100 Englishman In New York

The sun goes down the night rolls in
You can feel it starting all over again
The moon comes up and the music calls
You’re getting tired of staring at the same four walls

You’re out of your room and down on the street
You can feel the crowds in the midnight heat
The traffic roars the sirens scream
Look at the faces it’s just like a dream

Nobody knows where you’re going
Nobody cares where you’ve been

‘Cause you belong to the city
You belong to the night
Living in a river of darkness beneath the neon light

You were born in the city
Concrete under your feet
It’s in your moves, it’s in your blood
You’re a man of the street

When you said goodbye you were on the run
Tryin’ to get away from the things you’d done
Now you’re back again and you’re feeling strange
So much has happened but nothing has changed

Still don’t know where you’re going
You’re still just a face in the crowd

You belong to the city
You belong to the night
Living in a river of darkness beneath the neon light

You were born in the city
Concrete under your feet
It’s in your blood, it’s in your moves
For a man of the streets

You can feel it
You can taste it
You can see it
You can face it
You can hear it
You’re getting near it
You’re wanna make it
‘Cause you can take it

You belong to the city
You belong to the night
You belong to the city
You belong to the night
You belong
You belong

Miles Edgeworth and Franziska Von Karma
German Country Club, Germany
German Thanksgiving

They’d had one hell of a singles tennis game that afternoon but in the end, with the competitive pair both giving it their all, ultimately Miles had triumphed as the victor of the set and had blown his hot, sweaty, and semi-disgruntled lover a goading kiss before jogging off to the showers.

Franziska’s face was still flushed pink from exertion as she lifted the damp hair off the back of her perspiring nape and wrapped a towel around her neck. She was still panting slightly from the intense workout as she trudged towards the locker room at the back of the club, eager to get out of her sweaty tennis skirt and top.

Suddenly, she let out a startled gasp as she felt someone grab her by the arm and drag her into the shower room just as she was about to walk past.

A warm hand clamped against her mouth before she could cry out in alarm and looking up, she saw the familiar smirk of her fiancé, wearing nothing but his tennis shorts, smirking down at her as he hauled her up against him.

For an instant, Franziska was too surprised to react. She inhaled the warm, male scent of him. It acted as a powerful drug on her senses. She could feel the strength in his arms and the sleek power in his body. She could also feel the evidence of his desire in his close-fitting shorts.

Miles wanted her. Right there, right now.

It looked like the tennis match had gotten him hot and bothered in more ways than one! Moreover, he certainly wasn’t alone in his naughty urges. Despite being in a communal place at that moment, Franziska felt the chorus of female hormones humming within her to burst into a full-throated song.

“Liebling! What are you doing?” She protested faintly, even as her body arched against him as he deftly locked the door to the single room shower behind them.

“I’m claiming my victory spoils, meine Dame,” he growled, a wicked glint in his eye. “I trust you have no … objections?”

She laughed then, almost a purr, and wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing him down to her. His mouth was already lowering towards her, ever so slowly and despite the semi-public location of this tryst, Franziska did nothing to stop him. She gasped a little at the first touch of flesh-to-flesh and he took advantage, easing his tongue into her mouth slowly, deeply. She shuddered at the blatant carnality of it as she allowed herself to be caught in the pull of some incredible magnet, unable to draw away, unable to stop her body from responding as he tasted her.

Pressed back against the cool tiles, she was in too much in a lusty daze to notice as he did that one-hand-over-the-head thing with her shirt, then his hands wandered to her bared back, seeking access. Snapping open the clasp of her bra, he neatly discarded both items to the cool tiled floor while reaching to turn on the shower behind her. She quivered under his touch. The tightly loomed muscles of his back moved like cogs under marble, smooth skin. Everything about him screamed unapologetically blatant sensuality.

“I want you, Franziska. I want to feel you, tight and hot and wet around me.”

With his lascivious gaze, Miles tracked the motions of his hands down her sides to her hips, pulling her even more tightly against him. His eyes were dark with desire, her heated flesh becoming even more alive beneath his smoldering expression.

“I can’t control myself when I’m with you.” One finger traced the curve on her hip. “You’re so beautiful. I can’t get enough of you.” He coasted his hands up her sides and rested a finger above her collarbone, feeling her thudding heartbeat beneath his fingertip.

Her spine had dissolved, leaving her useless, so danke Gott, he took over. He gently pushed her back under the rainfall of showerhead above them, the hot jets enclosing them in a thick cloud of steam while the water drenched the bare, wet skin of her body, which writhed against for his, her pulse rate thudding into overdrive.

