the new york fine art gallery ⭑ * 13:00 hours ⸺ @dogbleed, for amara.
a small personal win: he wasn't involved. kiran considered this gleefully as he perused the rows of forgeries that crowded the displays. it had been amusing, then boring, then amusing again with the arrival of a half - dozen of new york's finest dressed in their finest.
undercovers are nearly imperceptible to the uninitiated. but there are two ways to spot them. if you run with bad folks long enough, you can see how they act. a cop is too stiff, too well - trained. the beating heart of their stained morality forced them to walk with a sort of undeserved pride. kiran was never good at this method, his own posture sculpted with marble and the sharp crack of his tutor's ruler.
the other method he excelled in. fed's didn't make enough. on the surface, sure, an out of season prada didn't stick out. but most stupidly wore their standard issue black shoes, scuffed at the heels. still, kiran didn't notice this one until she got close.
"big win for you boys tonight?" he drawled, tilting his head at the painting they both stood in front of. "this arcimbaldo might has well have been drawn in crayola, i wonder how they convinced anyone to sell." with his hands clasped behind his back, he tried to hold back his excitement.
"oh, where are my manners? MY NAME IS KIRAN. i didn't purchase anything, so no need to worry about me!" the lilt of his voice was edged, and he pointedly eyed a man standing on the opposite side, blissfully unaware that the suits are about to tell him he just spent seven figures on a fake.
