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Miles has never felt compelled to bow before authority that he doesn't recognize. Not the authority of a cowardly head of state who faked an assassination attempt on himself, for the sake of approval ratings and another undeserving term in office. Not the authority of a corrupt committee willing to manipulate and threaten civil servants into hiding the truth, at the behest of politicians who cared more about PR than human lives. Not the authority of a “justice” system where courtroom and prison joined hands in predetermining the fate of those they see as beneath consideration.
He doesn't recognize them, therefore their words hold no weight against his pursuit of the truth. He does the right thing, exposes the conspiracies, and lets the press do the rest of the work.
He supposed he has never considered the consequences thereof, either.
"Up." A gruff voice sounds from above him. Miles squints, trying to make out the figure in the dark. He can't really lift his head: his neck aches terribly after lying on the cold, hard ground for so long, his arms are cramped from being tied behind his back, and he nearly can't feel his fingers for how cold they are.
He doesn't need to. A hand fists into his hair and yanks, accompanied with spitting foreign words – likely a cuss. Miles bites down on the rag in his mouth, eyes watering. His scalp feels as though it's on fire, and he grimaces as his freezing, aching body is dragged along the hard concrete. His knees and his feet hit obstacles that he can’t see, every now and then, sometimes more painfully than others. He can feel the dried blood crackling on the side of his head when his brows furrow and tug at the skin.
He can't tell how long it has been since he set foot in Zheng Fa International Airport. In fact, he hardly remembers what happened after he went through customs. One minute he was looking around, searching for the arrival hall and exit; the next, he…
There had been a faintly sweet scent, not unlike disinfectant. Chloroform, he thought, as he struggled. And then something hard slammed to the side of his head, and everything went black.
Now, it's nearly as dark as it was then, even with his eyes wide open. They squeeze shut soon enough when two hands suddenly grab him and toss him bodily into a wall. His entire body screams, and the chafing sores on his wrists and ankles are jostled so painfully he feels he might pass out.
Dull footsteps sound on the concrete, along with the sound of breathing. His captor steps closer, holds him down, and something cool slides around his neck. The lock clicks shut. Metal clangs as the other end of the chain is secured to… elsewhere, somewhere behind him. Miles tries to move, only to gag when the collar crushes against his esophagus.
Laughter fills the silent air as Miles gasps for breath, tears springing to his eyes. Overlapping laughter – there are more than one person present. The echoes are clear, crisp, suggesting that the space housing them must be at least a certain size: the nearest wall should be at least twelve meters away. And the air is cold and smells sharply of rust, not sure from metal or blood.
“Get comfy, Mr. Prosecutor,” drawls his captor in a light, lilting accent. “You’re gonna be here with us for a while.”
”Thank you for your work, Prosecutor Edgeworth.” President Huang held out his hand. He had gone back to his public persona once more, his shoulders squared and his chest puffed out and his expression thick with this sort of forced, unwilling solemnity. He’d spoken as if every word was a bite of something foul.
Miles did not answer after the awkward handshake, so the president continued. “If any of you ever wish to visit the Republic of Zheng Fa, you will always be welcome.”
It was an invitation, and yet the goodwill was nowhere to be found in his voice. Miles bowed curtly at him, offering some modest words through gritted teeth about how he would keep it in mind. He had little love for performing diplomacy before a man who had been thoroughly disgraced in his eyes.
President Huang turned around. “Very well,” he says, throwing one last glance over his shoulder. For a split second, his eyes gleamed, and he seemed every bit the president who had all the faculty to cling to his seat for so, so long.
Miles has no doubt that someone else has been sent to eliminate Patricia Roland by now, before she could testify at court. Just like she was sent for Knightley. Just like Miles's captors had been sent for him.
He can't even say he was surprised. He had always known something would happen to him. After all, he would not have gone to Zheng Fa had it not been for the invitation.
What does surprise him, is the fact that they keep him alive.
“Guh—” He gasps out loud, shivering violently and soaked from the shoulders up. It's how his captors wake him up – with a bucket of ice water and snorted laughter that echo across the larger-than-12m room. Space. Whatever it is this place that they keep him in.
The cold air turns frosty in an instant. It bites into his skin, yet all he feels is gratitude as he chews on the rags in his mouth. Water. His throat is so parched it burns to just swallow his own spit. He needs, he needs—
“Oi! Not like that.”
Miles has gotten used to the feeling of a hand roughly fisting in his hair right now – but being shoved to the ground is a first. That same hand drags the rag out of his mouth and forces his face against the trickle of water on the ground.
“There's your drink, Mr. Prosecutor.”
