[ Raymond Ablack, cismale, he/him ] - was that FLYNN RIDER I saw around town today? Nope, turns out it was VIKRANT RAO, the THIRTY-year old MC TREASURER & WHITE COLLAR FUGITIVE who has lived in town for SEVERAL YEARS. I heard he has a reputation of being ABSURDLY GENEROUS & INCAPABLE OF CIVIC SELF-CONTROL. Let’s hope the killer doesn’t go after him next while being here in Grimmvale.
Name. Fake ID says Vikrant Rao.
Nickname. Vik, Rao. Lucky / Lucky Charms, because he once hid $400k in cereal boxes.
Character inspiration. Flynn Rider, Neal Caffrey.
Origins. Born and partially raised in the UK, then in NYC.
Occupation. MC Treasurer & White Collar fugitive.
Residence. The apartment above the Pit, accessed through a back staircase behind the bar, where the floors shake after midnight and half the club knows where he keeps the spare key.
Pinterest board: [x]
— Obviously bizarrely good with money while having no respectable relationship to it whatsoever. Absurdly non-greedy. Money just happens to him; it's the thing he does best. Can spot you a hundo.
— Once paid a ransom entirely in $2 bills.
— Loves estate sales because "dead people collect incredible stuff"
— Has never owned a wallet: carries cash folded into books, jackets, iPhone cases.
— Cannot cook anything, will burn even tea, but miraculously finds people who'll cook him a dinner. Can contribute by making one immaculate omelette because a Nobu chef once bet him he couldn't.
— Needs one specific eight-hour playlist to work. Most of it is that "Abolish the IRS" track.
Signature item: a collectible Cartier signet ring allegedly commissioned for Aristotle Onassis’s private accountant. Won it off a Sotheby’s specialist during a six-hour backgammon game.
Very languid in body language, you will find him sprawled and leaning on surfaces like a cat or hyperactive, no in between. The king of dark chocolate sweaters and cream-coloured long sleeves. Sometimes thinks his lush curly hair is a bigger genetic gift than his number skills. Smells of cedar and coffee, and usually has ink somewhere on his hand.
When Vik was a little boy, his best friend was very good with a guitar, and his brother was very good with a paintbrush. From the day Vik slipped out of the principal’s office window with the school carnival cashbox under his arm, he knew what he was very good with was money.
He was always terrible at most things: chronically late, lost every key he owned, and his first love was breaking small rules just to see if he could. Somewhere in Boston there are precisely four ex-girlfriends that publicly vowed to commit murder on sight, and his father wanted very little to do with him by the time he reached eighteen.
But it balanced out with the fact that at the things he was good, he was good. He could trace six shell companies through three jurisdictions inside his head by the time he graduated high school, hasn't met a person he didn't like, and if dropped in the middle of a random city, would probably survive without money, documents, or a phone.
Harvard fared well for him; he calculated the minimum attendance required in every class and hit it almost exactly. The admissions essay was the only sincere thing he submitted and he hates the fact. Most professors either adored him, or wanted him removed from the building; so he graduated with honours and six academic warnings.
He spent most of the decade that followed in the throes of New York, moving between hedge-fund offices, back rooms, and plain out insane darknet forums. Vikrant Rao could reconcile balance sheets to save thousands of dollars on lawyer fees and build an immaculate paper trail out of the most fraudulent organization. Vik became The Accountant, absurdly good at making dirty money look clean.
With high demand came high risk: eventually, it nearly caught up with him when an FBI agent linked his handiwork across several investigations. He and his best friend grabbed a bag, hopped into a car, and washed up in the fogbound city of Grimmvale. That was three years ago, and he'd found his home with the MC as its treasurer since.
