Chapter Text
Kim Daeyoung was the youngest of three brothers. The eldest was the heir to the family’s prominent textile and machinery conglomerate, and the second eldest was a rising politician in the current cabinet. It’s no wonder that most people would find it odd that the youngest scion of the Daegu Kim Textiles Dynasty would choose… ‘ grunt work ’ as his family would put it affectionately.
His family already had an heir and a spare, they were too busy grooming his brothers to pay his life choices any notice. He was like a cute add-on to the trio, Daeyoung being the youngest was left to his own devices.
So he tried everything and anything his family’s coffers would allow; he learnt horse riding on purebred Andalusians, became a virtuoso at the piano, did a cultural exchange programme in Osaka for a year and smoothly picked up the language, enlisted early right after high school which came as a surprise to everyone but perhaps Daeyoung was just full of surprises.
He just wanted to get it over and done with and yet… and yet he had enjoyed it a lot.
The instructors had picked up on his abilities; praising his physical prowess on the field and his precision in shooting. Most of all they complimented his resilience and discipline; his ability to calmly finish tasks under pressure when others flailed.
“I know you come from money but have you ever considered a career in the force kid?” His shooting instructor had queried him.
Truthfully, he had not. But he had enjoyed his time in the military, rough as it was. Perhaps the camaraderie had loaned him a sense of belonging he had not had living in the shadow of his brothers.
His mother kissed his cheek at the awards ceremony when he was discharged with honours. Kim Daeyoung was among the top three in his platoon of the Marine Corps. He had thrived when other Chaebols had balked and paid their way to get out of conscription. In retrospect, perhaps his family thought his interest would be fleeting when he told them he wanted to study Criminology of all things.
“That’s admirable Young-ah.” His mother had indulged him and nodded as he explained his decision. They didn't think he’d actually become a cop, that was clear as day.
A stint in Yonsei with a double degree in Criminal Justice and Forensics Sciences later, he joined the Korea National Police University for a year.
Despite getting flying colours in the police academy that got him the spot at the most coveted precinct; the Seoul Metropolitan Police Agency as a newly minted Inspector, after years of said grunt work, the whispers still follow him around like a dark cloud.
“His brother is the President’s advisor on international trade now.”
“Doesn’t his family dominate market share for machinery in Daegu?”
“It must’ve been easy to get where he has with that kind of name. Why on earth is he here?”
“Heard he got the post to this precinct because of the connections.”
So maybe he is a bit of a nepo baby . He can admit to that. Despite the twinge of his pride, it couldn’t be denied that people looked at him like he didn’t deserve to exist sometimes.
It’s fine. He’s used to it. He knows he’s good at his job. That’s all that matters or at least that’s what he tells himself.
He’s been partnering with fellow Detective Oh Sion for about five months now and they’ve fallen into a rhythm of sorts. They were a well-matched pair- Sion a natural charmer, Daeyoung a ruthless hound dog when he had a lead.
Perhaps that was his most useful skill in his arsenal; his ability to dig and an unwavering need to get answers. He needed to know the truth.
Both perfected the art of Good Cop Bad Cop. When the other was mellow, the other was intense and picked up the slack. It was a beautiful partnership, balanced at the fulcrum at most times. Typically in an interrogation, Daeyoung took on the more authoritative and aggressive role, allowing the suspect to confess first before they doubled down. His height, build and piercing gaze allowed him to intimidate even the most hardened criminals. Contrastingly, Sion’s warmth and easy smiles lulled their suspects into a false sense of comfort. It would only take a while for them to accidentally reveal a tidbit that would be a lead. But Sion was deceptively cutthroat and relentless once he had a lead. It was a partnership that both thrived in like a well-oiled machine.
Despite the nepotism allegations and the constant scrutiny that flew his way, Sion was a kind partner to him. One that didn’t pry into his personal life but was still thoughtful and kind enough to check in on Daeyoung so much that he naturally opened up anyway.
He had been away in Daegu for three days at the behest of his family - mainly his mother who wanted him to attend matchmaking sessions. His elder brothers were both married to respectable ladies befitting of the upper echelon. He however had zero interest in pursuing anything romantic because he was married to his career (or so he claims).
