122 Ebbtide’s Revenge

After all you put me through,
You think I’d despise you,
But in the end I wanna thank you,
‘Cause you’ve made me that much stronger

Well I, I thought I knew you, thinkin’ that you were true
Guess I, I couldn’t trust called your bluff time is up
‘Cause I’ve had enough
You were there by my side, always down for the ride
But your joy ride just came down in flames ’cause your greed sold me out in shame

After all of the stealing and cheating you probably think that I hold resentment for you
But uh uh, oh no, you’re wrong
‘Cause if it wasn’t for all that you tried to do, I wouldn’t know
Just how capable I am to pull through
So I wanna say thank you
‘Cause it

Makes me that much stronger
Makes me work a little bit harder
It makes me that much wiser
So thanks for making me a fighter
Made me learn a little bit faster
Made my skin a little bit thicker
Makes me that much smarter
So thanks for making me a fighter

Kristoph Gavin
April 16, 2026

Kristoph Gavin didn’t show up at places so much as he liked to make an entrance. He was an extremely cocky man, and he knew it. He exuded it; it was shamelessly exhibited in every way, from the way he carried himself in the way that he walked and talked, right down to the clothes that he wore. His presence commanded attention wherever he went, and it was evident he dressed to impress, in everything from his limited-edition Patek Philippe watch to his handmade Italian leather loafers to his Vidal Sassoon haircut. He expected complete devotion from his comrades and, although he acted bored when they complimented him, he still demanded it and would brood if it weren’t supplied in a constant drip-feed. He only kept sycophantic friends who revered and praised him and lapped up all the words he spouted, knowing they were in the company of someone who was the epitome of legal genius.

In fact, that was one of the things he most liked about having Apollo Justice as an understudy – despite the slight intimidation he still had of his employer, the young man was like an overly enthusiastic puppy, always eager and willing to please, even to the point of nearly boot-licking degradation to meet his employer’s high demands for a mere crumb token of praise in return. Some people would find this sort of devotion from their underlings nauseating, but the kid did it was such sincere, earnest charm that the German had decided he found it quite charming.

Nevertheless, whenever he needed to, Kristoph Gavin was also capable of fading into complete obscurity whenever he so chose, with ninja-like stealth and inimitable perception of the targets he was zeroing in, who were never aware of the fact that in the background, silent and unnoticed, was a relentlessly lurking hunter that was stalking his prey.

After all, the more I know, the better I can devise the plans that I have in store… Considering it’s been seven years in the making…

Furtive shadowing was exactly what the blond man was doing at that very moment as he surveyed the pencil-necked reporter he had been tailing on and off for the last seven years conversing in the near distance with a towering, muscular figure. The mystifying male was dressed head to toe in white, in a cheap-looking suit and Jaxon Deadman Top Hat, both of which appeared as though they’d been purchased from a ’70s thrift shop. The two men obliviously chattered away, incognizant of the predator in their midst.

The lawyer’s lip curled with disdain at the tacky, tawdry portrait of a makeshift Vegas hustler the taller man presented in his second-rate garb. Kristoph had always looked down on the unfashionable as though they were sub-human – did Phoenix Wright even own anything other than that ratty, hooded sweatshirt and shoddy jogging pants he insisted on constantly wearing?!

However, despite being adorned in apparel that was greatly altered from his customary magician’s ensemble, the defense attorney would have recognized the unforgettable mug of Zak Gramarye a mile away.

On his face, the blond man wore sunglasses, but not the typical, trendy kind the residents of sunny Southern California normally wore, and which very few would currently be wearing, as it was now very late evening. No, these were more like something one would expect on the face of an astronaut, as they were utterly shiny, dark silver, and seamless. They simply wrapped around his face from one side to another, perfect, as if only ever touched by a gloved hand. And like all shades, they hid the part of his face that he had always found easiest to read on others so that anyone who would’ve happened to see him could have only taken note of his mouth, posture, and his proprietary sense of personal space.

He was watching the exchange between the two men from his unseen and hidden post outside a coffee bar. The shadows and distance he needed to maintain made his job harder, surely, but as practiced as he was by now in such espionage, he had no problem whatsoever gathering enough Intel while looking engrossed in his newspaper.

At last, Brushel and Zak parted ways, and almost in the same manner he had in the courtroom seven years ago, the former magician appeared to then vanish from Kristoph’s sight.

No matter. Zak can pull the disappearing act as much as he wants. He can run, but he can’t hide! Not when his lanky little friend has constantly remained within my line of unwavering sight…much like he is now, the clueless Dummkopf that he is…

As the unmindful newsman drew nearer, the attorney’s expression was of one being pressed to endure an unpleasant redolence. His gaze was unwavering and unabashed as it followed the journalist, seeming as though it was focusing on something a couple of feet further away. Perhaps his naturally introspective nature led others to think he was merely engrossed in his own thoughts, despite all the while keeping an eagle-eye observation of his surroundings. Regardless, he made no gesture of recognition, not even raising a hand or giving a nod as Brushel passed right by him, not even noticing Kristoph’s presence.

