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Spite

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It had been quite easy really. Get a novice doctor to believe he had a double personality. Convince her that he really wasn't the bad guy, but his other self. Get her to meet him somewhere that wasn't crawling with security guards. Squeeze her throat hard enough for her to lose consciousness, and leave through the window.

Too easy.

Matt knew he only had a few hours before every policeman in the city was out looking for him, but he had no plans to get on a plane and escape to the Caribbean. What was the point anyway? He was a marked man. Convicted of murder and hunted by the assassin he had hired himself. There wasn't any point in running away. No. This little excursion was simpler.

It had been easy to find out where the lawyer lived, that no good betraying ass who couldn't even do his job properly. The apartment was empty; he just had to wait. Wright arrived a little after nightfall, humming to himself some stupid song and going straight to the kitchen where he pulled a bottle of wine from a shelf.

Matt didn't wait for the man to finish, sneaking hastily but quietly from behind. Covering his mouth, he pressed the knife he had stolen against Wright's throat.

“Good evening, Mr. Wright,” he hissed on the man's ear, grinning when he felt Wright's body going rigid with fear and recognition. “You owe me something,” Matt continued, pressing the knife just a little further for good measure. “I've come to collect. Goodbye, Mr. Wright.” Matt squeezed the hilt of the knife harder, ready to finish through what he came here for, when there was a knock on the door.

Matt glared at the door for a moment when he noticed that beside the bottle of wine that Wright had opened were two empty glasses. Oh, it was too good to be true. “Expecting company?” he asked as another knock echoed through the apartment. “Maybe that cute assistant of yours I've heard so much about? Let's see shall we?” he finished. He took the knife away from Wright's throat and slammed its hilt against his skull, knocking him down to the floor, then quickly pulled a bit of rope from the inside pocket of his jacket and tied it around the lawyer's hands, binding him.

Matt rushed to the door and opened it carefully, hiding behind its frame and watching as a man in a magenta suit walked in. Matt felt a grin spread across his lips. It was too perfect.

“What the hell took you so long, I thought-” Miles Edgeworth became very quiet when Matt pressed the knife against the small of his back.

“Must be my lucky day,” Matt said, more to himself than the prosecutor that had helped find him guilty. “Go to the kitchen,” he ordered.

Edgeworth had no choice but to oblige. They walked into the kitchen; where Matt had to warn him to not make any sudden movements when the prosecutor made a noise after he saw Wright bound on the floor. Matt grabbed Edgeworth by the back of his neck and forced him to his knees a few feet from Wright, then he hit him on the side of the head with the hilt of the knife hard enough to cause a concussion. Edgeworth fell face first to the floor, groaning in pain as he held his head, when Matt suddenly turned him over on his back and straddled his hips to keep him in place. As if on cue, a second pain-filled groan was heard from Wright, who was slowly opening his eyes. The sound made Edgeworth's head turn towards it as he said Wright's name.

Matt smirked and chuckled at the small exchange. “I killed the two people I ever loved,” he said, more to himself than the men as he pulled back his bangs to show off his scars, “but I've never killed someone else's love.”

“Why are you doing this?” Edgeworth interrupted, speaking each word very slowly, as his eyes tried to focus.

“Revenge. Pure and simple,” Matt answered, pressing the tip of the knife against Edgeworth's chest and down to his stomach without cutting him. Wright mumbled something as he grew more conscious, trying to move a little. Matt grinned wickedly and squeezed the hilt of the knife at the same time as he covered Edgeworth's mouth. “This will probably hurt,” he said and pushed the knife down. There was little skin resistance and the knife slid almost like butter into the prosecutor's body. Edgeworth's hands tried to hit him, to push him; his legs kicked as Matt muffled his screams with his hand. It was pointless for him to fight. Matt pulled the knife from the prosecutor's body, picked another spot then pushed it down again. A small rush ran through him as he watch the prosecutor's eyes go wide with fear and pain, his head titling back as he tried to scream.

There was more noise to his side, and Matt pulled out the knife again, making sure Wright saw it covered in blood. The lawyer was screaming now. “'Stop it', 'let him go', 'you're not going to get away with this', 'it's me you really want to kill', 'please, please, stop hurting him', and 'Miles, Miles, Miles'.” Frantic, and pitiful, and so utterly pointless as Matt pushed the knife in again and again, until blood seeped onto the floor, until he realized that the prosecutor wasn't fighting anymore. Instead, his arms lay motionless by his side, and his head turned to look at Wright as he said something Matt didn't understand, before his eyes closed and his body stilled.

Matt pulled out the knife one last time and threw it to the side, rising from the floor and sparing a moment to look at what he had done with his own blood-covered hands. Wright had moved a few feet closer to them, but not close enough, his eyes covered in tears as he said the prosecutor's name. It was done. His revenge.

He started walking away from the scene, ignoring the lawyer as he passed him by on his way to the door. “You can't leave me here!” he heard Wright yell through sobs. “You can't take him from me and just leave me here!” Matt ignored everything and walked out of the apartment, closing the door behind him.

He reached the alleyway near the building, waited for the sirens that were sure to come any second now. He leaned his head against a wall, his hair falling over his scars again, and took a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket. He took a deep breath, drawing the nicotine into his body, and looked down to see a familiar card with a shell. “Heh,” Matt said, smirking, taking another puff of his cigarette. “You're late,” he said when he felt the tip of a blade press against his back.

“I'm sorry I couldn't be here earlier,” the man said behind him. “That man shouldn't have died.”

“Too late, too late...” Matt drawled, spitting the cigarette out and stepping on it. He pushed his bangs from his face for the last time, offering no resistance as Shelly de Killer grabbed his throat and pushed the knife into his back.