Archive of Our Own

The first portrait appeared in Gepard’s bedroom.

Waking up staring into his own eyes was jarring, to say the least. He’d thought it was an intruder at first, vaulting out of bed and preparing to fight off whoever was watching him sleep.

The only thing he saw, however, was his own face staring back at him. A portrait of himself, oil on canvas, set behind a gilded frame that was clearly not real gold, but it wasn’t trying to be. The frame was not the center of attention, after all. The picture was, in all of its detailed glory.

Gepard stared at it, eyes wide and practically bugging out of his head. He wanted to touch it, to feel the brush strokes beneath his fingers, but he was afraid of damaging it. It was almost unreal, how close to life it was.

His window was open. He had never opened it the night before, and his staff knew better than to let the heat out. Gepard frowned, closing it tightly, and turned back to the painting.

Nothing in his room was missing. Someone had broken in, but it wasn’t an ordinary thief. They had taken nothing, and in fact left something, and Gepard couldn’t figure out why.

Was it a threat? He wondered about the painting through breakfast, after asking around his staff. Nobody had seen the painting before, let alone who had left it. There were no footprints outside, no fingerprints on the window, and no trace of the mystery artist.

It had to be a threat, Gepard decided during work, distracted from his routine patrols by the image of his own face. Who had been watching him for so long, they had the opportunity to paint him in such detail?

The portrait was posed like an official painting, Gepard standing stoic in his uniform, as if he had been asked to do so. He had never posed for a painting like that in his life, he was certain of it. Unless he had lost his memory of the event, which was highly unlikely.

It must have been a threat, but who threatened people with paintings? Gepard spent the night scouring it, poring over every detail and brush stroke. It said absolutely everything, and absolutely nothing at the same time.

The brush strokes were elegant, practiced. Gepard was far from a good artist, but he could tell an experienced artist when he saw one. The sheer detail in each inch of the piece was more than enough to captivate his attention for hours.

He felt like a clone of himself would pop out of the frame at any second. A clone who was actually a bit better looking than he was. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something about this version of him was… brighter than he was.

He wasn’t an art person, though. Nothing would come of staring at the painting, no matter how long Gepard tried. There were no hidden messages, no threats he could understand. It was a threat, he was certain, but he had no idea what it could possibly be.

He kept the painting. The thought of throwing a perfect piece of art away made him nauseous, and there were no hidden dangers in the frame itself. He had no idea what to do with it, but he hid it behind a silk bedsheet in one of the guest rooms.

He made extra sure to lock the window after that, regardless of the talent of the mystery artist.

——————

The second painting appeared weeks later, when Gepard was on his way to work.

With nothing but a piece of toast in his stomach, Gepard jogged through the streets of Belobog, taking in the early morning sights of the city. Normally, the streets were empty at these hours, with only the smell of fresh snow and geomarrow to keep him company. Except for the odd shopkeeper, that was.

Today, however, there was far more commotion than usual. Right next to the Everwinter Monument, a small crowd had gathered, puffs of white emerging from whispering lips in the cold.

One of the people— Manya, if Gepard was remembering correctly— glanced over in his direction, stiffening when she realized who she was looking at. She tapped the person in front of her, and before long, the crowd had fallen silent, and six pairs of eyes were locked into Gepard.

The blond shook off his discomfort and forced himself to approach. “Hello, everyone,” he greeted stiffly. “What’s all this commotion about?”

Manya shifted, biting her lip, then spoke. “It’s nothing serious,” she said, “it’s just… well, you should see it.” The crowd collectively nodded, then parted, and Gepard’s jaw dropped.

Another painting. He had nearly forgotten about the first one, but now there was another, and it was sitting in the middle of the damn city. Propped up on an easel, as if it had been painted right there mere minutes before, large, and plainly in sight of anyone who looked.

The subject of the painting was Gepard, yet again. This time, he was sitting in a more relaxed position, chin resting on the palm of his hand at his desk. His hair fell in front of his eyes, and his lips were slightly parted and highlighted, as if to draw attention to them.

Once was strange, but twice was disturbing. Gepard’s face flushed, and he turned to face the crowd. One of the people, a man Gepard had never spoken to, but had seen around, asked him if he knew the meaning of this.

He didn’t. He had no idea what was going on. The first time could be passed as a threat, but this time, it was not a direct message to Gepard. Hell, it wasn’t even a crime. It wasn’t vandalism, and it wasn’t like he could charge someone for the act of painting him.

Stalking, sure. Breaking and entering, definitely. But it wasn’t like he knew who to arrest for it, and he had not noticed any signs of being watched.

It was definitely the same artist. At least that much was clear. The style was different, brighter and warmer than the previous cold portrait, but the feeling was the same. A reflection of Gepard, shown in a far better way than how he saw himself as on most days.