When he walked into his precinct that Monday with two cups of coffee, he did not think he would have to deal with a passive-aggressive secretary so early in the morning.
“Inspector Kim, please inform your mother that the office line is only for emergencies and I’m not a glorified personal assistant to her son to be taking messages on charity galas.” The precinct’s secretary huffed as she passed him a stack of papers and a note from his mother.
“Noted Secretary Nam. I’m sorry for the trouble.” He bowed sheepishly, almost dropping his coffee in the process. “Wow, tough crowd.” He muttered under his breath. He would need to have a word with his mother about this.
Sion was already going through a stack of papers in their joint office when Daeyoung walked in and handed him his usual cup of Iced Americano. The elder immediately beamed, shooting him a winning smile as he took a sip.
“Morning Daeyoung, good break?”
“Not in the slightest.” He sighed, as he took a seat and started arranging his own paperwork that he had to deal with.
“How many dates did your mother set you up on?”
“Three, and it wasn’t even proper dates hyung. She asked me to accompany her to run errands around town and we’d randomly bump into these women she happened to know .”
“Well, now we know where you get your persistence from. Maybe you should start considering your prospects. I'm sure someone had to be interesting.” Sion shrugged innocently.
“I’m only twenty-four and besides imagine if I did date, I’d feel bad for my partner. Our late nights and inconsistent schedule… and relentless brooding over our cases.”
“ Your relentless brooding. Speak for yourself, some of us don’t obsess over cold cases.”
“I don’t obsess.” Daeyoung protested.
“Tsk, tsk.” Sion shot him a look of feigned disbelief.
“Speaking of dates, how was yours with… the Japanese interpreter?” Daeyoung changed the topic. Two weeks ago a Japanese interpreter had started to frequent the precinct because of an ongoing baby trafficking scheme that involved a Japanese shell company. Sion had accidentally spilt coffee on him in the cafeteria and the rest was history.
“His name is Yushi. And it was fine.” Sion said nonchalantly, a faint blush appeared on his cheeks.
“Your ears are red.”
“Daeyoungie don’t tease hyung like that.” He whined. It still amused Daeyoung to this day that Sion had a more playful side that came out in full force when he was embarrassed.
“Well, how was he?”
Sion closed the door to their office before he answered.
“He’s so sweet and gentle and when he smiles I think the world stops and it’s terrible Daeyoung I think I might really like him.” Sion groaned; face buried in his hands.
“I’m happy for you hyung.” He smiled softly, genuinely. If anyone deserved happiness it was Sion.
“Stop you’re making me sappy at 10 am, it’s too early for this.”
The merriment was cut short but both their work phones buzzed.
“There’s a new incident. Last night.” Sion said aloud as he read the text.
“Gangnam?”
“Seounsu-dong this time.”
“He’s diversifying. Yeah… that’s not good for us.” Daeyoung sighed. They’d have to cover more ground. He opened his laptop and opened a map of all the places hit so far. Previously, the robberies had been concentrated in Gangnam but Seonsu was across the Han river.
“Ya well… is any of this good for us?”
“Crime does keep us employed hyung.” Daeyoung answered ruefully, ”What was stolen?”
“Hmmm that’s the odd thing, he stole two watercolours. Very small paintings, a lot of Rolexs’ a shit load of diamonds, so his usual modus operandi but he left behind a treasure trove of paintings. Doesn't sound very smart.”
“Who’s the victim?”
“A Mr Jang of the Viason Corp, made his money in tech- AI and Machine Learning. You know him?” Sion peered up at him but Daeyoung shook his head.
“I know of him. Are we going to case the victim’s penthouse?”
“How’d you know he has a penthouse?”
“Don’t they all?”
“Yeah, fuck, Chief is on my ass about this cat burglar, he’s been running amok in Seoul for a month already and the victims are of affluence, they’re pressuring the department to find him.” Sion shook his head and let out a deep sigh.
“Well, he’s not exactly robbing convenience stores.”
“I wish he would. That would be less of a headache than this… Priceless art, artefacts, watches, and he has a real penchant for diamonds.” It was true, there were billions of diamonds alone that ‘The Squirrel’ as Sion had dubbed him, had robbed.
