Chapter Text
It was raining when Miles chose to die.
Midnight rain poured heavily outside the Prosecutor’s office, knocking against the window panes. His office was dark, curtains drawn tightly shut that not even a stray light from the streetlights could pass through. The stupid King of Prosecutors award still strewn haphazardly on his couch next to his coat that he discarded without a thought.
Papers overflowed from his desk, old case files reopened and poured over for inconsistencies, for anomalies, for contradictions he had missed. For fake evidence and false testimonies he used and didn't even bother to look twice at.
How many innocent people have he sent to hang? How many criminals had he let free?
He sits in the middle of it all. In the middle of his failures disguised as accomplishments, his cravat loose and hair in disarray. His eyes burn from the tears he would never admit shedding.
He knows the rumors that follow his name, knows the whispers of forged evidence and falsified testimonies, knows the names they call him behind his back. He knows them all too well and while he tried his best not to ignore them, now he cannot escape their weight.
Demon Prosecutor.
Just
Like
Von Karma.
There is a bottle in his hands. Sleeping Pills. He took them often, when the nightmares are worse than usual, when the winter chill starts to seep in his bones, when in his dreams he didn’t throw the gun but fired it instead, when the scream would follow him even as he wakes up in cold sweat.
It helps him sleep. Maybe it could help him sleep forever now.
He opens the lid with practiced ease, even on shaking hands, ready to swallow a handful and sleep but he pauses, takes in the sight of his cluttered office, his eyes landing on a pen and parchment.
A note. He has to leave a note. It’s the least he could do. With what little will he has left he drags himself to his desk, unsteady hands gripping the pen. It’s the least he can do. He doesn’t want Wright to go on some insane goose chase, one that Gumshoe would follow dutifully. He doesn’t want Franziska to worry, doesn’t want her to see a mess.
It was partially why he chose this method. She will not see him covered in blood. She will not see him hanged. She did not need to see that, see him like that.
Pen poised over the blank paper, he writes five words. Plain. Simple. Straight to the point.
Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.
It was still raining outside when Miles died.