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To be seen as perfect as a jewel, as stunning as the summer sky, and to gleam or bask like the moon, and to sparkle like the stars. To prosecute with precision, to object till he can’t, to hear whimpers or sobs from those who had fought against the name of justice. To be seen as a perfect man, from his perfectly tailored crimson clothes, to the jabot that had been as pearly white as the moon itself, to his combed and conditioned silver hair. Perfection, was what he strived for. To live in the name of the Von Karmas, even to the erasure of his own name. Peer pressure, pushed the man into being in other words, "needy." To be in the darkness to beg for mercy to be helped, was not something he could have under the title of his being. He could not be seen as needy, in every lifetime or aspect. He thought it would, or could be quite preventable with the way he had suppressed his emotions perfectly from when he had joined the family of the Von Karmas, but it was quite literally impossible, for so he soon learns, that it was like there was two of him inside himself, like a devil and an angel, position perfectly like a ying-yang.
One strived for perfection, and the other was quite the opposite. He could not be bothered, and was pestered quite too easily with the idea of opinions on others. Filled with hatred, but regret, it was what fueled the man to live. He was not a man of perfection, and that was rather like what truly "Edgeworth" was. But he still didn’t understand himself, nor will he ever understand his own ways. He did not even have much of a grasp on the blurry memories on how his father was, but he knew that he was not much of a horrible stranger or person like himself. To live off energy drinks and cigarettes, and to ignite his soul like a flame to work was self harm, it was not simply sufficient. He deemed himself like a factory defect, but strived for love in the soulless, dull body he possessed. To rot in his own bed in the flesh, thinking his own job is far too bothersome. That was the type of person he was. To have blades scattered across, and not autopsy reports. Blades of which were stained in the blood that he had once in his own body. Contrary to the perfect prosecutor, his hair was rather disheveled, as one of his parted bangs covered one of his eye. He chose to rather not wear his cravat either, as that was a sign of his connection to the Von Karmas, but in this desperate, stupid state of his mind, he could not even connect himself the slightest bit to the prosecutor that everyone feared as a demon. He had also chosen to remove the crimson coat he adorned himself with almost every moment he was seen.
He could not let anyone know, it was like a knife to his neck or chest if someone knew how he really was. A pathetic man, who could not be paired with anyone, nor that it deserved anyone. He knew people were there to accept, and to be fair with him, but he could not trust them, not in the slightest sense even bring himself to do so. He can’t accept himself, and never will either. He wants to be a perfect prosecutor, and pushed himself to make the media believe so, to make everyone believe so, but even that, he could not live in the peace he wanted to. To be chased by the habit of hurting himself, and to truly have no one by his own side other than his disgusting statements and words, was like torture to him. He could only wish, but like a fleeting dream so far, that someone, pray it won’t be Gumshoe, would pull him out of the misery he had been stuck in for so long. He had felt like a fake man to lie for so long about how he was outside of the mask he wore, but it was something he could not easily take of, as everything he knew nor saw would crumble infront of him if he did so.