Somewhere along the way Sion had started calling the burglar ‘The Squirrel’ even though that sounded absolutely ridiculous. The original conversation was something like:
“He’s like a Magpie.”
“I bet he doesn’t have wings hyung.”
“Okay, then he’s scaling these buildings like a fucking squirrel and saving all those diamonds for winter.”
Hence the birth of the odd moniker.
When they were led through the ostentatious penthouse slash minimalist art gallery that the AI mogul called home in Seonsu, Daeyoung’s first thought was ‘Where the heck did this guy put his stuff? He most probably had a closet somewhere right?’
The forensics team were already done casing the joint and had labelled everything neatly for them.
“No prints.” Sion confirmed as he flipped through the forensics report. “This guy needs to slip up eventually right?”
“He didn’t steal the Rossetti…” Daeyoung muttered as he walked up to the painting in question, it was an oil painting of a hazy, soft-lit red-headed woman sitting and admiring her reflection in a handheld mirror. “He didn't steal the Rossetti because it’s not a real Rossetti.” Daeyoung gasped aloud.
That summoned the victim, a young but pudgy man who wore expensive athleisure and was huffing at the insinuation that his painting was a fake.
“I’ll have you know you dimwit that I’ve had it authenticated.”
“Look at the hand placements, the brush strokes. If you ever had this authenticated, they lied.” Daeyoung pointed out and then nervously scratched his elbow. Perhaps he shouldn't have been so liberal with his observations. “If it’s any help, here’s the number of an expert from the London branch of Sotheby’s they’re the same people that authenticate for the Tate which has an extensive Rossetti collection.” He fumbled with his phone in a panicked tone.
“And why would a lowly detective have the number of the Tate’s authenticators?”
“Well, they’re who my family uses.” He answered plainly, Daeyoung didn't know what misstep he had made because Mr Jang had just gotten redder.
“Sorry for the late introductions, Mr Jang, I’m Senior Inspector Oh Sion, this is my partner Kim Daeyoung, we’d just like to ask you a few questions on your security-” Sion intervened smoothly, signalling Daeyoung to focus on the crime scene instead of winding up the victim.
After Sion had calmed down and distracted Mr Jang enough he turned to Daeyoung with raised eyebrows.
“Great now I got another angry rich guy who’ll be even more on our asses because we just called his Rossetti a fake. Daeyoung you gotta work with me here.” Sion huffed and playfully punched him in the arm.
“Hyung… he’s good this thief. The Squirrel’s a professional. This is not just a smash-and-grab, he could’ve wiped out all of this guy’s collection. But he didn’t because he knew they were fakes.”
“So he knows his art.” Sion sighed, “If I were a cat burglar, where would I hide?”
“Right under my victim’s noses, somewhere so obvious and ostentatious that they wouldn't think to look at it because it would be so cliche. The thief knows his shit.”
“Ya no kidding.”
“You think he might steal from me?” Daeyoung joked, but not really.
“That’s not a bad idea. Can you act like a honey-trap? Does your family have a place in Seoul?”
They had five, but he knew saying that out loud would probably be too braggy.
“Go through the list of victims again, find out if they’ve frequented the same shops or cafe or anything… you know the drill. I want to know if they have the same pilates instructor or like the same brand of whiskey or if they’re seeing the same mistress.” Sion instructed, before taking a photo of the fake Rossetti. “And Mr Fancy Pants if you get your paintings authenticated by Sotheby's maybe you should be the one buying me lunch today.”
“They’re my family’s paintings, not mine and sure hyung I’m always down to treat you. How about that place with the really flavourful Kimchi Jiggae?” Daeyoung suggested as they walked to the elevator.
When the elevator doors closed with just the both of them Sion turned to him, eyes pensive, the gears in his head turning.
“How did you know the painting was a fake?”
“Like I said the brush strokes and the-”
“We might not have been together for long but I know your tells Daeyoung-ah. You touch your elbow when you lie.” Sion gave him an intense knowing look, the kind of look he would have given a suspect that had just offered up incriminating evidence.
“I knew it was a fake because I’ve seen the real one in an oil tycoon’s dining room in Dubai,” Daeyong smirked as Sion burst into laughter, his smile lines breaking the seriousness of the previous mood.