He took the painting down. Nobody questioned him, even as he all but sprinted to hide it. While he patrolled the streets, he heard whispers and caught wind of rumors, but he tried his hardest not to pay attention.

This was alarming, for sure. But Gepard could handle it. He would find this mysterious painter and get to the bottom of it, and he didn’t need the public blowing things out of proportion. He especially didn’t need this spreading to the underworld, and to a certain “Tall, Blue, and Handsome.”

Another painting made its home under a silk bedsheet. When the maids stumbled across it during their cleaning duties, nobody spoke a word.

——————

More and more paintings began to show up around Belobog. At least one per week. A portrait of Gepard at work, in a corner of Bronya’s office. Gepard attempting to grow a pea plant, leaned up against a trash can. Gepard asleep at his desk and drooling, replacing one of Sampo Koski’s wanted posters.

That one got removed faster than any of the others.

Gepard confiscated every single one. It was getting to be a bit of a storage issue, but he didn’t care. He had cleared out a space on his wall, not for the paintings, but for a large map of the city that he put up while the old paintings gathered dust.

Red pins on the map, connected by similarly colored thread. Each painting location was marked and tied together, roads of red leading to dead ends and cold trails. Tacked next to each location were photos of the painting found there, and a list of suspicious persons.

The artist had to be someone Gepard knew, and knew closely. While everyone in Belobog knew of him, very few got to see him up close. That immediately ruled out almost everyone except his fellow guards, his family, Lady Bronya, and…

Sampo Koski. He was practically a permanent resident on every suspect list, no matter the crime. Usually, he was at the top of said list. However, this time, he was close to the bottom, only just above Serval and Lynx, who Gepard knew would never do this even if they had the skill to.

He could never see Sampo doing this, though. Dedicating so much of his time just to painting Gepard. Putting so much detail into every strand of hair, every fold of his clothes. Sampo had an eye for detail, yes, but he was not an artist. And he was not obsessed with Gepard.

Lady Bronya could be crossed off the list fairly quickly, at least. She was far too busy, and as far as Gepard knew, she had no experience with painting at all. This left only the entirety of the Silvermane Guards… and Sampo.

Gepard sighed, pinning a photo of Sampo to the map. This was going to be a very long hunt.

——————

The paintings continued to come. Not all of them were realistic— Gepard assumed this was to cut down on time. Some were abstract, blocks of tan and Landau blue giving the vague impression of Gepard. Some were simple, with minimalistic shading, yet still clearly the Silvermane Captain.

The latest one was abstract. Swathes of white and gray, slashed with bright blue, a wisp of sapphire smoke drifting through the wind. A candle’s flame, a single puff of breath in a snowstorm before it blew away.

Gepard liked this one. He loathed himself for liking it. He knew the subject was supposed to be him, but he could not see it that way. He saw a head of blue hair, disappearing around a corner. So close, yet just out of reach. Always pulling him closer, only to run away.

He’d actually found this one during a chase. Jade eyes flashing black in the dim lighting of Belobog’s alleys, vanishing just before Gepard stumbled into an easel. He’d barely managed to right it before Sampo had scaled a building and perched himself on the roof like some sort of gargoyle.

“Ooh,” Sampo called from above, ever-present smile widening. “Is that one of the famous paintings I’ve been hearing so much about?”

Gepard’s ears turned red. “No,” he insisted, though lying was futile around Sampo. “What exactly have you heard?” He didn’t want to know, but he knew he should.

A chuckle, snatched away by the wind. “Only that some mysterious artist found a new muse,” Sampo hummed. “Seems to me like you got a secret admirer.” He waggled his eyebrows, making dramatic kissy faces and laughing when Gepard glared back.

“I do not,” the captain huffed, the very idea of it repulsing him. “This is just… some practical joke. Someone is trying to antagonize me.”

Sampo tilted his head and sighed. “Well color me jealous, then,” he pouted, so heavy-handed, it was obvious he was faking. “It seems to be working. Are you thinking of moving on from little ol’ me?”

Never. That was Gepard’s instinctive response, though he caught it before he could say it out loud. Even though he pursued Sampo in the name of justice, the man would surely take it the wrong way. As unpredictable as Sampo could be, there were clear patterns in how he interacted with Gepard.

“I’ll move on when you’re behind bars,” he said instead. He glanced at the painting briefly. He didn’t want to just leave it here, but…

…Sampo was standing up. Dusting off his gloves that might as well have not been there at all with how little they protected his hands, he grinned down at Gepard. “You’ll have to catch me first,” he called, shooting Gepard a wink that was barely visible from behind his bangs.

Then, he was off. Indigo hair in the wind, smoke disappearing as quickly as it has appeared. Gepard sighed heavily, making a mental note to come back for this painting later. Then, he resumed his pursuit.

That night, after Sampo slipped through his fingers yet again, the painting made its way onto an empty space right on his bedroom wall.