What a completely inferior human being. Even the dumbest of animals can sense the danger of a predator in their midst!

The reporter quickened his pace to the street corner and melted into the Los Angeles sidewalk crowds.

A smug smile tugged at the lawyer’s lips. Soon. It would be very soon.

No one can keep dashing and dodging for eternity. Eventually, they all have to stop and take a rest. And it’s long overdue for me to ensure that Zak Gramarye, at last, has his eternal rest…

Later that evening…

It was the perfect strategy. Kristoph had been methodically perfecting it for years, although Justice was smarter than he had initially anticipated. His spiky-fringed understudy was keenly self-assertive and perceptive when least expected, so while he was loath to admit it, he knew that his protégé would somehow figure it all out if he wasn’t careful.

The deck has been stacked in my favor for some time now. Now I just await the fool Joker, who knows that I’m the one who commissioned that forged diary page, to make his appearance at last. Shadi Enigmar has been a missing person for almost seven years now and will be declared legally dead on April 19th. He must come out of hiding before that, otherwise, he loses the rights to any assets which he undoubtedly would want to bequeath to his only child. And when he does, he dies. Consequently, Wright goes under further scrutiny, and Apollo’s drive for the truth will serve as the perfect catalyst. It’s perfect. I, of course, will take my “friend’s” case, but as that degenerate’s “guilt” becomes apparent, Apollo’s conscience will triumph and he’ll intervene. Phoenix Wright spends the rest of his worthless life rotting in jail before getting sent to the gallows, Justice gets the credit, and I can use the entire affair as leverage over Justice’s every move.

The past seven years of knowing each player’s every move had been what had finally allowed the German man to reach this moment of turnabout triumph. And right on schedule, Zak had shown up, just like Kristoph had always known he would.

His gloating smile faded then as he jabbed at the numbers on his phone.

“This is Spark Brushel! Always in the loop to get the scoop!”

“Is that seriously how you answer your phone, Brushel?” Kristoph’s tone was dripping with scorn. “You sound ridiculous!”

“D – Do I know you?” The nerve-gratingly upbeat tenor suddenly sounded spooked. “Who is this? H – How did you get my number?”

“That matter is not of importance at the moment. As you so absurdly boast with your greeting, you’re the man who always has the alleged scoop. Ergo, I’m going to make you now put your money, where your mouth is.”

“A – A journalist is always on the hunt for a new scoop, S – Sir!” The reporter stammered nervously. “How can I …help you?”

“Where can I find Zak Gramarye?” Kristoph demanded harshly. “And I know much more than merely your phone number, Brushel, so don’t even think about wasting my time with mendacities.”

“News-hungry journalist confused by bizarre query of the secretive caller. End quote.”

“I know you’re not as doltish as you look, you four-eyed weasel, so don’t even think of trying to play the phlegmatic ignoramus card with me.” His voice was pure ice. “I’ve been watching your every move for the last seven years and rest assured, I am not a man who takes kindly to those who purposely double-cross me.”

“Reporter has no earthly idea of what unknown voice is talking about!” Brushel cried. “Will state on record that he has not seen any man bearing that name since he vanished! E- End quote!” With those as his final words, the shaken man abruptly ended the call, leaving Kristoph beyond livid.

Slamming down the receiver with disgust, the defense attorney refused to be discouraged. He could still put his intended motions into play, regardless of the reporter’s lack of cooperation. After all, there was only one other man besides the nuisance of a newsman who Zak would need to see before his deadline, and unfortunately for the man on the run, Kristoph was very, very acquainted with how and where to find him.

He was whistling cheerfully to himself as he grabbed his car keys. It was quite a familiar song to him by now, sung by his favorite band from the 1980s, The Police.

I think it’s about time I reiterated my yet-to-be-fulfilled request by my favorite pianist. A sinister grin crept over his angular features. It only seems fitting, after all…

Kristoph Gavin and Phoenix Wright
The Borscht Bowl Club
April 17, 2026, 11:30 PM

Kristoph was chuckling inwardly as he looked around the frozen hellhole where his enemy was forced to make a living. Regardless of what day of the week it was, the bar always seemed to have the same folks, sitting in the same spots, even though he spotted a few anxious new faces, who undoubtedly were unfamiliar with the tavern’s card-playing schedule, and the fact that since there wouldn’t be another poker tournament until the following week, would therefore be soon leaving in disappointment upon discovery that there’d be no opportunity to feed their burning gambling addiction since there is no poker match set for that night.

Well, not the scheduled kind, anyway.