“Don’t care what the naysayers parrot, you, my beloved dongsaeng are in the right career.”
He’s on the wrong side of the business, Riku thought as he stood in front of the fake Rossetti. The colour of the varnish gave it away too easily. An 19th-century painting would have had the characteristic yellowing and craquelure of using Damar Resin varnish.
Riku should’ve been a forger instead, with grand schemes of conning rich men from the comforts of his own home. WFH and work-life balance and all that Gen Z stuff.
But no, he’s conning men in the nice rooms, slipping watches off in trains, scaling walls, cutting wires, ziplining from ridiculously tall buildings.
“It’ll be fun, they said,” he scoffed. “Koreans wear the fancy shit, they said.”
You think with all the money in the world all these men wouldn’t be duped a fake Pre-Raphaelite.
“Fool me once shame on me, fool me twice shame on you. You have been fooled enough times before, I’ll cut you some slack this time.” Riku sniggered as he looked around the walls of the penthouse eyeing a few fakes here and there.
What a dud.
He eyed a couplet of paintings of pastorale beachside watercolours. Nothing crazy, probably not even worth a lot. The signature was of a local Korean artist he did not recognise. They reminded him of the beach of his hometown Fukui, they’d go nicely in his bathroom he thought as he slipped them into his satchel.
Now for the meat of the heist, the safe was nothing crazy to crack, he could’ve done it with his eyes closed but he knew he had lingered long enough. He pocketed the Cartiers and the Tiffany’s and picked the Rolexes and Patek’s from the walk-in closet that was bigger than his apartment. He knew this guy was nouveau-riche from his research but the logomania in his closet was out of control. That explains the fake Rossetti.
There are better Rossetti’s too, and better Pre-Raphaelites on the legal and underworld art auctions - Millaise and Waterhouse and Hunt.
If his education record hadn’t been wiped clean, perhaps he wouldn’t been Maeda Riku- Art History Degree Holder, assistant curator in some sleepy museum in Tokyo. But he barely scraped by the first year with the expenses and the tuition and tried to keep up with the snooty kids who studied Art History to pass the time.
Riku had picked up the bad habit in his first year of degree. It was the way all those spoiled kids left their valuables everywhere, it wasn’t important, they could buy another. It was too easy between house parties and open dorms that he developed sticky fingers.
A missing Van Cleef bracelet here.
A leather satchel there.
A family heirloom once that made him guilty for weeks.
What surprised him the most was the fact that most people didn’t suspect him or care enough to report things.
He had long assimilated into the cocoon of his privileged upper-class peers to understand which wine to order and what shoes to wear and how to slouch when sitting in an “I have no worries” way and not an “I have done manual labour” way.
He had learned to laugh at appropriate intervals and nod at opportune moments.
On occasion, he’d use words like “Gauche” and “Juxtaposition” in conversation.
He knew what the heck McCarthyism was.
Maeda Riku’s biggest boon besides his chameleon ability; was the truth that he was beautiful. He knew he was handsome, some would even say pretty. The heat of longing stares had chased him across lecture theatres and campus greens from both men and women. So pretty was he that the texts poured in just a few weeks after orientation “are you up?”, and “wyd?”. And the crassly succinct “dtf?” that made up his inbox messages.
Whilst flattered by the attention, he rarely replied to anyone. Preferring to uphold his mysterious aura so that no one would find out that no one would find out about his working-class background. If any of his peers would get too close they would evidently out him as a social outcast- they would be able to see the details about him that he’d rather keep blurry.
But there was one particular man that would be his downfall- an alumni, five years his senior, so alluring and richer than sin. He was the person every guy wanted to be and the person every girl wanted to marry. Unflinchingly debonair and courteous but still roguish and witty. He wore his hair unkept and pressed Glen Check suits and a permanent smirk.
Riku had caught his eye at an intimate dinner party of a mutual friend. They sat across each other as their host yapped on and on about the fig braised lamb and the ceviche.
“Akira-san have you met Riku before? He’s in your old course. Akira consults for a boutique firm in London, he’s on the Board of Directors for the Tokyo Met.”