——————

Things were getting out of hand, and fast. The whispers of the public never stopped, following Gepard like some sort of wraith. Some kind of publicity stunt, some muttered as they gathered around the latest installation. An anonymous suitor, others insisted.

Anonymous suitor, secret admirer. Those words haunted Gepard more than he would’ve liked to admit. He didn’t want to believe it. His initial reaction of disgust had calmed, settling into wariness, but he still didn’t like it. He had no idea who could possibly feel that way about him, and enough to paint him over and over.

The portraits were trying to say something. Gepard pored over them every night, connecting dots, only to have those connections go nowhere. There was something in the painted version of his eyes that seemed to grip him, keeping him locked in a chokehold that only tightened as time went on.

It was Serval that solved that part of the mystery, in the end. She’d called Gepard with laughter in her voice in the middle of work, insisting he visit after hours. When he did, he groaned at the sight of yet another framed canvas.

This time, the painted version of him was running. Running toward the artist, it seemed, hand outstretched like he was going to reach out and grab Gepard by the collar.

Serval was biting back a snort, though she didn’t quite succeed in keeping soft chuckles from bubbling in her throat. “Looks like you’ve got an admirer,” she teased, her words eerily similar to Sampo’s from nights ago.

Gepard blushed hotly, scowling at his older sister. “I wish people would stop saying that,” he sighed, moving over to study the painting. “It’s inappropriate. Why do they care so much, anyway?”

He knew the answer, and Serval was well aware of this. They answered the question in unison, voices tired, yet still slightly amused. “Because we’re Landaus.” Gepard rolled his eyes, tracing the fingers of his painted counterpart thoughtfully.

Serval walked up behind him, and Gepard could picture the expression she wore. One eyebrow raised, a hand on her hip, lips pursed together thoughtfully. It was one of the traits she and Lynx shared, though it was unclear who had picked up the expression from whom.

“I’ve seen the paintings around town,” Serval commented, clicking her tongue rhythmically. “It’s ridiculous how fast the artist churns them out. I’d be impressed if it wasn’t so damn strange.”

Gepard took a step back from the painting with a sigh. “Yeah,” he commented, the rest of his words dying on his lips. He was transfixed by the art before him, something scratching at the corner of his mind.

A moment passed, and then Serval let out a hum, halfway to a laugh. “Honestly,” she said, “it’s like the artist wants you to find them.”

Gepard finally turned around at this. Serval was still looking at the painting, head tilted and face locked into the exact expression her brother had imagined. She didn’t wait for Gepard to respond, tapping her foot to a beat only she could hear as she spoke.

“Painting and music are kinda similar,” she mused. “If you spend enough time with it, you can piece together the artist’s intent behind their work. I’ve been looking at this all morning, and if I’m right…” She looked up at Gepard, eyes flashing brightly in the lights of her workshop as her lips quirked into a smile. “This person is begging for your attention.”

Attention-seeking… Gepard had considered that as a motive, but his initial reaction was to dismiss it. No self-respecting criminal— and they were a criminal, after breaking into his house— would want the captain of the Silvermane Guards on their tail.

Now, having someone point it out to him, it made an odd sort of sense. Looking back at the painting, the mirror version of Gepard looked… idealized. How Gepard wanted to see himself, no matter how much he failed to do so. Just a hair’s breadth away from catching the artist, but not in a bad way.

The artist wanted it to happen. They wanted to be caught. Gepard couldn’t even begin to fathom why, but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. Placing their work out in the open, where Gepard was sure to see. Hell, it was even found in the alleyways he frequented on chases or patrols.

That was… more than a little alarming. This person knew him, and knew him well. And now that he knew they wanted to get caught, there was a very high possibility that the artist wanted to do him harm. This was a trap, and a very obvious one at that.

Still, Gepard had to put a stop to it.

He straightened, grabbing the painting gently, not wanting to destroy evidence. “I need to take this right away,” he insisted to Serval, whose lips were twitching into a grin. She looked like she was trying to contain laughter. Gepard scowled.

“What,” he demanded. “Do you know something about this?” Serval snorted, then swallowed her chuckles, shifting her weight to lean against the wall.

“No,” she answered. “I just… I have a theory, but I’ll have to do my own investigating before I tell you.” Catching Gepard’s expression, she added: “it’s nothing serious. I swear on my honor as a Landau.”

That didn’t mean much anymore coming from her. Or it wouldn’t, if Gepard did not know her as well as he did. As distant as she was from their family, the family name still meant something to her.

So, the captain sighed, and hefted the painting into his arms. “I’ll hold you to explaining,” he insisted, knowing Serval would not argue. They exchanged goodbyes, and Gepard hurried to take the latest painting home.

He was going to have to rearrange his map.