Without a doubt, Kristoph knew just who would get to play Phoenix Wright’s final poker game, thus he’d need to ensure he made tracks as soon as he spotted the wandering traveler, who was sure to make his grand entrance soon enough.

Phoenix felt as though he were a condemned man, with no visible reprieve in near sight.

Ever since the breakup with Maya, he had been excruciatingly enduring what had now become weekly drop-ins at the bar with Kristoph Gavin, who came nearly every Thursday, without fail, to visit with him during his break. It was as though his nemesis now wanted to confirm Phoenix’s unadulterated misery, ever since the day Kristoph had all but threatened Maya, and prompted him to sever all ties with her. Since then, Kristoph’s “social calls” at the tavern had become increasingly frequent, as though the defense attorney gained personal perverse pleasure from the reassurance that the deadened indigo eyes were now genuine, seeing as how the sole other light in his life had been extinguished.

Twice, that night alone, Kristoph had gleefully mentioned the subject of Maya’s upcoming nuptials, now only two months away, to the hair tycoon, then scrutinized Phoenix’s well-practiced aloof visage for a reaction, seeming slightly chagrined when he found none.

Meanwhile, the spiky-haired man had been silently thanking all that was holy for the validation that he had indeed, made the right decision when he’d broken up with the Kurain Master.

Because of this necessitous, gut-wrenching move, Maya Fey was now nothing but a conversation topic the sadistic German used to rub salt into Phoenix’s wounds, yet no longer a perceived targeted threat.

Usually, very shortly after The Last Supper (or so each meal in his company felt like) Kristoph tended to then remove his ominous presence, and the pianist finally allowed himself to breathe once more, restoring order to his poor nerves, which was always to the point of being irreparably shot whenever the blond man was around.

Unfortunately, tonight was different. Despite having dined with him just over half an hour ago now, Kristoph had persevered in remaining at the bar and had even relentlessly insisted that Phoenix perform “Every Breath You Take” by The Police, despite his protests that he didn’t know the song well enough to play it convincingly.

“Just bluff your way through it then, Herr Wright.” Kristoph sneered. “Surely that would be something you’d be accustomed to at this point? After all, it’s not that busy of a night, so there’s only a small handful of inebriated patrons you would need to distract with that songbird voice of yours when you sing the lyrics, which I’m positive a man of your extended musical repertoire would be familiar with.”

Phoenix was in no mood whatsoever to sing, as he had scarcely done so since his soul-baring performance of “Shape of My Heart,” on New Year’s Day, which, ironically, was also a song by Sting, Kristoph’s requested band’s lead vocalist.

Nonetheless, after his second protest, he thought the better of it and decided to play the eerie tune, as it allowed him to finally break away from the table and put some distance between himself and the shark-eyed defense attorney’s unwavering, feral stare.

“I’m surprised you decided to extend your visit when it’s already so late, Kristoph,” he offered warily as he pushed his chair back from the table and reluctantly headed towards the piano. “Considering it’s a work night and all…”

A spine-chilling grin in response. “Time flies when I am having fun I suppose. I am thoroughly enjoying the pleasure of your company Herr Wright, and besides, I needed to take a break from my work and hadn’t had dinner yet. But what is a meal without a little after-dinner music?”

If I didn’t know better I would think he was purposely lingering around like a fetid stench of flatus, the disbarred defense attorney thought to himself. I stopped trying to understand the methods of Kristoph’s madness a long time ago, and have just readily accepted my fate of perishing within these frozen walls for the rest of my days, with only my pretentious, counterfeit friend as my sole company.

It was these depressing thoughts that made Phoenix sing the clumsily played song with unintentional fervor.

Every move you make
Every vow you break
Every smile you fake
Every claim you stake
I’ll be watching you

Every move you make
Every step you take
I’ll be watching you

I’ll be watching you

(Every breath you take
Every move you make
Every bond you break)

I’ll be watching you

(Every single day
Every word you say
Every game you play)

I’ll be watching you

(Every move you make
Every vow you break
Every smile you fake)

I’ll be watching you

(Every single day
Every word you say) Ooh
(Every claim you stake)

I’ll be watching you

The spectacled man applauded loudly when Phoenix was done singing the world’s creepiest stalker song, as did the small handful of other customers in the tavern, much to his irritation and embarrassment.

“Bravo, Herr Wright,” Kristoph enthused with an oily grin. “Bravo! That was well worth the long wait after all my repeated requests for it! Did I not tell you that voice of yours would distract from the fact that it sounded like you were playing something along the lines of “Mary Had a Little Lamb” for the most part?”

Stifling a nasty retort, Phoenix bit down so hard on his lower lip that he nearly tasted blood. He instead affixed his most ersatz smile in reaction to the jibe.