In his life, there are precious few times Miles acts without thinking. The first time was when he threw the gun in the elevator. The second time – Will Powers’s trial, when he pivoted toward Wright’s line of reasoning. The third time is now, as he bites the aggressor's finger as hard as he could.
”Fuck!” Curses ring out in the room – echoing, echoing, echoing, bouncing against the walls that are at least twelve meters away. Echoing and echoing, like their footsteps, like the angry boot sole that stomps down on the open sore on Miles's wrists. Echoing are his pained cries; then they kick him in the back of the head, and everything goes black again.
The morning after he exposed Patricia Roland as as Horace Knightley’s killer, he arrived to his office to find a plain white envelope on his table. Nothing about it indicated sender or destination – it might as well have been dropped there by somebody else, misplaced and forgotten. Yet the apparent innocuity itself was suspect, and Miles's hands felt clammy before he even touched the thing.
Without a clear reasoning as to why, Miles took a picture of the envelope, then put on a pair of latex gloves before picking it up. The envelope contained a plane ticket and a single slip of paper. Printed in black ink, the letter read:
“Dear Mr. Prosecutor,
We are honored to invite you to Zheng Fa for an informal meeting with the President.
As this invitation is addressed uniquely to you, any presence unaccounted for will not be tolerated. In addition, we kindly ask you to keep the contents of this letter confidential.
There is no need to make any reservations for transport and accommodations on your end. A delegation will be welcoming you at the airport.
For security reasons, we humbly ask you to keep this letter on your person at all times during the trip.
In the case of your absence on our expected meeting, we will be obliged to visit you in person. Please note that, in such a scenario, your colleagues – namely Detective Richard Gumshoe and student assistant Kay Faraday – may hear from us as well.
We look forward to our fruitful meetings.
Sincerely,
Bureau of Politics and Public Relations
Ministry of Internal Affairs
Republic of Zheng Fa”
Miles stares down at the paper in his gloved hands. At least Phoenix Wright’s name didn't figure in this utterly Byzantine scheme of a letter, but that was only a small relief, considering...
He didn't waste more than five seconds on being paralyzed; he got to work, taking pictures of the letter, the plane ticket, even his own gloves after he took them off. He encrypted the files and attached it to an email on standby to Franziska, set to send the day he was to depart, with curt instructions to launch an investigation if he didn't contact her by next week.
He locked his phone in his drawer, to which Gumshoe was the only one who had a key. He bought a new phone to keep on his person, and left for the airport on the next day without preparing a suitcase for his personal belongings. He knew he wouldn't need them.
Humans can withstand about three weeks without food, give or take. In situations of physical distress, however, that number may drastically decrease.
Which means Miles could not have been in here for more than three weeks. It's less than ideal, as a measure of time, but the pain of each time his empty stomach contracts is the only thing that reminds him he is alive. He has not the strength to even speak or lift his head, but he is still alive. Alive enough to lick the puddles of water on the ground whenever thirst takes over him. Alive in this pitch-black darkness, with only the faint whistle of winds and the scuttling mice and bugs to fill the silence. So long as he can feel pain, he knows he still lives. So long as he still lives, he will find his chance, any chance, somehow, to get out of here.
Somehow.
The door creaks open. Miles resists the urge to curl in on himself; it feels like sniveling, and it disgusts him. He knows that whenever he flinches, it's a purely physical reaction. He is by no means afraid of them – but his face is swollen and his wrists have open sores and he suspects at least one of his ribs is not intact. He is weaker now. Another blow now would mean a hundred times the agony of the first time he'd been struck.
They never hit him in the face. The crusted blood on the side of his head was a fluke, he overhears at some point, when one of them was yelling broken English into the phone. His “nice face”, they say, is “worth something more”. They would tolerate cutting his fingers, his limbs, if push comes to shove, but not his face. He did wonder what it would take for push to come to shove.
They never hit him in the face, but none has ever touched his face this gently either.
“Edgeworth?”
Miles blinks. It's too dark and his eyes are too blurry. That voice, though, is familiar enough that it has his mind lighting up despite the hunger fog. He parts his lips, only for a wheezing breath to come out.
“Shit,” Lang Shi-Long mutters and leans over him, as warm as the midday sun.
When Miles comes to again, there is light.
Soft, muted light, gentle to his eyes. He doesn't open them just yet, but he gets the feeling the room around him is dimmed and filled with piano music on low volume. He breathes out, slowly taking in the feeling of a mattress under his body and very soft blanket against his skin. When he tries to move his arm, something tugs.
“Easy there, pretty boy.” A hand settles on his shoulder, warm and firm, staying his arm. “Don't move. I've got you.” Gentle fingers card through his hair, utterly careful. Miles opens his eyes, squinting slightly, still sensitive to light.
