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Apollo Justice doesn’t like mirrors.
It’s not that he’s superstitious or that he expects to see something horrifying staring back at him—nothing like that. It’s not about ghosts or demons or anything so dramatic. No, it’s simpler than that. He just doesn’t like the way his own reflection looks at him, like it knows something he doesn’t. Like it’s waiting for him to figure something out, but it won’t give him any hints. Some days, he catches himself staring longer than he should, dissecting every feature, every line, like he’s cross-examining his own face. It’s the same face he’s worn his whole life, but sometimes it feels unfamiliar, like it belongs to someone else. He’ll stand there, frozen, his eyes tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, the furrow in his brow, the faint scar near his temple that he doesn’t even remember getting. And then he has to shake himself out of it, force himself to look away, before he starts thinking too hard about things he’s not ready to deal with.
Trucy jokes about it sometimes, about how he always looks so serious. “Like you’re bracing for impact,” she says, grinning like it’s the funniest thing in the world. And honestly? She’s not wrong. Apollo knows exactly what she means. Even when the world isn’t falling apart, even when it’s just an ordinary day at the office, he feels it—the tension in his shoulders, the tightness in his chest. It’s like a constant hum, a low-level anxiety that never really goes away. He’s always waiting, always anticipating the next thing to go wrong. He can’t help it. It’s just how he’s wired. Prepared. Coiled tight like a spring, ready to snap into action at a moment’s notice. It’s exhausting, sure, but he doesn’t know how to be any other way. Doesn't know if he could.
Sometimes, he wonders if it’s genetic. If his real parents were the same way. If they carried the same weight in their posture, if they worried about things the way he does. He doesn’t know. Probably never will. And that’s fine. At least, that’s what he tells (convinces) himself. It’s not like knowing would change anything. He has a family now—disjointed, unconventional, loud as all hell, but it’s his, and he’s holding onto it with both hands. It’s messy and complicated, but it’s real, and that’s what matters. He can dig his fingers in and feel it beneath him. He knows they won't abandon him, like someone did long before.
Still, there are nights when the office is too quiet, when he’s the last one awake, and the only sound is the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights overhead that makes his skin crawl. Those nights, he can’t help but think about it. About what it would’ve been like to grow up knowing where he came from. If it would’ve made a difference. If it would’ve made him different. Would he still be this person, the one who triple-checks everything, who never leaves anything to chance? The one who’s constantly needing proving himself to everyone, who feels like he has to be the most competent person in the room just to be taken seriously? He doesn’t know. He’ll never know. But he thinks about it anyway, because he can’t seem to help himself.
Athena tells him he overthinks things. She says it like it’s a joke, like it’s just one of his quirks, but there’s truth in it. He knows he gets stuck in his own head sometimes, turning things over and over until they’ve been worn smooth. Klavier tells him he needs to relax, that he needs to “live a little, ja?” like it’s that simple. And Phoenix… Phoenix just smirks at him. That infuriating, knowing smirk, like he’s got some big secret Apollo isn’t in on. Like he can see straight through him, like he knows exactly what Apollo is struggling with and has already made peace with it. Apollo hates that smirk. Hates the idea that he’s predictable, that his problems are just steps on some predetermined path that everyone else has walked before him. He wants to believe he’s different, that his struggles are unique, that he’s carving out his own path instead of following someone else’s. But some days, he’s not so sure.
And yet, there are moments—small, fleeting moments—where it doesn’t feel like he’s fighting against something unseen. Days where the weight on his shoulders doesn’t feel quite so heavy. Like when Trucy drags him into one of her ridiculous schemes, her laughter filling the room like sunlight breaking through a storm. Or when Athena gets so excited about some new psychological theory that she starts shouting, her energy so contagious that even Apollo can’t help but smile. Or when Klavier goads him into another argument, his voice dripping with that infuriating charm, and suddenly they’re both grinning like idiots because neither of them is actually taking it seriously. Those moments feel real. Tangible. Like they’re rooted in something solid, something that can’t be shaken. Something that can lift the constant weight off his shoulders.
Apollo doesn’t know if he believes in fate. He’s not sure he wants to. The idea that everything is preordained, that every step he takes is just part of some grand cosmic plan, doesn’t sit well with him. He never did get into space like Clay did. It feels too passive, too out of his control. But he does believe in those moments. In the weight of his own life, in the sound of his friends’ voices, in the way the office lights hum softly when the night stretches too long. He believes in the here and now, in the things he can touch and see and hold onto. In the cases he can win, in the people who make all of it worth something.
So he stops looking in mirrors. Stops letting his reflection taunt him with questions he can’t answer, with doubts he can’t shake. He focuses on what’s in front of him instead. On the things he can control. On the work, the people, the life he’s built for himself. And, for now, that’s enough. It has to be.