piece in the game. The game that he was playing.

Incredulously, Nick felt his legs giving way beneath him.

He had to carry on. But he couldn't. He was helpless. The killer, the chessmaster, the man with the beanie, the ghost, had every single move planned out. It was useless.

All in all, it had been an unbelievably tiring day. And in that knowledge, Nick did what he had to do. Finally, crashing down onto the pavement, into the cold remains of his vomit, he went to sleep.