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Wright… Wright… That man, the man who saved him, the man who solved DL-6, the man who sent Gant to prison. That man, Phoenix Wright. He choked as flowers fell from his mouth. The flowers had sprouted in his throat ever since they had reconvened in court when he saw that face, which believed he was still the same boy he was when he was nine—that man who believed that the hopeful child had not been killed under von Karma.
More flowers were choked out, blood drenching them. Ironic this would be what kills him, his accursed love towards that man rather than the guilt of his father’s death. A part of him, that foolish part of him, hopes that man would love him back, yet who would love a man such as him. It was illogical, and he was a man of logic; it was pointless to dwell on dreams that will never come true.
He pushed himself up from the floor, leaning against his desk, coughing flowers onto it. They’re so very blue, so bright. They were the only bright things in this room so tainted with him; they don’t belong here. Reaching into his pocket for a handkerchief, his hand touched something pointed, his prosecutor's badge. He tilted his head back and laughed, tears streaming down his face. He didn’t deserve to be a prosecutor anymore, nor did he deserve that man’s love.
He made up his mind. Grabbing the handkerchief, he swept all the flowers into it and shoved it into his pockets; that man didn’t need the unnecessary guilt. Opening a drawer, he grabbed pen and paper and wrote something ambitious enough should he live. He cleaned the rest of the room, as if no one was here, before leaving. Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.