“You’re too kind, Kristoph,” he replied through gritted teeth. “Now, I think I’ll stick with melodies with which I am more acquainted for the next few hours if that’s alright with you.”

“Quite alright indeed! You have appeased me already, so I shall no longer interfere with whatever you intend to regale our ears with for the rest of the night!”

“Mighty big of you.” Feeling agitated, but refusing to give his adversary the satisfaction of seeing as such, Phoenix began to clink out a less melodious, but much more well-known, show-tune refrain.

“By the way, I was hoping I would see Trucy tonight,” Kristoph remarked casually. He had been prepared for a sickeningly sweet family reunion, but this worked out just as well. No excess eyewitnesses that he needed to worry about eliminating. He’d only spared the teenager all this time as she was the lure to bring Zak back to town and had anything happened to her before then, the intended events of this evening would never take place. “I know tonight isn’t a poker night but does she not often pop by to see her Daddy sometimes after finishing work at The Wonder Bar?”

Phoenix cringed inwardly at how in that short sentence, it had been conveyed that the dangerous man sitting in his usual spot right by the piano knew not only the schedule of the bar but that of his daughter, as well.

“Trucy was instructed to go straight home after work tonight.” He said tersely. “She’s got midterms coming up, so whatever free time she has is spent hitting the books. I need to ensure that my little girl needs to work twice as hard as everybody else, being a working student, as she has less study time than other kids.

“You’re such a good Daddy,” Kristoph commented, with such phony sweetness that Phoenix felt positively ill.

“Thanks, I try,” he muttered, sharply shifting his focus back to the piano, clearly that the conversation regarding his daughter was now over.

A few moments passed and Phoenix couldn’t help but note that the disingenuous blond had gone several moments without attempting further banal dialogue, and briefly swung his gaze over towards the table, to see that Kristoph’s pale blue eyes were now constricted into nearly visible slits.

I just saw the Saukerl! He finally had the nerve to show his face! The German was seeing red as outside the window, he spotted the man who had dared spurn him for the hobo bum pianist seated only five feet away from his table, nearly a decade ago. There is no way in hell he will be escaping again!

Hastily, he threw his napkin down the table and shoved his chair back, unaware that his clenched hand around his wineglass made the disturbing skull image on the back of it all the more prominent.

“Leaving so soon, Kristoph?” The pianist asked with feigned interest as he tried not to exhale in relief. “You did say my playing wasn’t that bad, after all?”

“Yes, I’ll be taking my leave now.” Kristoph wasn’t even looking at anything but his target as he ground out his words. “Still have some work to do back at the office, which I have left unattended for far too long. I made Justice finish some paperwork, and I need to file it tonight.”

“Then I guess I’ll go back to my piano.” Phoenix ensured he kept his poker face intact as he shrugged in response, even though inwardly, he was loudly cheering upon hearing this.

“To be honest, it’s better when you aren’t playing.” Keeping Zak within his peripheral vision the entire time, Kristoph couldn’t resist one final parting shot. “This frigid culinary dungeon almost feels… comfortable.”

“Say what?” The latter observation sounded so uncharacteristically random that Phoenix stopped tickling the ivories, mid-song.

“Gute Nacht!” Kristoph hissed, then dashed off to follow Zak.

Shrugging, the hobo smiled and waved goodbye as the bane of his existence quickly dashed out of there like a bat out of hell, in a sudden, questionable rush to immerse himself in inundating legal paperwork.

Grateful for the late hour, as it was best that as few people saw him as possible that night, the agitated attorney expeditiously exited the club, but not before making brief eye contact with Zak Gramarye, who’d been about to enter. For a split second, Kristoph was sure he saw a flicker of recognition on the white-suited man’s face, but before the former magician could speak, the German swept right past him.

Blinking with surprise, Zak shook his head, as though uncertain of what he had just seen, and speedily entered the establishment. Kristoph stealthily crept over to the side window and watched as the ex-performer made a beeline towards the unsuspecting Phoenix, who was still making noise pollution at the piano.

It was all going exactly as arranged.

Seven years in the making. Seven years of patiently watching and waiting, are all about to pay off, as it shall be me, not you, Phoenix Wright, who hails their triumphant victory as the ultimate “Master Baiter!”

He was cackling softly to himself as he crept back into the restaurant and down the secret passage to The Hydeout.

The time has come. This is the final “Bloodbath.”

Phoenix Wright and Zak Gramarye
The Borscht Bowl Club
April 17, 2026, 12:00 AM

Phoenix sighed as he pushed away his mostly untouched meal.

Two hours left in my shift. I wonder if we’ll get any customers tonight? I doubt it though; we aren’t supposed to have any poker tournaments until next Thursday – unless someone decides to surprise me.

Without thinking, he listlessly clanged at a few keys on the piano in the room, wondering if the few remaining customers in the bar would notice if he recycled the short but simple tune from the Flintstones theme song.