She gripped his shoulders and dug her nails into his skin, needing an anchor.

“Miles,” she whispered into the vapor, feeling like she had entered a fevered dream. Feeling a reckless abandon she had never before experienced, knowing at any time, someone could come unexpectedly and try to use the shower and undoubtedly hear them, leaving no doubt as to what was happening behind that closed door.

Holding her steady, he pulled off her tennis shoes and socks then divested the remainder of the clothing, kissing her ears, throat, and shoulders, down to her smooth, flat stomach as he gripped her hips. The drumming of her heart in her beat loudly in her ears.

Miles kissed the side of her neck and Franziska was sure he could feel her thudding pulse. His heated mouth trailed up her throat until his face was inches from her. His lips were so tantalizingly close, yet it was as though he was waiting for her to close the gap between them. Without hesitation, she leaned in just enough to make contact.

It was all the invitation he needed.

His hands left her hips only to move to the sides of her face and pulled her in, kissing her hard, their mouths coming together and apart.  They feverishly alternated top and bottom lips, unable to decide which way to kiss because everything felt so good and there was so much more they wanted to do. The air vibrated between them, the places they weren’t yet touching. Every second slowed down until all she felt was the pulse in her neck quivering so fast she needed to gasp. He waited until she was practically begging before gliding his tongue against hers. The now cold water falling from the shower, into their mouths and chilling both their tongues, made a delicious contrast to the heat of their flesh.

He broke away, kissing her one last time on that really sweet spot on her neck, and stood straight, then she gasped as he cupped his hands around her bared, wet buttocks and pulled her forward so her breasts grazed his chest, making her nipples tighten into pleasurably painful buds as he then slowly, torturously, christened the tops of her trembling thighs with scorching hot kisses while sinking to his knees.

Reaching up, he slipped an expert index through her damp curls, until he found what he needed, right at the spot where she craved it. She moaned as his finger rubbed through her seam, every return hitting the center of her desire with the perfect amount of pressure. Two fingers breached her body then and found a hot, steamy haven. Heat coiled tight in her belly. He was watching her, waiting for her to go over, so she held on desperately because the longer he trapped her in his intense gaze, the better the release would be.

“Mehr, Miles. Bitte.” She gripped his shoulders and dug her nails into his skin, needing an anchor.

A finger soaked in her slick heat, circling the nerve-packed bud, just how she liked it and Franziska completely shattered. His palm cupping her sex and the wall at her back were the only things allowing her to remain upright.

Then his hand was gone, which left the cool wet tiles behind her. She slumped against it, her knees feeling like Jell-O.

“Miles,” she whispered into the vapor, feeling as though she had entered a fevered dream. This was a reckless abandon she had never before experienced, knowing at any time, someone could come unexpectedly and try to use the shower, undoubtedly hear her blissful cries from a moment ago, and have no doubt as to what was happening behind that closed door.

She felt his warm breath on her thighs as he nudged them apart, splaying his blunt hands over her soft skin.

Oh, mein Gott. The throbbing built inexorably the closer he moved to the well of her Venus.

“I yearn to devour you, meine Dame. You always taste so sweet.”

As if she could deny him a single thing.

He looked up and knew, with absolute certainty, that they’d been made for each other. Because her clitoris, her wet, plump lips, were right there for him to take into his mouth.

So he did.

Mouth set to torment, he tongued her blooming folds, scooping up the intimate moisture, creating more with every luxurious sweep. Her hands found him, curving around his skull as he ran his tongue in long strokes up the length of her core. He sucked her nub in between his lips, pushing one finger, then two into her tight canal, feeling her squeeze him tight.

She was flagging, her legs weak as the steam, her body a trembling mess. Any moment now, she would be knocked off her feet…

Her inner muscles clenched and pulled at his fingers, and she was panting now. She was so close to coming, so close to breaking apart as he devoured her sex. Her legs were unsteady, and he used his free hand to hold her up.

And then her rapturous scream echoed off the granite walls and all of her muscles went loose as she found her pleasure in his mouth, with his hands on her, in her.

He licked and sucked and stroked and loved every moment of her orgasm. Before. During. Even after. And the way she looked as she came was nearly the best part of all.

Flushed and sated and perfect.

