prosecutor miles edgeworth chooses death

Miles Edgeworth was dead.

He didn't believe it. He couldn't. He didn't believe it when Gumshoe  told him, when Gumshoe cried into his shoulder when he recoiled at  Phoenix's disbelief. He didn't believe it when he was shown the note. This is a joke. This is a prank. He didn't - he couldn't believe Gumshoe's tears.

   "Pal, Mister Edgeworth is gone. He's gone, pal. He's gone."

He didn't. He wouldn't. He couldn't.

It became real when he visited Miles Edgeworth's office. It became  real when he saw the note for himself - untouched, undisturbed - Gumshoe  didn't have the heart to take it away.

   Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth chooses death.

And then there were the thoughts. Why? When? How? Where? And then he shook his head and shut his eyes tight. He could hear Maya's voice, how could you even think of that, Nick?! And he wouldn't be able to answer. Was it the Attorney in him? The longing for truth? For justice ? But he wasn't murdered. He had to remind himself. He decided this. He killed himself. He committed suicide.

How would Prosecutor Miles Edgeworth kill himself?

Phoenix couldn't help it. He couldn't help but wonder. How? How? With a knife? Or perhaps a rope? The prick was so fucking uptight and snobby that, no doubt, he would have chosen the cleanest option even upon his deathbed. Not a drop of blood spilled.

When he asked Gumshoe, how , the detective blanched. In disgust or surprise? Phoenix didn't care enough to figure it out.

"Wh-why do you want to know?!"

No 'pal'...

"That's- that's just an awful thing to ask! Whaddya mean- how?! "

With enough coercion (alcohol), Gumshoe confessed, "We didn't find a body, pal. There wasn't one. We have no idea where he is. I'm sorry, pal."

With a shoulder wet with tears, he left the detective in the bar.

   They didn't find a body.

'Where's your proof, then?' Phoenix thought bitterly. 'What if he's  alive? What if it's all a trick? What if he was kidnapped? We have to  help him, Suedeshoes. We have to find him.'

It had been a year, when February 2018 rolled around. Full twelve months. He'd be lying if he said he'd moved on. When he's granted temporary amnesia, it's almost bliss. He wished he had realised at the time how much better that was. Maybe if I give myself a concussion.

And then he realised that would, by definition, be self-harm.

He gave up in his pursuit for amnesia.

And then he got a case - and had to put his grief aside. For the client, and for Maya.

But then she asked, because she had to ask, didn't she.

"You mean he's..."

"Edgeworth is dead." He didn't want to sound bitter. But the expression on Maya's face said it all.

"Oh..."

He doesn't ask Franziska about it. When's the funeral? It's been months. He didn't want to think about a funeral. His casket would be fuchsia. He almost snorted because- his casket would totally be fuchsia. But then he thought about an empty fuchsia casket - they never found a body.

The trial - it goes fine. Facing Franziska? Well, she's not her  father at least. Just as brutal, though, as Edgeworth was. Perhaps more.  Way more. Edgeworth wouldn't whip people, no matter how annoyed he was.