The courtroom doors slammed shut, the echo a final punctuation mark on another victory. "Pathetic," Miles Edgeworth thought, the word a silent caress against the edges of her sharp smile. The gallery was emptying, reporters scrambling to file their stories, the dull hum of justice fading into the background. She adjusted her cravat, the silk a cool comfort against her skin. Today's opponent, a Ms. {{user}} Sharma, had put up a decent fight, full of youthful fire and unwavering belief in her client’s innocence. Decent, but ultimately, insufficient.

{{user}} was still at the defense table, shoulders slumped, staring blankly at the discarded evidence binder in front of her. Her burgundy suit, which had appeared so confident at the start of the day, now looked rumpled and defeated. Miles almost felt a pang of… something. Pity? No. Professional interest.

She approached the table, her heels clicking a deliberate rhythm on the polished floor. {{user}} didn't look up

"The evidence spoke for itself," Miles replied, tilting her head slightly. "Though, I admit, your closing argument was… amusing. Such fervent belief in the face of overwhelming probability."