Franziska was stunned by the force of her climax. Part of her wanted to weep. Another part, a bigger part, wanted to shower Miles with thank-yous for reminding her they shared an insatiable wild streak all these years later that neither had known they still possessed.

He stood, giving her a chance to catch her breath and appreciate his supple, glistening, physique. Dark hair arrowed down his chiseled abs down to his treasure trail, blazing a path she yearned to follow with her fingers, her lips, her tongue. He was such a picturesque form; all-steel flesh and such an embodiment of masculine beauty that it practically hurt to look at him. His chest was heaving as he gazed at her.

“You’re delicious, meine Dame. And when you come again, I want to be inside you.”

“Miles Edgeworth!” She whimpered. “I need you! Now!”

In one swift movement, he shucked off his shorts and lifted her off the floor with little effort, apparent in his raw, masculine strength, sucking the delicate juncture where her neck met her shoulder.

Then he dawdled.

Teased and rubbed.

Drove her mad with anticipation.

Only when she begged again did he enter her slowly, in one consuming thrust. Their united groans reverberated against the tile.

Such loud, satisfying sounds.

Panic about how public this was warred with bone-melting desire.

“Liebling, someone might come.”

“I guarantee it.” He stroked her long and deep, massaging her swollen clit with every return of his thick, sleek length.

“I mean —”

His mouth fitted over hers, cutting off her words. A fiery, demanding kiss, as he took her higher. She pressed her forehead to his, her breath on his face as he stared into her contorted features while they moved in perfect synchronized rhythm until Franziska’s back arched and her body tensed, digging her nails deeply into his shoulders as she went over the edge. Her sweet release triggered his own and then he was gone, off into the careening nowhere. He lived for seconds in that soaring, agonizing perfection. It was this, only this, he was lost to himself, he was no one, he was obliterated, there was no Miles Edgeworth at all, there was only…

“Franziska!” He heard himself gasp in ecstasy as he fell into a euphoric bliss, completely, lost, unmade.

“Mein Gott, Miles!”

“Oh, Miles, Miles, Miles…”

Miles Edgeworth and Lana Skye
Ty Warner Penthouse Suite, Four Seasons Hotel, New York City
November 11, 2025, 12:00 PM

“Miles?”

Frustrated, Miles slammed down the receiver in his bedroom back into the cradle and raked an agitated hand through his jet-black hair.

“Miles?”

There it was again. A soft, sweet, feminine voice calling out his name.

No! It couldn’t be real!

There was no way he’d possibly heard that sound, no way it was the one which had been consuming his thoughts every day and night for over the past six months, or his mind at that moment, while he’d been recalling a previous steamy Thanksgiving when Franziska Von Karma had given him a lot to be thankful for!

Despite laying upon on a California King bed bearing Thai silk sheets in the $50,000 a night room (Miles had picked up the tab himself because he could only have the best!), he hadn’t slept a damn wink for the past three nights he’d been there.

His mind was playing tricks on him. There couldn’t be anybody calling his name. It couldn’t be her! In his sleep-deprived state, he was surely hearing things! Obviously, he was so starved to hear his lover’s sirenic cadence that was overthrowing his every slumbering and waking thought.

Goddammit, I am just not destined to hear my fiancée’s voice except for in my torturous memories and dreams! Bloody hell! Where is she?! Why can’t I ever reach her? Not via email, nor text and I keep getting the blasted voicemail on both the manor and her mobile every single time!

“Miles? Where are you?”

Lana stepped out of the lift. The 4,300 square-foot space occupied the entire 52nd floor of the building and had a private elevator that led guests directly to its stunning rooms and as she stepped off the private elevator, it led her into the lounge area of her colleague’s enormous suite.

Despite having seen the luxe accommodations several times, over the past few days – her own, much more modestly priced room, readily paid for by Interpol, was a few floors down within the hotel – the brunette couldn’t help but marvel at the splendor of her cohort’s accommodations.

Each detail — from the soft calfskin leather walls that lined the dressing room to the Chinese onyx stones that made up the bathroom — was created by international artisans. The living room featured high cathedral ceilings, diamond skylights, and a Bösendorfer grand piano, the restroom came with an infinity tub, a rain shower, and the sinks were comprised of semiprecious tiger’s-eye stone. The suite also included a 24-hour butler, Rolls-Royce chauffeur, personal trainer, art concierge, and a Zen room, equipped with a soothing waterfall, as well as a spa room for massages.