“Ahem,” a deep voice suddenly said from behind him. “Do you know who I am?”

Phoenix turned around and cocked an eyebrow at the brawny, goateed man, clad in a white pimp polyester suit, with a matching Deadman Top Hat.

“Who I Am? No… I am a man of a very limited repertoire which mostly consists of show tunes snippets. But if you hum it, I can play it!” He quirked a half-smile at the unsmiling stranger. “Just kidding. I don’t do requests.”

“How about a different sort of request?” The man countered. “You see… I play cards.”

“Oh…a customer.”

That kind of customer. Thanks for warning me, Boris! Trucy’s not with me, because she knows there wasn’t anything scheduled tonight…and this guy looks shady. No matter, I’m sure my own acquired poker skills will suffice. 

He plastered on a faux amiable smile.

“I was just hoping someone would come in and save me from a night at the keys.”

“I think a true competition. I have heard The Borscht Bowl Club is the place for this. Now I see the rumor is true.”

That was when the DILF suddenly noticed the creepy-looking, bespectacled newsman, whose gawky frame had initially been obscured by the taller, muscular stranger. Presently, he was sitting off to the side, scribbling away on a notepad, paying the pair little attention and studiously ignoring them both.

“And this is…? A friend of yours?”

“Don’t mind me!” The scrawny geek with the sparse brush-cut squawked, flashing a toothy grin, which exposed an impressive set of pearly whites, giving him the appearance of an actor auditioning for a Colgate toothpaste commercial. “I’m just your friendly neighborhood newsman!”

“He will not be playing tonight,” the stranger informed Phoenix. “When his business is finished, I shall send him home.” He placed his hands on his hips and beamed arrogantly. “This competition will be between us. No others.”

Phoenix raised his head and caught sight of Boris across the room, shooting him an inquisitive glance. The Russian man nodded his silent consent and went back to chatting with his cronies in the corner.

“They told me I would find you here. Don’t worry about returning to your piano. It took a little persuasion, but Boris had zero qualms with turning the last couple of hours of your shift into an impromptu poker tournament.”

Well, Boris is the boss. Or so Natasha lets him believe anyway.

The card shark mentally shrugged.

“I’ll take you to the room.”

“The Hydeout, yes.” The man treated him to a toothy grin, which for some reason gave Phoenix the feeling of repulsion and déjà vu simultaneously. “But before we go… Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Shadi Smith.”

“Oh, and I’m Brushel!” Chimed in the seated pipsqueak, who reeked of fresh mint tooth cleaner. “Spark Brushel! News reporter.”

Charmed, I’m sure, the ex-attorney thought with cheerless amusement, then adjusted his beanie and inclined his head towards the men to follow him as he turned towards the dimly lit stairwell, casting an offhand glimpse over his shoulder. “By the way, I’m…”

“No, Phoenix Wright!” The stranger’s booming voice rose with disapproval, making the hairs on the back of the hobo’s neck stand on end as he pondered how this new, enigmatic challenger happened to be aware of his identity. “You must always look a man in the eye when you make your introductions.” He beamed smugly at the pianist’s thunderstruck expression. “You still do not know who I am?”

The poker champ’s searching eyes roved over the harsh lines on that now deviously smiling mien.

“Have we…met?” The words barely left his mouth when suddenly the realization hit him like a thunderbolt. He stared, utterly bug-eyed, at the person in front of him, the echoes of the long-ago trial still ringing in his head. “Z… Zak Gramarye!?”

The words came out in whispered awe.

“Yes,” the man replied with a nod, looking quite proud of himself as he was finally recognized. “The reincarnation act of the century. Pity I have only an audience of one.”

This has to be a bad dream. In a sense, this guy ruined my life, after all… And… What about Trucy?

Surveying the room, Zak noticed the petite blonde standing near the bar and ordered her to prepare The Hydeout. The spiky-haired man recognized her as Olga Orly, a waitress he hadn’t seen much of since he had first been hired, as she normally worked in the daytime, and hence, he didn’t come across her too often. Nodding in compliance with the command, she meekly agreed and scurried off without another word. Phoenix supposed he couldn’t blame her; Zak was quite the imposing figure indeed, even as a resurrected ghost!

“It’s really you?” He whispered incredulously the moment the waitress was out of sight. “Zak Gramarye?”

“Now I am Shadi Smith,” Zak corrected. “Remember this.”

Phoenix released a long, shaky breath and shook his head in wonder.

“How many years has it been now? Six?”

For me, every day has felt like it’s been on auto replay, a repeat of the one before it, just like in the movie Groundhog Day, ever since I lost my badge. That would be why I wasn’t keeping track of the anniversary date of that fateful trial because if I had I wouldn’t have had the rug pulled out from under me like this!