“No, we’ve not met. I do believe I would have remembered such a perfect specimen.” He drawled, letting his eyes linger for a beat more than appropriate.
“Ignore him Riku-chan he’s terribly presumptuous.” Their host tittered as the table laughed. Underneath the table, Akira’s foot tantalisingly grazed his shin.
Riku had never been at the end of such a maelstrom of affections. It was nice to be showered with beautiful things—brushed cashmere sweaters from up-and-coming designers, lush tropical bouquets, and the piece de resistance—a delicate emerald filigree choker that brought out the twinkle in his eyes.
It was the only thing Riku had worn when he lost his virginity.
Riku was not naive; he knew that rich men only wanted one thing. But maybe he was a bit delusional, he had been sucked in with the way Akira had whispered sweet nothings into his ear and made superficial promises that he would not fulfil. And maybe he was a bit conceited to feel like the Belle of the ball to have someone’s attention solely on him, especially when that person was sophisticated, older, and knowledgeable.
In the sweaty afterglow, Riku stared at the muscles of his lover’s back as he looked away and lit a cigar, filling the room with smoke that made him sneeze. He had tugged the sheets around his shoulders consciously because he was shy of the scratches that littered his back and the pink flush of his chest.
Riku watched silently as the elder put on his dress pants, made his way to the bedside table and took out a clip of bills.
His heart had crashed to his throat.
And yet he had let that man pull him in for one last lewd kiss and pat his cheek affectionately.
“Get yourself a nice little something okay? You were quite a good lay for a social climber.” Akira whispered before leaving the hotel room.
It had stung like hell.
For once Riku had felt the wash of the feeling he had buried within himself all of these years - shame .
Shame that he couldn’t afford textbooks at the start of the semester. Shame that he had waited tables and tutored maths and cleaned hotel rooms. Shame that he had accepted all these trinkets and still pocketed the stupid bills because he’d be dumb enough not to.
The shame he had banished for a whole year bubbled up to the surface.
He had scrubbed his skin raw in the showers, but the fancy soaps had made him feel even more gross and noxious. The bathroom echoed with the sound of stifling his sobs as the hot water slid off reddened skin. The hotel room felt cold and oppressive and smelled of sex and tobacco.
It was the beginning of the end of whoever the person Riku thought himself to be.
Present-day Riku starred at the fake Rossetti, almost admiring the way the forger had put in so much effort. Did it matter that one was painted decades ago and another a few weeks ago?
‘I’m seeing more art than I would’ve if I was a curator,’ he thought. Lost art, trafficked art, family heirlooms, jewels in colours he didn’t know existed, jewels the size of his fists, blood jewels that repulsed and fascinated him at the same time.
Seoul was not accustomed to trained cat burglars, whilst security was tight for most of the ultra-rich it was still lax. There were too many people coming in and out of the metropolis. Inside the apartment complexes themselves it was easy to slip around unnoticed in the night, with the right technique.
He didn’t even have to try that hard, scaling down to the service apartments on the lower floors, he changed into janitor overalls and a cap, putting his stash into a black bin bag. The security guard barely looked up from the drama on his phone, waving him off as Riku tapped the access card he had swiped from a maid to leave the premises. Ten kilometres away from the crime scene, he tossed the access card and janitor getup into the Han River.
But his mind lingered on the fake Rossetti. The artist had many muses, some artists in their own right like his wife Elizabeth Siddal. Despite being immortalised in scores of Rossetti’s paintings as a youthful, long-limbed and dreamlike. They all had the signature flaming titian red locks tumbling down one side and a gaze that looked at something off the distance. Like there was somewhere else they’d rather be.
“We’re alike you and I, beautiful and fake and trapped in a city where we don’t belong.” His words are swallowed by the sound of the river. It's funny how he always ends up next to the river. He remembered that night by the Han six months ago when he had gotten that ominous call.
“Riku… Riku, he hanged himself before the case could go to trial. Akira… he left a suicide note, he was so ashamed.” Riku dropped the call before he could find out more.
He told himself that the guilt wasn't his to bear.
He told himself a man like that did not deserve his tears.
He disappeared into the night with his own sins like a well-worn cloak.