It was inside the 600-square-foot master bedroom where the Interpol Agent, at last, spotted the pensive-looking “Maximillian Banks,” who was staring sightlessly out the breathtaking 360-degree aerie view of Manhattan and Central Park, visible from any of the suite’s wall-to-wall windows.

New York is such a remarkable city. Despite the countless times I have been here to the City that Never Sleeps, I still revel in the jungle of vast, extraordinary buildings that pierce the sky, 

In his listless state, he remained completely aware of his ex’s presence in the doorway.

The mobbed streets bear an atmosphere that is like a young child on a shopping spree in a candy store, filled with taxicabs and cars going back and forth in numerous directions, with the scent of exhaust surfing through the air. The roads aren’t much more crowded than the permanently congested sidewalks, with people desperate to shop in the famous stores in which celebrities dwell. The voices of the never-ending attractions call out and envelop you in their awe, and although your feet swelter from the continuous walking, you find yourself pressing on with the yearning to discover the ‘New York Experience’. I can see why so many get lost in their love for The Big Apple. I feel rather lost myself as well …albeit for much more complex reasons…

“Earth to Max!”

It appeared he wasn’t hallucinating after all.

He jolted at the sound. At last, she had gotten his attention.

Miles distractedly turned away from the window and stared blankly at his undercover partner in her Debbie Dallas mode as though he’d never seen her before. Carlos and Jilly had supplied them for the week with the appropriate attire, corresponding to the alter ego roles they were playing. In her skinny, black leather pants, fitted, cropped black motorcycle jacket, sleeveless white turtleneck sweater, and black and white stiletto ankle boots, Lana Skye was the picture-perfect definition of New York urban stylishness. A large pair of Jackie Onassis sunglasses, with an accompanying posh white handbag, completed her look.

“Is that a Louis Vuitton handbag?” He noted idly. “Franziska has one just like it, but in black. However, I dare say you’re wearing enough atramentous apparel already. Perpetual mourning chic at its finest.”

“No kidding.” Lana grimaced. “What is it with these Manhattan folks stubbornly insisting that it’s fashionable to walk around looking like a funeral undertaker all year round?”

“Regardless, I’d say you are most adequately dressed for the occasion, Ms. Dallas,” Miles smirked. “Veterans Day marks a very somber historical day. Furthermore, I reckoned you would be exultant that the cooler autumn temperatures of The City dictate that Debbie Dallas no longer needs to wear that skimpy garb that you so loathe. Accordingly, this is the most covered up I’ve seen you in ages, and forby shall boldly declare that you finally resemble a true lady.”

“You mean as opposed to all those other times – when I was forced to look like a tramp?” She shot back with a mock scowl at his artless aperçu. “It’s nice to see that you’ve got such a keen eye for women’s fashion and ergo are at least on the ball in that sense since I’ve been calling your name for the last little while and you didn’t seem to hear me – it was like you were in another world!”

Miles cleared his throat and adjusted his double-breasted leather coat. His own idoneous Manhattan trendsetter ensemble, according to his stylist, was what the fashionable males were all about: a velvet black blazer, grey turtleneck shirt, black wool pants, and a pair of brogues. Naturally, though, the prosecutor would’ve been more comfortable in a suit.

“My apologies, Lana,” he replied gruffly. “I profess my concentrations are a trifle muzzy, as I’ve tried round-the-clock to get a hold of Franziska since we arrived here earlier this week, to no avail whatsoever. I’m starting to feel a bit perturbed.”

“I’m sorry you’ve been thus unsuccessful in your endeavors to reach her, especially since I know neither of us has gotten a chance to contact anybody this past half-year!” Lana regarded him with sympathetic teal eyes. “The one or two emails I did shoot Ema in the past were in between traipsing to the half-dozen countries we’ve been shuffled off to, like doomed cattle! Has at least Franziska replied to any of your previous emails?”

“Unfortunately, not.” Miles frowned.  “The last time I was able to send her any correspondence was back when you messaged Ema when we were traveling from Verdunia to Santa Clara in the summertime. I remember it was one of the few times we were in between locations, while on this helter-skelter wild goose chase that dastardly Ku has been sending us on! If my fiancée has since changed her email address or phone number, I have no way of knowing, it would have been whilst we moiled for this cockamamie, accursed operation!”

“I know how you feel. It’s not like I can just pick up the phone and call Jake in prison, after all!” She commiserated with a gusty sigh. “Being cut off from our loved ones during this undercover has been the worst part! It’s as frustrating as hell!”