“In exactly three days from now, it will be seven,” Zak murmured, a flicker of regret crossing his features. “I have caused you much inconvenience, I fear.”

Gee, you think?! It took all of the anterior lawyer’s self-control must not to haul off and deck the blasted sonofabitch right in the kisser.

“Yeah,” he muttered darkly. “You could say that.”

“Is… she well?” The ex-magician asked hesitantly. “Trucy, I mean.”

You gave up the right to ask about her seven years ago you selfish bastard! It was the response Phoenix longed to give, but miraculously, held his tongue and steeled his jaw.

“She’s fine,” he retorted gruffly, thinking that was still more information than his daughter’s worthless sire deserved to know. If the douchebag wanted to see proof of the claim, he could damn well go see Trucy himself! “I’ve got her working already. Hope you don’t mind.”

“I hardly need to express my gratitude, but you have it.” Zak smiled faintly. “This is why I have come.” A predatory expression came over his face then, along with a noticeable glint in his eye that Phoenix was all too accustomed to. He had seen that grim determination in the eyes of potential challengers countless times over the years; that smarmy arrogance of a gambler who believed he was la crème de la crème of the game and was a surefire winner, who couldn’t fathom the concept of losing. “That, and to settle a matter of cards.”

“By which you mean poker.” Phoenix’s face and tone were tranquil, even as a feeling of caginess began to creep over him, as unfortunately, he was more heedful than he cared to admit at handling competitors who approached him with that in their eyes.

“Deal.”

The routine never changed. Each day was the same shit, different pile.

The same actions, same moves, same dark and cold environment of the underground club room. Still, it was warmer here than it was upstairs, at least, that was what others told him. For him, it didn’t make a difference. It was always cold wherever he went; but unlike the bar clientele who would drink to warm up, his only vice was grape juice.

The customers were different, sometimes, but the sight of their smug, condescending smirks was constant; the smell of their odorous perspiration, greed, and desperation for glory was unwavering. He supposed he liked that. Not really the competition but rather the predictability. Things had been changing so rapidly in his life that he appreciated the garden-variety routine, a welcome reprieve from the same nightmare of different faces he woke up to each and every day for the past seven years.

He got such a kick out of the presumptuous victor’s arrogant flourish of throwing their cards down and crying: “Hah! Full house. Looks like your luck’s finally run out.”

… Or something to that variation.

“Sorry.” With a tip of his beanie and a well-placed smirk, he would then show his own hand to their aghast faces. “Straight flush. Better luck next time, Sir.”

There would be a moment of befuddled silence; the regular dealer would contain her knowing giggles behind a pair of smirking, brightly painted lips; then, the accusations would start flying as the incensed losing player would morph into a frothing mouth, potty-mouthed, klazomaniac and let the fur fly.

“Inconceivable!”

“Swindler!”

“Fakir!”

“Charlatan!”

“Scammer!”

“Card Shark!”

“Con Artist!”

“Crook!”

It was usually a combination and minor variation of flung insults. They were among the kinder slurs that the infuriated losers of the game would bellow at the constantly amused poker champion.

This would then be followed by the demand to bodily search him. Phoenix would always willingly raise his arms while the infuriated customer rummaged over him: his hoodie, inside his pockets, under his beanie.

Each time he indulged them, while the unassuming, smug grin never budged from his phizog, which only made them even madder.

From his position as the victor solely on the poker table but the underdog in life, this was his true triumph – the blow it brought to their egos. It brought them immense shame and frustration and it secretly gave him a rise knowing that he could turn the tables and humiliate them.

Finally, begrudging acceptance would kick in, the customer would throw their money onto the table with a curse, and he’d straighten his clothes and collect his earnings for the night.

“I despise losing above all else,” Zak went on. “And so, I have decided that I will win tonight, no matter what it takes.”

The diabolical smirk playing on the other man’s thinly mustached lips was impossible to miss, and Phoenix’s eyes narrowed as he guardedly assessed his opponent. This kind of arrogant confidence radiating from the man who claimed to be challenging only the second person in his entire life to whom he’d lost poker was both unsettling and suspicious. It was the air of a man who had some sort of trick up his sleeve, except this time not of the entertaining nor magical variety. Moreover, it was the aura of someone who didn’t give a rat’s ass about the consequences. He had an intuitive hunch that there was a definite correlation between Zak and the mysterious Five of Hearts he’d found in his pocket earlier.

Zak’s expression suddenly shifted into one of utmost congeniality then. “Perhaps we should take this time to talk before we play. I know you have much to ask me… and I, you.”

Not knowing where to begin, Phoenix first inquired about the photo of the beautiful woman in the locket Trucy had shown him. The picture was in a locket that she had kept hidden all these years but revealed after seeing the portrait of Hera in Layton’s package. She’d said the image was of her mother, who was now “gone.” It was a subject that the other man palpably did not care to delve into, curtly replying that Trucy’s mother was indeed gone and there was nothing else Phoenix needed to know.