——————

More red lines appeared on the wall. Gepard had heard the staff refer to it as his “conspiracy wall,” and he resented the label. It was not a conspiracy, it was a serious threat to his safety, and perhaps to the safety of Belobog as a whole.

Catch me. Each painting in storage was beckoning him now, calling him to find the hands that had brought them to life. Gepard fully intended to do so, and before long, he was throwing himself into the investigation, head over heels and with nothing to pull him back up.

Catch me.

“Catch me if you can!” Sampo called, leading Gepard on a winding route through the usual alleyways in the administrative district. Skirting just beyond the edge of the Fragmentum, Gepard saw another painting, set up on an easel right at the border.

The captain, blond hair fluttering in an unseen breeze. Cheeks red from the cold, or perhaps from something someone said, as he was turned away from the artist. Gepard wondered if he was always that red when he was embarrassed.

He nearly lost track of Sampo as he got lost in the strokes of paint.

——————

Find me.

Pela found another, a smaller piece sandwiched between the pages of one of her books. She’d given it to Gepard, face flushed and footsteps hurried. This painting was different from the others, barely smaller than a standard page size, yet still just as detailed and striking.

Gepard, out of uniform this time and backlit by an orange sunset the real captain had no memory of ever seeing. Belobog did not get sunsets like this, and they most certainly did not have trees full of leaves casting shadows during the summer.

That was what this painting felt like: summer, fresh grass, things Gepard had only read about in stories. He couldn’t explain it, but the image seemed almost… romantic. Warm hues, completely surrounding his own face, almost seeming to radiate from it.

Like he was the sun, illuminating the world.

No, Gepard decided later that day after pinning the sunset painting to the wall. That was ridiculous. There was something else to it. It was not some schoolboy fantasy, or one of Pela’s “fan fiction” stories she didn’t know he had read by complete accident when she sent it to him by mistake.

He shook the idea as much as he could. Yet he was still reminded of it during the chases he refused to give up on, even when the rest of his work fell to the wayside. He could have sworn, though it was likely his imagination, that Sampo looked at him like he was the sun too.

“Catch me if you can, Captain!”

If Gepard listened closely, he could almost convince himself that it was not a challenge, but a desperate plea.

——————

Catch me. Find me. Catch me, catch me, catch me.

Gepard wanted to. He almost needed to, putting off eating, and even sleeping, in favor of going back and forth between staring at his wall and staring at the paintings. Perhaps he was obsessed, but he preferred to call it “driven.”

Call it insanity. Call it Landau stubbornness. Either way, Gepard was determined to find answers.

After nearly a month, he finally felt like he was getting somewhere. Taking a step back from his wall, covered in tacks and red string and printed photos of suspects, he took a deep breath, and looked over the map.

Each painting location was within a certain radius. There were also plenty of escape routes for each, with only a few exceptions, like Gepard’s room and Serval’s workshop.

Framed paintings were usually further away from the center of that radius, while easel-bound ones were much closer together. Conspicuously, many of them were encountered while interacting with Sampo Koski.

There were two possibilities. One: it was a coincidence, and Gepard only stumbled into more because he was forced to run around the entire city. Two: Sampo was in cahoots with the artist, and leading him to them on purpose.

Gepard leaned toward the second option. Nothing that happened around Sampo was coincidental. Everything was orchestrated perfectly, to the point where Gepard wondered if the man was some sort of genius. As stupid as he could be, that was.

So Sampo was involved somehow. That much was clear. Gepard leaned forward, the answer on the tip of his tongue. He followed the trails of red until his head hurt, and then followed them some more.

He was close. So, so close. He had narrowed down the center of the artist’s operations to a one block area, now all that was left was to find out which building it was.

Gepard was standing on that block minutes later. It wasn’t too far from his home, actually, much to his alarm. No wonder the artist had been able to watch him so closely. Still, there wasn’t much he could do about it now, other than press onward. He was going to get to the bottom of this, once and for all.

Handcuffs within reach, guitar case strapped to his back, Gepard set out. It was the middle of the night, with few people roaming the streets. The block was nothing special, just an apartment building and a few storage units, and nobody would be out this late.

Good. Gepard didn’t want anyone interfering or asking any questions. He was here on a mission, and he would not be interrupted.

He took a breath, and began his search. Combing the block was slow going, as he took the time to search every trash can and corner of every area. No stone could be left unturned, even if he looked rather insane leaping into dumpsters and poking his head into the trash. Thank the Aeons he had chosen to forgo his uniform for this.

It seemed that thanking the Aeons was the right thing to do. After the fifth trash can, something caught Gepard’s eye. An easel, with a canvas sitting on it, placed directly in front of a storage unit.

As he got closer, Gepard could see that the paint was still drying. He sucked in a breath, a shiver running up his spine. This was it. This had to be where the mystery painter was hiding. Wet paint, an easel on an otherwise unassuming street corner, and a perfectly inconspicuous place for an artist to do their work.