“I know you can relate. Nevertheless, I would have thought she would’ve at least left me a message, if nothing else, with our butler Hendricks back in Los Angeles, or even with the housekeeper at the German estate! However, the one time I managed to get through, Helga just stated that die Mätresse wasn’t there and she didn’t know when she’d be back.  It’s been nothing but the answering machine whenever I’ve called ever since.”

“Well, if she’s leaving the house,  it means she’s not cooped up and wallowing anymore,” Lana ventured optimistically. “That’s surely  a good sign, don’t you think?”

“I suppose.” Miles shook his head, as though trying to clear it. “After our meeting today, maybe I’ll try calling her sister, to see if she knows about Franziska’s whereabouts. It’s not like her to up and vanish like this. I hope I am perturbing about nothing. After all, I did presage her that she and I may be unable to have any contact this time around. Nonetheless, it is so peculiar that I can’t reach her on either the house line, her private line or her cell phone.”

“I think giving Katharina a call after we go and… have salad is a great idea.” Lana smiled and inclined her head. “Shall we get going? We need to leave now if we’re going to get there in time. New York roads are gridlock at all hours, and while this swanky suite entails complementary Rolls-Royce chauffeuring, I think it will be faster if we walk, as it’s close by.”

“Agreed. Showing up midday at a metropolis café in a luxury vehicle would be exactly the sort of incongruous attention you and I don’t need whatsoever,” Miles nodded agreement and reached for his aviator sunglasses. “Are you quite certain you’re going to be able to walk in those precarious heels?”

“Believe you me, Mr. Banks, if Carrie Bradshaw could traipse all over Manhattan in stilettos on Sex and The City, then so can I!” Lana winked jauntily. “Don’t let the spike heels fool you – it’s as the song says: these boots were made for walking, and that’s just what they’ll do!”

“Then as long as they don’t walk all over me one of these days, I rest assured in your promenade capabilities then.”

As Lana and Miles continued on their journey, they were passed by the ongoing melee of pedestrians talking on their cell phones and drinking Starbucks while enjoying the city. The constant commotion of conversing voices raged up and down the streets as someone called for a fast taxi. A mixed sound of various music styles all banded together to form one wild tune. Despite the time, the hustle and bustle never came to a halt. There was a reason it was referred to as the City that Never Sleeps.

While accustomed to the quirky eccentricities of the city, Miles still couldn’t help but shake his head at the beyond ridiculous names of the coffee shops they passed on the way to their arcane meeting.

Perkatory?! Bean Me Up, Scottie? Sacred Grounds? What kind of people would go to such places? Does this entire city have nothing for tea connoisseurs such as myself? Wait – Tea’se Me, tea emporium?! Ngh! No, thank you!

New York was so different from his accustomed Los Angeles. While both cities had a vast, intricate, labyrinth of noisy, streets and alleys, the smells of The City were alien to Miles and that day, the chaotic fragrance set him on edge. Unlike LA, there was no tinge of earthy loam to the air, no fragrance of vegetative growth, or heady warning when rain was due. The fumes from belching vehicles underpinned everything, but punching right out of it would be the spicy offerings of the street vendors, coming sharply into focus like a camera zoom and then ebbing away again; only to be replaced by the next vendor and the next.

The various mouth-watering aromas of the many restaurants passed through his nostrils, making him nearly crave the “street meat” from one of the numerous vendors of the NY Hot Dog, calling out to passers-by but then decided to pass.

“Considering how last night’s operation was a complete bust, I’m surprised you’re still able to be so chipper, Ms. Dallas,” Miles grumbled as he and Lana neared the café. “You know that I know that you know that I know that this trip has been nothing but a complete waste of our time!”

“Easy there, Groucho!” Lana’s beautifully made-up eyes twinkled with laughter. “You and I have been one another’s sole companion for over the last six months, so I’m happy to let you vent if needed about how frustrating this operation has been, but one of us has to try to be positive right? I know we haven’t had any luck so far with any of the people or locations that Ku has been directing us to, but I’m still doing my best, regardless, to stay optimistic, and you should too. Have faith in Interpol!”

“Well fine, you can play the Pollyanna but I don’t care what you say, Lana.” Miles scowled at his coworker and folded his arms across his chest, already impatiently tapping his famous forefinger against his arm as he trotted on. “I am starting to despair that it is just not in our destiny to ever find this bloody canting kingpin who keeps eluding us!”

