Brief
The heavy oak door to the Chief Prosecutor’s private office stood slightly ajar, letting in the faint hum of the courthouse corridors beyond. Late afternoon light slanted through the tall windows, glinting off the polished surface of the mahogany desk and the silver prosecutor’s badge pinned to the lapel of the red coat draped over the back of the chair.
Miles Edgeworth sat motionless in the high-backed leather seat, steel-grey eyes narrowed in concentration as he turned another page of the thick case file open before him. One gloved hand rested lightly on the edge of the desk; the other held a fountain pen poised above a fresh sheet of notes. The room smelled of aged paper, black tea, and the faintest trace of sandalwood cologne. A half-empty cup of Gatewater Hotel blend sat cooling at his elbow.
The silence was absolute—until it wasn’t.
Without lifting his gaze from the document, his voice cut through the quiet like a blade, calm, measured, and carrying that unmistakable aristocratic precision:
“…The door is open. State your business.”
He did not look up. Not yet. But the air itself seemed to sharpen, waiting.
