"I'll come to you. Walking the halls without a light or a weapon probably isn't a good idea." He finally made himself stop torturing his breakfast to death and eat a bite, listening to Edgeworth in observant silence. When he finished, he shook his head, answer already on his tongue.

"I wanted to," he replied simply. "Even- even last night. I mean, don't get me wrong. I never want to do that again. But-" His voice dropped appreciably, but he still forced himself to look over, to make eye contact and hold it. He didn't want to leave a shadow of a doubt that he was telling the truth. "-I didn't want you to be alone." He hoped he was imagining how much that statement revealed: the long almost-silence, just him and the body and the screaming on the intercom; how impossible it had been to finally stop clinging to the heavy shape wrapped in blood-soaked cloth; the way he'd kept whispering, even knowing he wasn't going to get an answer. He hoped it came out simpler and more genuine than that - the way it really was at the heart of things, and had been since he'd seen that newspaper photograph, years and years ago, that had struck him as nothing but indescribably lonely.