Deep brown eyes stare down at him, watchful yet soft. Lang seems as effortlessly put-together as always, his unruly hair haloed by the muffled daylight. He's sitting in a chair, and Miles has to wonder how long he has been there. He opens his mouth to speak, but his throat is so dry it immediately tightens up, leaving him grimacing in discomfort.
“Oh yeah, one sec.” Lang rises to his feet, and comes back with a bottle with a straw. He curls a hand around Miles's jaw to tilt his face right and waits for Miles to close his lips around the straw. He watches Miles's throat bob with each swallow, and only then does he nod in approval. “That's it. Good boy.”
There is no reason for Miles to feel so warm in the face.
“We are at the Lang compound. I brought you here because nowhere else might be safe for you.” Lang settles back into his seat. “You were out cold for a full day. We hooked you up with the IVs, for hydration and nutrition. Doc said you'll be fine, just need to rest and avoid moving around too much. I’m still gonna take you to X-ray, though, once we find a place that's safe enough.”
His words are matter-of-fact, while his tone is anything but. It's low, quiet, serious – devoid of any teasing or even musing. Every word is uttered as firm as a nail into hardwood, like an order to himself. Solemnity shadows over Lang’s eyes as he leans forward, with his elbows on his knees and his face behind his laced fingers. Miles stares at him, having simultaneously too many questions and none to verbalize at all.
He settles on: “Why…?”
Lang raises a brow at him, then barks out a single, humorless laugh. “Why? ‘Why’ what, kitten? I couldn't just leave you there to die, could I?” He grimaces, and combs his hand through Miles's hair again, and Miles finds that it is admittedly very pleasant. “Not the time yet, pretty boy. You need your rest. We'll discuss when you're strong enough.”
There isn't a heart monitor anywhere in the room – it isn't a hospital, after all, but a living quarters of everyday people. Not everyone in the Lang family carries on with the 'family business’, so to speak; plenty of them, especially those of the secondary branches, are just office workers, artisans and small merchants, as well as engineers and medical professionals. All honest work and none especially prestigious. They certainly don't lack the means to survive, but they are not so rich as to be detached from the world around them. The children go to public schools, and everything.
It takes another day for Miles to learn that he has been occupying Lang’s own bedroom.
The agent looks visibly sheepish, the way Miles has never seen before. “I hardly use it anymore. I started the academy when I was sixteen, alright? And then I did my two years in the army, and headed straight for Interpol.” He scratches the back of his head while Miles watches him in silent amusement. “It's more a guest bedroom than anything at this point.”
“I don't recall ever complaining,” Miles says, his voice still quiet and slightly rough. He pointedly sinks into the pillow propped behind his back to let him sit up in bed. “I should be thanking you, in fact.”
Lang waves a hand. “Spare me the platitudes, pretty boy.”
“You saved my life.” Miles arches a brow. “I like to think my gratitude for that goes beyond pleasantries.”
“Like we haven't both seen how much you value your life,” Lang mutters, leaning close. His words might be harsh but his hand isn't, fingers ghosting along Miles's jaw, up toward the bandages on his temple. This close, Miles can see how soft and somber his eyes are.
“This isn't even the first time you were kidnapped,” Lang concludes, huffing, and doesn't pull away. Miles's eyes crinkle.
“Ah, so you do remember the first time we met.”
“Of course I do. It's not every day you fall in loath at first sight.”
“That's the worst pun I've heard all year, agent. That's not even a noun.”
Lang snorts. “Deal with it, kitten. I saved your ass.”
“Now we're getting somewhere.”
Lang laughs in dry, growly little sounds, his chuffing breaths warm against Miles's cheek. He resumes to his spot, and Miles instantly mourns the closeness.
“It's not entirely true; I should say that we found you. My pack and I. Lang Zi says, A lone wolf is a dead wolf.” Lang’s smile fades into seriousness once more, as his brows furrow. He leans back, arms crossed above the slip of bare chest between the collars of his indoors robes. “Speaking of dead – it would be safer for you to stay here for at least a month.”
Miles knows what he means instantly. He was invited here by the Ministry of Internal Affairs on an informal basis only to be abducted and possibly trafficked. If one assumes that the President had a hand in this, indirectly or otherwise – which he almost certainly did, – it goes without saying that no legal protection should be extended to Miles Edgeworth on Zheng Fa grounds.
Miles doesn't realize how fast his heart is beating until Lang lays a hand on his chest. “Relax,” says the agent, low and rumbling and surprisingly soothing. “No need to get antsy. The police don't know of this. You're safe here.”