In the next moment, in an effort to shush him, Zak then proceeded to sucker-punch the spindly journalist when he piped up that Trucy’s mother had been Magnifi Gramarye’s only daughter.

The violent outburst shocked and appalled the pianist, but it was too late to save the now-winded newsman, who was clutching his abused midsection, and for the phony musician to let his nemesis know that Brushel had merely relayed information that he already knew about! Not knowing what else to do, he decided to feign shock about the reporter’s outburst and let out a gasp, the authenticity of it more from the witnessing of the spur-of-the-moment assault that had taken place rather than the actual news.

“He’ll be fine. But he talks too much,” the illusionist dismissed, feigning obliviousness to the pained gasps of Brushel. “The conversation of Trucy’s mother is now closed. Next topic?”

My long-awaited moment of jouska has finally arrived! After playing this hypothetical conversation in my head so many times over the years, I must make sure not to waste this opportunity to finally get the answers I’ve been seeking for the last seven years!

Phoenix wracked his mind around where to begin.

“Perhaps it would be best to start from square one then,” he finally ventured. “Go back to when we very first met? If memory serves me correctly, we competed that day, seven years ago, too?”

“Ah, yes.” Zak smiled ruefully. “You must have been surprised! Called to the detention center out of the blue.”

The hobo eyed him levelly.

“You choose your defense attorneys by playing poker.” It was a statement, not a question.

Zak was the first to break eye contact and cast his gaze downward. “Some are hired, others fired. When you compete, you see a man’s true nature.” He looked back up at Phoenix and flashed a shit-eating grin then. “You know what I speak of. I know that you do.”

Immediately, Phoenix was aware that the other man was alluding to his daughter’s uncanny, built-in, lie-detector ability. “Trucy’s power?”

“Trucy?” The pride was evident in Zak’s voice. “She is in a class of her own.”

She and Apollo. The beanie wearer wisely kept this knowledge to himself. If there was one thing this whole debacle with his vanishing ex-client had taught him, it was to never let your opponent know about the ace up your sleeve too early in the game. To his irritation, all Zak proceeded to relay to him after that was information he was already cognizant of, as well, confirming that said otherworldly talent was indeed a genetic trait, but it wasn’t something he “told lightly to outsiders” and nothing his one-time legist “needed to know about at this time.”

Hidden in the deep pockets of his hoodie, Phoenix felt his hands clenching into furious fists even though he kept his outward expression unruffled as his mind recoiled with indignation.

Good thing I’ve already done my homework in that regard! He fumed. I became a father to that girl because of your wayward ass! According to you, how much more of a need to know am I required to be, you duplicitous son of a bitch!

Unaware of the poker champ’s adverse reaction, it was Zak who swiftly brought up the next subject then. “She’s… 15 now?”

Phoenix nodded, seeing no point in reminding him that his daughter’s Sweet 16 birthday was three months away.

“She’s still trying her best to follow in your footsteps, you know,” he said flatly, wondering if this information would fill the former magician with pride…or pain.

“I… see.” Zak had the decency to at least have some guilt register on his mug upon hearing this information. “When I planned my disappearing act, it was the thought of her alone that gave me pause.”

The words were like a loud thunderclap in the otherwise silent room.

“Wait…” Phoenix gaped in disbelief. “You were planning on vanishing from the get-go? Even if I’d managed to clear your name!?”

“Yes, and for that, I must apologize.” The mustache man expelled a heavy sigh as he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small piece of paper which he handed to the still seething Phoenix, who accepted it gingerly. “However, I could not be found guilty that day… because of this.”

The former attorney read the short-handwritten message on the front and looked up at Zak with confusion.

“A transferal of rights,” the wanderer explained. “You see the signature?”

The handwritten contract officially passed on the “secrets, staging, and performance” of Magnifi Gramarye’s magic to “the recipient named below”. Right beneath that, all in what Phoenix presumed was Magnifi’s handwriting, was Zak’s name, followed by Magnifi’s signature. What caught Phoenix’s attention most, however, was the fact that the left edge of the paper was torn down … like the page had been pulled out of a book. Seeing the questioning look in his eyes, Trucy’s biological father nodded and confirmed his suspicions.

“That damn scrap of paper lost me my attorney’s badge!” This time the card shark could not hide the ferocious glare he directed at Zak. “You could have told me this earlier! Like, seven years earlier!”

“Once again, I must apologize.” The regret on Zak’s face appeared genuine. “It was all I could do to prepare for my escape from that courtroom. The greatest of Magnifi Gramarye’s illusions is true art. As such, they are well protected… by this document.” He gestured with the handwritten contract in his hand. “Only its bearer may perform his illusions on stage.”