Gepard didn’t know what to do when he approached the door. Would he knock? Should he knock? He had no search warrant, not yet at least, so he couldn’t just break in. He was inexplicably nervous when he knew he shouldn’t be.

So, he diverted his attention to the painting. It was another of him, of course, this time from behind. A two-dimensional Gepard staring at this very storage unit, nearly a perfect replica of the scene. Although, the painted version of Gepard was in uniform.

He could smell the oil paint in the frosty wind. He smelled something else too— roses? Roses and smoke, a strong and familiar scent. Gepard knew who it was before he could even turn around, sighing heavily and speaking without looking behind him. He didn’t have to.

“Not now, Koski.” He liked Sampo’s last name, much to his chagrin. Koski. It was crisp, like the night air, and it had a special kind of lilt to it. Koski, Koski, Koski.

The man in question clicked his tongue, and Gepard finally turned to look at him. Those jade green eyes were turned downwards as Sampo shook his head condescendingly. They always seemed to look darker when he looked down, like a shadow overtook them.

“Aw, Gepard,” Sampo sighed, looking back up. Black eyes turned green again. “You wound me. And here I thought you’d have time to spare for your good friend Tall, Blue, and Handsome!” He batted his eyelashes languidly. Gepard tried not to stare.

“You know full well I don’t have time,” the captain huffed. “I’m here on an investigation, and you’re a suspect in it. Don’t act like we’re friends.”

Sampo waggled his eyebrows. “Ooh, a suspect,” he teased in that annoying way that was oh so familiar. “I’m honored, Captain! I’d call that an upgrade from criminal scum hm?”

Sampo was carrying something behind his back. Gepard couldn’t see what it was in the low light of the street lamps, but he was on guard nonetheless. There was always the chance that it was a weapon, and he would rather not be taken by surprise. Especially not by his good friend, Tall, Blue, and Handsome.

Gepard glared at Sampo, turning to face him fully. “You’re still criminal scum,” he insisted, congratulating himself on only sounding a little halfhearted. “But I’m not here for you. I think you already knew that.”

Green eyes flickered with amusement. “You could say that,” he said with a shrug. He finally removed his hands from behind his back, revealing something metallic that glinted in the dark. A small, silver key dangling from a key ring that was otherwise empty.

Gepard’s eyes widened as he realized what the key would open. “Give me that,” he demanded, extending one hand palm-up. In a flash, the key was gone, vanishing with a flourish of Sampo’s gloved hand.

The man chuckled, walking forward slowly. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to say please,” he said, approaching Gepard and stopping only a few inches away. He was close enough for Gepard to feel Sampo’s hot breath on his lips, something warm curling in his gut in response.

Gepard frowned, refusing to take a step back. He forced himself to make eye contact, even though the act of it usually made him want to curl up so tight he collapsed into a black hole. “Give me the key,” he insisted again, ”please.”

Sampo smirked, a lopsided grin that made him look like the cat who caught the canary. “Hm, I’d rather not,” he whispered, leaning even closer. “You might just arrest me after, and we wouldn’t want that, would we?”

“I won’t arrest you. I promise.” Gepard spoke on impulse, and he regretted it immediately, but he was not one to go back on his word. He was so close to finally finding out the truth, and he did not intend to lose this chance.

That actually seemed to take Sampo by surprise. He blinked slowly, then grinned even wider and lifted his hand. Rather than handing the key to Gepard, he reached toward the blond and leaned close enough for their cheeks to brush.

Gepard’s heart was thundering so loudly, he almost missed the words Sampo whispered. ”Catch you later, Captain.” Deft fingers grazed Gepard’s skin, and lo and behold, Sampo was holding the key again, like he had pulled it out from thin air.

He didn’t stop to make fun of Gepard for the flustered expression he was absolutely sure he was making. Sampo just tossed Gepard the key, walking right past him and toward the storage unit. Gepard turned to follow him, but when he looked, the man was nowhere to be found.

Gepard clutched his chest in an attempt at calming his beating heart. His entire body burned, almost as if he had been set on fire. When he looked at the painting, it made him feel even worse. Something was tugging at the corner of his mind, and no matter how hard he tried, he could not shake it off.

Even as he approached the storage unit and turned the key in the door, he swore he could feel Sampo’s eyes watching him. Feel his breath on the back of his neck. Catch me, Captain.

Not tonight. Tonight, Gepard had a different target, and he would not be leaving without answers.

The storage unit was actually fairly small. One of the cheaper ones, most likely. It was cramped, filled with boxes, but that was not what Gepard zeroed in on.

There was an easel in the middle of the cold, drab room. The easel was empty, but next to it was a stack of blank canvases, resting on a flattened piece of cardboard to keep them away from the dirt on the floor. Closed cans and bottles of paint were strewn about, patches of wet color resting where they had spilled.