His hand splays right over the frantic beats of Miles's heart. It suddenly occurs to him that perhaps Lang has been taking the place of the heart monitor when Miles was unconscious.
“How does the police not know?” Miles questions. “Aren't you…”
“No. I’m Interpol – and I can choose not to tell them anything. Besides”—Lang glances away, his gaze somewhere beyond the silk-curtained window—“my squad got disbanded. The only people who came with me to look for you were my cousins, aunts and uncles.”
“Ah.” Miles blinks. He feels Lang’s hand – its warmth, its weight – more keenly with every rise and fall of his chest.
“Sis contacted me,” Lang follows up before Miles can offer his sympathies. “I remembered meeting you in the prison after Knightley died, so I did a little digging. Now you tell me, pretty boy – what is your version of the events? Feel free to speak; these walls don't have ears.”
Miles nods. “President Huang enlisted Knightley’s help to orchestrate a fake assassination attempt, in order to salvage his image and approval ratings. When we found it out, Knightley took the fall. That's why the media spoke of the assassination attempt as if it was real and carried out by Knightley.” He glances up at Lang, who nods at him to continue. “Then Knightley was silenced – I believe by Patricia Roland, the prison warden – so that he couldn't appeal these accusations. When I found them out once more... That was the last straw, I presume.” He laughs faintly. “The president has had enough of me.”
Lang hums, pensive. “Sounds straight up like a conspiracy, but yeah, I believe you. I pretty much reached the same conclusion – Knightley’s death was just too convenient, he seemed like a scapegoat. He killed Rooke?”
“He did.”
“Thought so. Anyway, I didn't have all your details, but it was definitely fishy. So I arranged a meeting in person with sis.” Lang tilts his head, the sharp point of a canine peeking between his lips. “She showed me the pictures you took, and I knew we were all in deep shit.”
Miles, despite himself, smiles at the irreverence. “Is that also why you didn't put me in a hospital?”
“Yep. We're pretty tightly regulated – even private clinics would’ve ratted you out. I can't risk putting you anywhere. Quite a few of us are medics, and we have the equipment because Lang Zi says In dire times, a healer is worth a hundred fighters. So that worked out. I still haven't gotten around to getting that X-ray appointment for you, though.”
“It's alright.” Miles glances down at his hands. His wrists have been carefully bandaged. His skin is nearly the color of fresh bandages, practically hyaline over blue-green veins. If it wasn't for Lang, he wouldn't be here.
“...I'll get you in contact with your confidant as soon as you’d like,” Lang says after a moment, oblivious to his rumination. “Gumshoe, is it?”
Miles presses his lips together. Logically, he knows, Lang would not offer such a thing if he wasn't absolutely sure it was secure. The man simply does not do things by half. Logic, however, isn't always the best pathway to soothe anxieties. Gumshoe’s and Kay’s lives have been at stake from day one – it was why Miles gave himself away in the first place.
Lang studies him, his hand flexing slightly on Miles's chest. He rises from the chair and settles right beside Miles on the bed. Miles surprises even himself with a sigh of relief.
“Edgeworth,” he murmurs, solemn and startlingly gentle as he wraps an arm around Miles's shoulders.
It must be the first time – or at least, one of the first times – Lang has said his name instead of a lilting epithet. His fingers card through Miles's hair, and Miles's eyes flutter shut. Lang is right there, so close, solid and warm and all but cradling Miles's head to the crook of his neck. Miles breathes out shudderingly, and doesn't fight it. It's good to lean against someone who can take his weight.
“I don't want to put anybody in danger,” Miles mutters.
“You don't, sweetheart. Your detective is fine, your little crow is fine. Don't worry.” Lang speaks in that same low, soothing tone, stroking his hair like he's a child, a pet, a little thing who needn't worry his head. The notion is surprisingly welcome, for someone who has prided himself on control and self-control all his life.
Miles bites his lip, squeezing his eyes shut. He feels… spoiled. Undeserving of all this kindness. He sets a hand on Lang’s chest, just to make a point. “I don't want to put you in danger, Lang.”
Against all odds, Lang laughs. Still those rough, growly sounds, more wolf than man, and more endearing than Miles could've ever imagined.
“So let me get this straight: Nobody should be put in danger… except for yourself?” He tuts, carefully squeezing Miles against his chest. “That kind of ass-backward logic has no place here on the Lang compound, kitten.”
Miles huffs. He turns his face towards Lang’s neck, smiling. “Is that something Lang Zi said as well?”
Lang tilts down, muffling his chuckles into grey hair. His lips brush against Miles's scalp – almost like a light little kiss, if Miles dares believe.
“Nah, this one’s all Lang Shi-Long for you.”