Kristoph Gavin had to keep reminding himself of his name in pursuit of some form of vindication. They were all clumped in a rather ugly, shabby confinement, but at least they had 4 walls - albeit grey, mould-clad ones. It was at times hard to see, to hear and sometimes even harder to breathe when oppressed bodies were pressed so fitfully together, and as he moved - shoving aside each sweaty, fleshy mass - it only became disturbingly worse. There were tears everywhere, discordant sobbing, amidst which he called out:
"Phoenix?" But was left unheard. Again, he kept parting the wailing captives with surprising perseverance until he was met by a boring, cold wall. It lacked enthusiasm and personality. Kristoph experimentally placed his shivering hands upon it, splaying spindly fingers. His designer navy blue attire was now streaked with crimson smears (presumably from the crowd). Confined, he slid down into a defeatist slump upon a hard floor. Waiting.

Sometimes they could hear heavy footsteps behind the ominous door but the lack of windows - of vision - meant that everything was intuitive. They weren't fed - some of the more delusional started to scream, fingernails clawing at the unsympathetic walls until they were scraped off. For a time it seemed they'd be starved to death. Some sat next to Kristoph with as little enthusiasm as the walls: most conversations were incoherent and he was uninterested. He'd often ask about Phoenix but they had no idea who he was. Then he'd tell them he'd been the one pole-dancing at the club to watch their faces light up for a brief moment: a fleeting amusement before they felt the same emptiness as everybody else. It was miserable.

Eventually, but not without a bloodcurdlingly loud screech, the door became the first to make a move. It gaped at them but told them nothing: there was no clock and the same dingy lack of light lingered. One incomprehensible silhouette lamely stood to attention - probably. It was only a moment, as Kristoph's icy blue eyes lazily flicked upwards, before the mystery person was lunged at by a sweaty mob of the oppressed: angry and homosexual. Some plead and some tried to make a run for it through minuscule gaps - cramming themselves against one another - but Kristoph, alone, was the observer as everyone found themselves on the receiving end of stun-guns, knuckles, bats and even rifles. Threatened, many resigned again - accepting their fate of eternal, depressing confinement - whilst others idiotically persevered in the ensuing bloodbath. Kristoph decided that they were all fools: he was well aware, after having worked in the bloody system for 10 years, that their lives meant nothing to the cause. Leader Edgeworth did not - and would not - give a second thought about the blatant murder he had become witness to.

"Engarde."
"Gavin." Came the cool response. Kristoph rose to his feet, strolling past the trembling and fallen only to have a calloused hand firmly planted upon his chest.
"No."
"Come on."
"No."
"We're friends. You know me." The blonde one insisted, gently trying to prise the burlier man's gloved, predominant hand away with great difficulty.
"We were friends until you became one of them."
"What?" A severe frown gripped Kristoph's face as he lopsidedly gestured at the dejected, grey crowd:
"I'm not one of them-"
"Do you know him?" Kristoph could have rolled his eyes at the intrusion: a stupid, halfwit girl - presumably in her 20s - with floppy hair and dopey eyes and a big penetrative bruise on her left cheekbone.
"Gavin." Engarde snapped:
"Don't make this harder than it has to be. Go back."
"Listen, Engarde-" Kristoph received the repulsive sensation of an irritant clutching at the concisely-sewn silk of his arm, his eye twitching in correspondence, with his ears being abused by all kinds of abhorrent abuse.
"You're one of them!" And, as if she'd made a point, she looked around at her vacant audience:
"He's one of them!"
"Shut her up or let me talk to you alone."
"Gavin, need I remind you that you are in no position to negotiate."
"You're a rancid, turgid," She began jolting Kristoph - at which he tried to elbow her whilst using that unmoving hand upon his chest to balance;
"Homophobic piece of-" She dropped to the floor, shortly after the bang.

It resonated and none of the 5 left alive said a word despite being amidst a sea of corpses: of what might have been. Blood and possibility. Flesh and repose. Kristoph exhaled:
"Thank you."
"Talk."
"I just want to see Phoenix Wright."