Someone had been here recently, and the painting outside had just been finished. Was Sampo the pack mule for this mystery artist? Carting the paintings to where the artist could not go… Gepard shuddered at the thought of Sampo in his house, resting a portrait right next to his head completely unnoticed.

It made sense, though. Sampo must have been there to pick up the most recent piece. If Gepard knew him well enough, he would be circling back to get his package and deliver it. Sampo Koski was not one to leave a job unfinished, even with Gepard present.

Gepard stared at the easel and clenched his fists. He had been so close. He had missed the artist and ended up with a face full of Sampo instead. Had the criminal been sent as a distraction, so the artist could make their escape? They had to have been there recently, if the paint was still drying.

Useless. Gepard sighed heavily, pulling out his phone. He would send a search party as soon as he could, in an attempt at digging up more information on the artist. For now, he would take as much evidence as he could. Hopefully, after this, the mystery paintings would stop.

Never mind that the very thought of this being over made Gepard feel squeamish.

——————

A week passed, and no new paintings showed up. Gepard kept an eye out, but it seemed that confiscating all of the art supplies in the storage unit had stopped the artist in their tracks. Gepard would be lying if he said he wasn’t disappointed, though the emotion confused him.

The paintings must have been a threat, so why was he so upset that there weren’t any more? Perhaps he had just… gotten used to it being part of his routine. It felt wrong to not spend hours staring at his “conspiracy wall,” and his eyes still moved to search for new paintings on patrol out of habit.

Things slowly went back to normal, though. The whispers and gossip died down a bit as the days passed. It would take weeks for it to settle down completely, but Gepard was content with things being quieter in that regard. At least he wouldn’t be asked about his “secret admirer” as much anymore.

The paintings in Gepard’s room slowly gathered dust. He hadn’t handed those in as evidence. He had gotten attached to them, much to his chagrin. He refused to hang them up, but he would look at them occasionally, still wondering with desperation who had painted him in such a beautiful way.

As time went on, he knew Belobog would begin to forget. Hell, even after a week with no new portraits, it seemed that people were already moving on, which was why Gepard was so shocked to be approached by Serval.

“Hey Geppie.” Serval waved casually, though her expression was anything but casual. Gepard couldn’t quite place what it was, but something was off in her smile. “You got a minute?”

Gepard frowned, setting his guitar case down. He was on patrol, and Serval knew better than to approach him unless it was an emergency. “What is it,” he asked, immediately on guard. “Did something happen?”

Serval snorted, waving her hand to dismiss the very thought. “Not at all,” she said. “But do you remember when I found a portrait in my workshop?”

How could Gepard possibly forget? “What about it,” he asked cautiously. There was something about Serval’s tone that rubbed him the wrong way, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

“I found the person who painted it.”

This gave Gepard pause, and he gawked at Serval. “You… what?” Days worth of curiosity and obsession slammed right back into him. Like it had simply been winding up for another strike, this time hitting harder than ever before.

Serval smiled, tapping her foot. “I can’t tell you who it is,” she said vaguely, “but I will tell you where to find them.” Catching Gepard’s expression, she added: “They want to make the reveal more ‘dramatic.’” She rolled her eyes at this. “I think it’s unnecessary, but… well, I owe them.”

So it was someone Serval knew personally. That made some sense, though Gepard couldn’t think of who it was. He was missing something, and it was driving him insane.

He sighed, crossing his arms. “Very well, then,” he said, eager to begin the chase. Or… was it really a chase if the artist wanted to be caught? They had run circles around him for weeks, and he was only going to see them because they allowed it.

Serval handed him a slip of paper. For secrecy, Gepard assumed. It would not be wise to text the artist’s address, at least not for the artist themself. Unfolding the paper, Gepard stared at the address, scowling at the numbers scrawled in Serval’s scratchy handwriting.

“The underworld?” He looked up at his sister, trying to decipher her expression. Not for the first time, he cursed his difficulty with this sort of thing.

Serval nodded, planting her hands on her hips. “Just trust me,” she pleaded, her tone softening. “This isn’t a set-up, I swear. On my honor as a Landau.”

Landau honor. Gepard exhaled sharply, not quite laughing. “Alright,” he said, resigned to the last leg of this chase. “I trust you.”

Just in case, he took his guitar case with him, and an extra knife.

——————

The underworld was far less familiar to Gepard than the overworld was. Winding alleys, criss-crossing side streets, and absolutely no signage that would help him find his way. He had spent more time down there lately, helping Wildfire and delivering supplies, but he was still unused to the streets he had not seen since he was a child.

Still, he pressed onward. He held the scrap of paper from Serval in his hand, trying to look like he was there on official business. He didn’t know if he was succeeding, but he didn’t get more than passing glances as he walked, so he supposed it didn’t really matter.

