It was not the accusations that flustered Miles Edgeworth. It was not even the interrogations, the vicious questioning periods that went on for hours. It was the look in Phoenix Wright's eyes that made him ache. The look that questioned,

"...Did you do it, Edgeworth?"

He longed to grasp Phoenix by the shoulders, to shake sense into him, to scream at him like he screamed in his mind.

Can't you see I'm dying? I need help, I need help badly, please, please...

Miles would not permit himself the luxury of complaint. To admit his emotions was defeat in his mind. Even as the look in that damned defense attorney split his mind and heart, he found himself harshly declaring,

"What do you think, Wright?!"

Phoenix looked away, seemingly embarrassed. A flush spread across his face, he looked disarmed.

"O-Of course, you would never..."

His faith was remarkably reassuring. However, Phoenix Wright's faith in him would not save him the next day in court. That much was certain. He needed evidence, something that was sadly lacking.

The only evidence Miles Edgeworth had that he was even human anymore was the rapid beating of his heart, the almost flush on his cheeks, the sweat beginning to bead down his forehead. He felt stuffy in that small visitor's room, he needed out, and he needed out now.

The problem was, all this was simply his usual reaction to small rooms. He'd been claustrophobic since a young age. A young age... of 9. It's no surprise, really. Not after... that.

Now he was on trial for it, and he found it far too easy to condemn himself. If there was a knife nearby, Miles would surely have used it to let his tainted blood run dry.

Where did these thoughts come from? I was so composed, so ready... damn you, damn you Wright!!

With the return of his childhood friend came uncertainty, nightmares, depression, confusion, anger, pain, obsessions. With the return of his childhood friend came about his ruin. His emotions ripped open, torn from his heart and fraying his soul by the declaration of that devil von Karma. That one moment in time caused his very own 'turnabout', a one-way ticket into madness.

"Ah… Edgeworth?"

Phoenix's uncertain voice shocked him from his self-induced mental coma. Wright looked frightened, sincere and scared. Miles realized with a start, he must have said something aloud.

"I... I'm sorry. None of this, none of this was supposed to happen."

What do you mean, Phoenix? More importantly, what's been going on under my nose while I've been so preoccupied with myself?

"What do you mean?" Miles leaned forward to emphasize the importance of this knowledge.

Phoenix leaned in closer, also, as if to show that this was not something to spread in public, "von Karma. You know, we both know. It's just... it's not fair!"

His outburst seemed to surprise the both of us, if his hand suddenly pressed to his mouth was any judge. He seemed shocked at himself, and flustered that he'd said such a childish phrase.

Miles took pity on him, for once. "It's... not fair? Wright, I..." He sighed, "Thank you."

He was shown back to his holding cell. Miles found it strangely more comforting than his own. After all, he'd certainly rather be there than at his own house. His house was simply a holding cell for von Karma's sad excuse of a protégée. Lying against the small bed, head stretched back, he let the cool breeze from the window brush his hair away from his eyes. And, for the first time in 15 years...

Miles Edgeworth found himself crying.