“Ku was the one who gave us the leads, not me,” she reminded him. “I’m just as much the dark as you, and I’m riding on the same shilly-shallied crazy train as you are!”

“I believe this is the place,” Miles murmured, squizzing at the sign of the quaint little coffee shop before them. “Brewed Awakening?”

“No, this isn’t it.” She shook her head. “Although I do remember it started with a B.” She glanced across the street. “There it is! And that must be salad bar boy sitting in the window seat of Bean There, Drank That.”

“Who the devil names these places?” Miles let out a soft groan as they crossed the street. “I truly hope this tête-à-tête at least goes better than the events of other night.”

“I guess you wouldn’t be up to experience that sort of Deja Brew?” Lana quipped, then shrank back against his disapproving glare. “Sorry! Sweet scuppering salamanders, Max, quit being such a grump! Let’s get some coffee into your system to perk you up, ASAP! I’m thisclose to injecting it into your veins!”

“Très drôle. Better make yours a decaf, funny lady,” he muttered darkly as he held open the door to usher his friend inside. “I am uncertain if I can handle such rapier wit should you be augmenting it with the additional pep of a caffeinated beverage!”

Lana’s tinkling laughter matched the sound of the bells chiming on the door as they walked into the café.

Damien Cain
November 11, 2025

Damien Cain eyed the weapon with bleak black eyes, those of a hunter framed in the passionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands were steady as they lifted the gun and tried a dry shot at an imaginary target. He nodded to himself. He was ready. Carefully, he laid the rifle down on the mattress, which covered the floor of his firing point, and looked out through the hole in the brickwork to the narrow canyon of the street below.

Damien Cain was not his real name. His black, greasy hair was fake, as were his glasses, mustache, and uneven teeth. He looked fifty years old, but he was actually closer to thirty. Nobody knew his true appearance any more than the man’s real name, but in the business that he was in, a name was the last thing he could afford. He was known merely as “The Gentleman,” and he was one of the highest-paid and most successful contract killers in the world. He had been given his nickname because he always sent flowers to the family of his victims.

Despite that fact, he maintained a cool detachment to his targets. Mostly he preferred not to think of them, but when he did, it was as if they were already dead – walking meat bags waiting to be dispatched to the butcher. He preferred to think of them as meeting their destiny, and he was merely the conduit. Everyone had to die sometime, and he considered it a good way to go. No illness, no drawn-out goodbyes. They were just happy and oblivious one second and gone the next.

Simple. Convenient. Painless.

He cycled through the jobs he’d been offered in the last week, killing the boredom by selecting his next employer. There was more than money to consider. The city was important; if there was a favorite girl of his there, the job was as good as taken. He recalled this offer for New York and smiled. The Big Apple meant time with Lissianna.

His smile had barely set on his weathered skin when the mark appeared.

He assumed the position, the crosshairs locked onto the position on the sidewalk. Cursing, he shifted slightly and moved into the prone stance again, his sharp, unwavering eyes fixated on the target. Nothing. He flicked to his infrared. He saw ten possible targets down below; then a man walked towards the small coffee bar. However, he couldn’t tell what gender or who it was. With infrared, he could only tell the difference between a cow to a human to a chicken. Cursing, he flicked back to his regular scope. Now he could vividly see the target on the busy street below, but now everyone and their dog seemed to be determined to get in his way, milling ant-like on the grey concrete.

Shit!

He slowly, carefully, slid into a better stance.

Goddammit!

Yet another figure was standing in front of the mark now, and blocking his shot! If he assassinated the wrong target, he would be promptly fired.

He couldn’t afford to make such a mistake. He only had one chance, and he couldn’t afford to fuck it up. He’d need to wait for another opportunity to later arise, but that was fine.

He could wait.

The target would have to come out again, eventually, and when they did, Cain would be waiting. Patiently. It was par for the course, and it was why he was the best in his field.

People had no idea about the grim reality of his job other than what they had seen in the movies – the sniper in the prone position, ready to fire. They didn’t realize the stealth, the precision, the arduous predatory waiting for the prey that was also entailed.

He had been set in place for nearly an hour and his neck muscles were fit to spasm. It felt like his elbow had melded to the damp blacktop roof and at times, he always wondered if his legs wouldn’t work when it was time to pack up and ship out. Once the target was down, he was going to have to haul ass to get out before the place was swarming with cops. While on paper, the job sounded exciting, the reality was hours of tedium and pain, followed by an adrenaline-filled escape that lasted all of ten minutes or less.