The address on the paper lead Gepard deep into Boulder Town. He was hugging the Fragmentum at this point, and while he knew it wouldn’t spread, an itch in his stomach warned him of the danger that waited just beyond that invisible barrier.

Yet he still continued forward. By the time he reached his destination, he was beginning to sweat under the light of geomarrow lanterns. He refused to take off his coat, staring up at the house before him with wide eyes.

To call it a house would be far too generous. It was more of a shed, likely with only a single room inside. The windows were open, though one had clearly been smashed in, so opening it was redundant. The bricks were chipped and falling apart, and all Gepard could think was how this could not be right.

He trusted Serval, though, when push came to shove. So, he swallowed his doubt, and approached the door. This time, unlike at the storage unit all those days ago, he did not hesitate to knock.

Gepard didn’t know what he expected. Fanfare, a dramatic reveal maybe, or at least some anticipation. Something to make him wait with bated breath to see who was behind the door.

Gepard did not expect for the door to swing open right away. He definitely did not expect to see, of all people, Sampo goddamn Koski.

The green-eyed man smiled, spreading his arms wide and giving a rather dramatic pair of jazz hands. “Surprise,” he said, extending the word like it was a song. “Miss me, Captain?”

Gepard had not missed Sampo. Or had he? His mind was swirling with shock and confusion, and he didn’t know what to think. This was not possible. There was no way…

Sampo chuckled, leaning against the door frame and jutting out his hip. “Hey, c’mon,” he said with a shit-eating grin. “Don’t look at me like that, Gepard!”

The blond scowled, opening and closing his mouth once or twice before finally finding the words. “You… what are you doing here?” He looked up and down the street, as if he was expecting someone, anyone to show up and tell him this was a joke.

“You know why I’m here,” Sampo shot back, raising an eyebrow. “Just as I know why you’re here, Captain.” He smirked, shaking his head in a mocking expression of disappointment. “I thought you’d be excited to find the person you’ve been chasing for all this time.”

The person Gepard had been chasing…

Gepard laughed, the reaction more of a reflex than genuine amusement. “Absolutely not,” he insisted, sounding less convinced than he had hoped. “Stop lying, Koski. I’m not that gullible.” As if he hadn’t been fooled by Sampo more times than he could count.

“Oh, I’m not lying.” Sampo held up his right hand, placing his left over his chest. “I swear on my honor as a Koski.”

That meant absolutely nothing. Gepard knew Sampo Koski wasn’t the criminal’s real name. He would have to be an idiot not to realize. Everything else about him was fake, so of course his name was too.

Although… something felt off. Gepard stared at Sampo, that oh-so-familiar itch of something being wrong returning. He was reminded of the storage unit, now empty of art supplies, and the key that still rested in the evidence locker at Qlipoth Fortress. The key that Sampo had held, not too long ago.

“But…” Gepard’s head swam. “But that doesn’t make sense. You aren’t an artist. And you aren’t dumb enough to break into my house.”

Sampo sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I wouldn’t call it dumb,” he said, his voice lilting in that familiar lighthearted way. “How else would I guarantee you’d see my art right away?” A pause. “Well, I could’ve put it in your office. That would be less fun, though.”

Gepard was almost lightheaded with denial and shock. “You aren’t an artist,” he insisted again, taking a step closer. Sampo did not move as he approached, blinking slowly and waiting with patience Gepard didn’t know he had.

The man shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of practice,” he said, flipping his hair to the side. “You’d be surprised by how fast you have to learn in order to make convincing copies.”

Copies. Forgeries? So Sampo was in that business as well. Somehow, that was the least shocking part of this conversation.

Gepard reached the doorway of the shed, locking eyes with Sampo. For once, he did not feel anxious about eye contact. He was too determined to get to the bottom of this to care.

“Okay,” he laughed mirthlessly. “Okay. Let’s say you aren’t lying.” One more step forward to close the distance. “Why paint me?” There were hundreds of other subjects, thousands even. If Sampo, the supposed artist, really was seeking attention like Serval thought, why seek it from Gepard?

Downturned eyes glinted from behind indigo bangs. Sampo’s smile turned vicious, like a cat playing with its food. “Because you’re interesting,” he said cryptically.

Then, as if nothing had happened at all, Sampo’s grin returned to normal. “Besides,” he laughed, “why not? I like you, Gepard. I can’t think of a more worthy muse than Captain Landau himself.”

Bullshit. It had to be bullshit. Yet, Gepard was running out of reasons to think that. Things were clicking, details were beginning to make sense. Sampo having the key to the storage locker, so frequently leading Gepard to the locations of paintings.

He knew Gepard’s patrol routes. Sampo was no petty thief, but he knew how to pick locks. He had slipped away from handcuffs many times that way. Was it really so hard to believe that he had broken into Gepard’s house to leave the painting that had started it all?