Phoenix closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath to compose his frayed nerves, as he was pretty sure where this conversation was headed.

“As the rightful heir to his art, I, too, wanted a rightful heir.” Zak flashed a crooked grin. “I’m sure you know who I chose as my successor.”

“Trucy.” Phoenix refused to refer to his little girl as “your daughter” to the other man. As far as he was concerned, Trucy had become solely his from the moment this cowardly snake had plotted his great escape.

“That is why I have risked all to come here tonight,” Zak affirmed, then turned to the quiet as a mouse newsman. “Brushel.”

“Sir!” Now recovered from his injury, the reporter scampered over and pulled out a piece of paper, which he lay on the table between Zak and Phoenix, pulling the ball-point from behind his ear and holding it out to the pianist. “Here you go!”

Phoenix hesitantly took the pen. “What’s this?”

“A letter passing the rights I have inherited to Trucy,” Zak explained, leaning forward to tap the bottom of the paper, where lines had been drawn out for three signatures. “I would have you sign here, as a witness.”

That was when it became evident why Brushel was present. Even though Phoenix was no longer a lawyer, the reporter was a certified notary and could provide the valid and necessary third signature on the legally binding document. It took only a minute for all three men to sign the document, officially passing Magnifi’s tricks down to his granddaughter.

It also became clear that Shadi Smith was fully aware of the fact that after seven years of being missing, a person was considered legally deceased and would lose all rights as a living person after that, along with their possessions, which was the reason Trucy’s sperm-donor – Zak Gramarye was not her father goddammit! – was now there.

“Well the prelude may have been longer than the attraction,” Zak murmured as he placed down the pen. “Shall we begin our game?”

Another devilish leer.

“My final competition?”

“Final?” Phoenix echoed blankly. “Why?”

“I came out of hiding today to make this document legally binding. Once that is done, I shall slip once more underground.”

Phoenix blinked; uncertain he had heard him correctly.

“…Without seeing…” He nearly gagged on the word. “Your daughter?”

This was a new low, even for a contemptuous slug such as Zak!

“It would be best if I did not.” For a split second, Daddy Dearest looked vulnerable. “Seven years ago, we played. Seven years ago, I lost.” He cleared his throat then, and his voice hardened. “I already lost once to Magnifi. I do not care to lose to another. And I have heard that you never lose.”

“It’s just a rumor,” Phoenix lied quickly, the dread continuing to mount within him. “Don’t believe everything you hear!”

“Yes…” The former illusionist seemed to like this answer and beamed widely. “For it is impossible to never lose. Unless one has an ace up one’s sleeve.”

The steely glint in Zak’s eye was downright alarming, and the uneasy feeling Phoenix had felt creeping up within him was now at maximum capacity.

“Like the magician, it causes me no end of irritation.” The affable smile was still in place, but the underlying intent was perceptible as a dark shadow crossed over Zak’s face. “To think a mere lawyer might be out there, pulling the wool over so many eyes…”

The unnerving rubatosis kicked in, full throttle.

“Hey…” the amicable hobo tried to speak lightly, although his heart was now thumping erratically in his chest. “I just signed your document for you. Maybe you can try lightening up?”

Maybe I should volunteer to shove a light bulb up his ass?

“For my final competition,” Zak stated with an air of finality. “I will destroy your perfect record, Phoenix Wright! This… Will be my final performance! Consider yourself warned!”

The ex-illusionist then told Brushel he was free to leave, and when the gangly reporter eagerly offered to stick around for the “scoop” of the former magician’s final game, rather than verbally negate the request, Zak, casually, without warning or second thought, flat out treated the annoying man to a sharp uppercut across the chin, sending him sprawling to the ground!

Phoenix witnessed this with mounting horror, even as Brushel nervously spluttered that he would now be making his leave. The moment he left, Zak turned back around and unflinchingly brushed his knuckles against his suit jacket, as though trying to remove a pesky piece of lint.

“I punch and I punch,” he shrugged. “But still, it is not enough.”

Phoenix just stared at him speechlessly. I am so glad my little girl did not inherit this alarmingly sociopathic and violent behavior streak!

“I’m sure Brushel meant no harm,” he finally managed to utter. “And he’s obviously very loyal to you. Why can’t you be nicer to him?”

Another shrug. “Nice is a mask angry people wear to hide their inner assholes.”

Phoenix gulped at how callous the larger man was about the pain he caused to others, as well as his seemingly overall lack of humanity, realizing at that moment that for all the times he’d been accused of being a poker shark, he was the one now actually dealing with a cold-blooded shark… in every way possible, and not only limited to the poker variety.

His stomach sank.

I just know that this is not going to end well…

Christina Aguilera – Fighter
The Police – Every Breath You Take