He smiled cruelly but it refused to reach his bloodshot eyes.

It’s all still completely worth it.

Miles Edgeworth and Lana Skye
Bean There, Drank That, New York City
November 11, 2025, 1:00 PM

Despite spending the last half hour in his company, Miles still had no idea what to make of the undercover Interpol Agent sitting at the coffee shop table across from him and Lana.

Here was a man that was every bit as no-nonsense and badass as Detective Badd and Agent Lang combined!

To the prosecutor, it seemed as though Romein LeTouse was the kind of Agent who’d been born in a suit. He had never been a baby or an infant; he’d come out readily into the world as a serious man, with a serious gun, who had rolled off the Borginian assembly line.

LeTouse had the standard issued broad, squared shoulders and prerequisite athletic build required of Interpol Agents. His features bore the ubiquitous number of strong dominant surfaces of Slavic men: a commanding bone structure, heavy brows, a nose that appeared to end in a blunt plane rather than a point. His was a harsh, long-boned face, tapering to a squared chin, with widely dark spaced eyes with a slight drop of the left eyelid. The most telling features were his ears, slightly swollen and disfigured ears to convey the large man had seen his share of fights during his life.

The Northern European Agent had a neatly trimmed brown beard and mustache and spoke with a baritone voice and clipped legalistic words. Life had no color for him, no shades of grey either; it was all black/white right/wrong legal/illegal. When he wasn’t preparing perfect paperwork, he was chasing down criminals with that action-man run of his.  Lang had revealed that the man clocked more hours than any of the rest of the Borginian Agents. He was the perfect Interpol Agent, but the barrister was still guarded around him.

It’s not that I think he is a bad person or anything. Lang trusts him, therefore I should too. However, it’s not so easy for me. I just didn’t trust anyone without a visible weakness. It makes me wonder if it’s all a facade over something less stable, less honorable…

“Just to clarify the matter,” Miles spoke now. “You’ve been reconnoitering the very same…” he cast a brief gander about to ensure no other ears could make out their conversation.” …Affairs that we’ve been probing into from your homeland of Borginia all this time?”

The reticent European nodded. He was a man of few words, clearly, the strong silent type, which Miles generally respected yet there was still something about the man that he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Something that made it nigh impossible to feel fully comfortable around him.

Of course, there was a very high possibility that Miles Edgeworth simply had a difficult time dealing with another alpha male in his general presence, which would certainly explain his previous history of butting heads with Agent Lang at first! After all, who was more dominant than the Wolf Man himself?

“It all makes complete make sense, Max,” Lana broke in, shooting her partner a pointed look to remind him that while the noisy crowded atmosphere of the coffee shop would have made it very difficult for any planted bugs to overhear anything of relevance, they were indeed still in a public place. “After all, the coveted items are being imported from his home country.”

The Agent nodded again. His phizog was stern, even a little melancholy, in repose, which was transfigured when he smiled, even though the gesture aimed at the brunette was supposedly intended to be friendly.

“I can appreciate that, Debbie.” Miles gave a strained smile of his own. “I would just like to ascertain the reason that we, the two key leads amidst all this rigamarole, had not been made privy aware of the Borginian involvement up until now.”

“The answer to that is simple, Mr. Banks.” LeTouse maintained the same steady but slightly ironic gaze he seemed to have reserved especially for Miles. “I am a local Agent. Ms. Dallas is not. Moreover, you are not even an official Agent of any magnitude. Therefore, this information was classified due to compartmentalization.”

“Fine,” Miles replied stiffly and clutched his nearly empty teacup. “So precisely what are you proposing then and why did you request to see Ms. Dallas and me then?”

“First, I want to hear about all your given leads and where you have been these past six months so we can all compare notes. I figured it was best to do it in person. I do not trust phones,” LeTouse answered, his fingers held straight as if their aerodynamic form could conceivably make a difference. “Secondly, I want to give the two of you advance notice to figure out amongst yourselves which one will be my asset on the ground in Europe and who will be my ground asset in the States. If we are going to proceed with my operations plan, I will need someone in both countries. Today’s meeting is because Lang assured me the two of you are the best assets our organization  has who also happen to know the preliminaries of the case.”

“Lang is going to let us decide amongst ourselves?” Lana gestured to herself and Miles. “It’s our call?”