A soft laugh pulled Gepard away from his thoughts. He looked up to see Sampo, no longer leaning against the door frame, taking a step closer. They were almost touching now, and Gepard swore he could feel Sampo’s body heat, even through his many layers of clothing.

Sampo peered at Gepard from behind a curtain of hair. “I’m gonna be honest,” he said, as if he was capable of doing so. “I’m a little disappointed this couldn’t last longer. Woe, such is the plight of the artist.” He placed his hand over his heart dramatically, as if he were dying. “Oh, my Eurydice, how tragic it is that we must part!”

Gepard brushed off the nonsense words, knowing if he tried to make sense of it, he would only get a headache. “I don’t understand,” he said, continuing to press. “Why are you trying to get my attention? You’re always running away, so why now? Why like this?”

A second passed, then two, and Sampo’s smile fell. He wasn’t frowning, but the lack of expression was far more disturbing than anything Gepard had seen in weeks.

The criminal leaned forward, his hot breath grazing Gepard’s skin. “Maybe I’m bored of running,” he whispered. A shiver ran up Gepard’s spine, despite himself. He took a step back, shaking his head.

“No,” he said, confident in his answer. “No, you’re not.”

The street fell silent. Gepard swore he could hear Sampo’s heartbeat, racing despite his calm expression. Or maybe he was projecting his own physical reaction onto the other man. He didn’t know, and he didn’t feel like finding out.

Slowly, Sampo’s lips stretched into a smirk, different from all the others before. “You’re smarter than you look,” he whispered as he finally leaned away from Gepard. “Truthfully, I don’t have a reason for changing things up.”

Gepard blinked. “…Why?” He felt like a broken record at this point, asking the same question over and over. And of course, Sampo would have to give the most annoying, vague answer possible.

He shrugged. “Why not?” He took another step back, returning to his original position leaning against the door frame. “Do I really need a reason to do anything?”

The way Sampo was acting was more than a little disturbing. Gepard was used to the man running away, acting like a child whose hand had been caught in the cookie jar. A wisp of smoke.

This was the longest they had ever stood next to each other without Sampo sprinting for the hills. Although… maybe Gepard was wrong about that. Maybe Sampo had been there all along, watching him, paying attention. Memorizing his routes, his posture, his facial features, and doing it so well his paintings were almost indistinguishable from the real thing.

It would have been creepy. It should have been creepy. Yet, Gepard couldn’t bring himself to be upset.

He sighed, running his hand down his face slowly. “You’re infuriating,” he hissed, his tone less harsh than he would’ve liked.

Sampo’s eyebrows raised. “No,” he said with his usual shit-eating grin back in place, “I’m Sampo.”

The silence was deafening. Gepard took a moment to process what he had just heard, then groaned. Sampo was such a damn idiot. Or was he? It was impossible to tell at this point, and trying to figure it out would only give Gepard a headache.

Sampo was laughing now, his head thrown back as he clapped. Applauding his own stupid joke, probably. “You’re adorable,” he said, voice dripping with honey and falsehoods. “Anyway, though, if that’s all, I need to get back to work. Go ahead and swing by anytime if you need me!”

He was already moving to go back inside, but it only took Gepard a moment for his brain to catch back up. He bristled, lunging forward and slamming his hand on the door frame loud enough to rattle the windows. Sampo let out an ”eep!” that sounded more like a mouse’s squeak than a grown man.

“Not so fast,” Gepard demanded with a scowl. “You still broke into my house, Koski. You’re under arrest.”

Sampo sucked in a breath through his teeth. “I thought you’d forgotten about that,” he said with a weak chuckle. He was acting normal again, something that brought Gepard more relief than it should have.

“Well, I didn’t.” Gepard reached for his handcuffs, prepared to tackle Sampo to the ground. “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be—“

Before he realized what was happening, Gepard heard a small explosion. Smoke blasted into his face so fast it made him stagger backwards, coughing violently as his eyes burned.

Internally, he cursed himself. He had let Sampo distract him yet again. He should have known better by now. Everything about the man was a misdirection, from his hidden art skills, to the pale hips he so boldly put on display.

As Gepard coughed and backed away from the smoke, he felt a warm hand on his shoulder for only a brief second. “My commissions are open,” Sampo whispered in his ear, hot breath grazing his skin. “I’d love for you to model for me properly.”

Then, he was gone. By the time the smoke cleared, it was as if Sampo had never been there at all. Gepard was left alone with his head spinning yet again, thoughts of dry paint and radioactive green eyes invading his thoughts.

He sighed, promising himself that he would throw away the paintings Sampo had left him over the past several weeks. He would later break that promise. And if anyone noticed the numerous self portraits Gepard now had hanging in his home, they did not say a word.