“Correct,” LeTouse affirmed. “Now, if I had to choose for you two, ultimately I would select Mr. Banks to go to the States because he has better connections and contacts there. Ultimately, though, the choice is yours entirely. The next course of action is that I am to become the manager, bodyguard, and interpreter for the vocalist Lamiroir when her worldwide tour starts next month, and will be accompanying her to the USA next summer. My American ground asset, of course, will have to be stationed there a few months prior, to assure everything is in proper order for my arrival with The Siren of the Ballad.”

“I’m puzzled about this latest update.” Lana furrowed her brow in confusion. “What on earth does some international singer diva have to do with this operation?”

“I’m afraid that is classified information as of right now,” LeTouse replied firmly. “However, I would very much like to hear what the two of you have been up to in the meantime, especially about your actions here in New York.”

“Before we commence, might we take a quick repose?” Lana asked quickly. “I just need to use the ladies’ room and I’ll be right back.”

“No problem.” LeTouse rose from his chair, an imposing 6’3” tower of muscle. “I will take this opportunity to excuse myself as well. Mr. Banks, I will be back shortly.”

Miles nodded absently, already reaching into his breast pocket for his cell phone, planning to use this impromptu break to call Katharina. However, he would need to go outside, as the noisy din of the café made it nigh impossible to even hear himself think, never mind catch a word of the person next to him! He supposed was the sole reason the Agent had selected the nondescript venue in the first place.

He headed out the door, shooting Lana a quick text that he would be back momentarily. Once outside, he then paced the front entrance area like a caged panther while he anxiously awaited to see if his older future sister-in-law would answer. He was utterly engrossed with the phone call, while simultaneously focusing on keeping one eye cast towards the coffee shop window to see if Lana and the Agent had returned to the table yet.

The preoccupied Miles Edgeworth never thought twice about the fact that his back was turned to the busy, noisy street behind him.

Damien Cain
November 11, 2025

To the assassin, it was just like another day in the office. Except his office was presently a windy rooftop, overlooking his target’s location on the street down below. His tools, rather than a computer, were a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. On the point of firing, he remembered the ruddy great big silencer – a rookery mistake. He unscrewed it and re-aimed. There was no need for a silencer, the noise would be lost in the droning of the traffic below and most likely mistaken for a backfiring van. He checked the wind speed and the distance and adjusted accordingly. He aimed with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague. There was a slight thud as he turned the safety off, and then squeezed the trigger, all while thinking of the coffee he would order at Starbucks afterward and his mind refocusing on Lissianna.

The mark, who up until then had had his back towards Cain, suddenly turned around and faced the street, his expression unreadable from the distance, as he appeared to be looking at the phone in his hand.

The assassin took his aim and fired.

The bullet spat out of his rifle. It hit the man squarely in the chest, propelling him backward in an awkward cartwheel. The man fell back onto the pavement. For a few seconds, he appeared to be looking up at the sky, as if trying to admire it one last time, right before the black waves folded over him.

Damien Cain took his time packing his equipment into an inconspicuous rucksack.

The sniper took no satisfaction in the killing, but he took enormous pride in getting a good clean kill. He had a reputation to maintain and that reputation guaranteed his exorbitant fee.

One-shot. One kill.

Detective Tyrell Badd
November 11, 2025

Earlier in time, during his younger police days, Tyrell Badd had been partaking in surveillance and was hidden high up in a tree, waiting motionlessly for the culprits to wander into the forest clearing where he was stationed nearby.  However, at one point, the big man had lost his footing as a branch snapped beneath his burly weight, and the Detective had fallen a dozen feet to the ground, landing with a heavy thud on his back. Miraculously, he had broken neither his spine nor any limbs in the fall, but the impact had still knocked every wisp of air from his lungs, and he’d lain there in shock at what had just happened, completely supine on the ground, struggling to inhale, to exhale, and to do anything.

That was how Badd felt now, trying to remember how to breathe, how to speak, for that was how gobsmacked he was as the name uttered to him on the other end of the line ricocheted around inside his skull. His mind was sent reeling, unable to comprehend or process the conveyed information. It had been delivered as such a shocking blow that it had caught him rather low, making him nearly short of breath and unable to respire. He sat rigidly in his chair, as paralyzed as an actual winded man, and drew upon all his will to prevent himself from gasping.

Through his parted lips, he drew a tiny controlled gasp.

“What the hell do you mean, he’s dead?!”

Glenn Frey – You Belong To The City (chapter quote)
Sting – Englishman In New York (chapter title)