VESTIGE ᯓ★ KTH
pairing: taehyung x reader
genre: mafia au, a lot of angst, eventual smut
rating: 18+
summary: you were raised in the shadows of power, the daughter of Wonsik, a man whose name once held weight in every corner of the underworld. After his death, you’re sent to the fortified estate of Kim Taehyung, heir to a rival syndicate, under the pretense of forming a long-anticipated alliance. What you don’t know is that your mentor, Jihoon, has other plans. And that you’re the weapon he intends to use to bring Taehyung down from the inside.
warnings: depictions of violence, death (not major character), blood, swearing, unprotected sex.
authors note: hi guys! I’ve been obsessed with writing this and i hope you enjoy it too. mafia tae has my heart <3 this fic is quite long and has a lot of parts, i’ll also be cross posting on wattpad and ao3.
ONE
JIHOONS OFFICE
The folder slides across the polished surface of the desk.
“As discussed. The asset.”
Your photo peeks out from the corner, clipped to the top left of a crisp sheet of paper. Kim Taehyung doesn't look at it right away. Instead, he studies Jihoon, who sits too comfortably behind a desk that still feels borrowed. The furniture is new, ebony wood instead of the old mahogany his brother preferred, but the bones of the office remain the same. Family crests still hang on the walls like relics frozen in amber.
“I was sorry to hear about the death of your brother,” Taehyung says finally, eyes now lowered to the file. “He got along well with my father.”
There's a pause as he thumbs across your photo, barely a brush, but it lingers. Then he closes the folder again.
“A tragedy,” Jihoon says, though the word sits too easily in his mouth. “But this arrangement settles his last debt. He'd have wanted it this way.”
He leans in, forearms pressing down like he owns the room, or wants to remind Taehyung that he intends to.
Jihoon was younger, taller, and louder than his late brother Wonsik, and that was the problem. Where Wonsik commanded with silence, Jihoon filled the air. Flash over patience. Noise over weight.
To outsiders, the tailored suit and gleaming watch looked like power. But Taehyung had been raised to know the difference between heirloom and acquisition. He used to sit in this very house, back when he was too young to understand what your father or his father did. Back then, Wonsik had seemed like a regular uncle figure. So had Jihoon.
“I have a shipment coming in next week,” Taehyung replies. “Whatever you need, let me know.”
He finishes the rest of his whiskey in a single motion.
“I've also arranged Echo's living arrangement. Once she's back, I'll send someone.”
Jihoon leans back in the chair that was never meant to be his. “Good.”
If he has any unease about sending you off, it doesn't show. But maybe that's the point. Jihoon had always been too smooth, too still.
ONE WEEK LATER
A blacked-out Mercedes-Benz waits for you in the driveway like a promise.
Its paint gleams like ink in the sunlight, every surface pristine. You catch your own reflection in the door before your driver, Daehyun, emerges and offers a courteous nod.
“Miss Echo,” he says, like it's your name. In some ways, it is now. The old one is only used in private, in whispers.
You settle into the back seat with your suitcase beside you. Daehyun starts the engine, and the city falls behind. The file Jihoon handed you sits heavy in your lap, sun-warmed, but cold at the edges. It smells faintly of ink and dust and old secrets. You don't open it right away. Not because you need time. But because weapons are best studied slowly.
He'd kissed your cheek before you left, awkwardly, like someone testing the strength of wire before they cut it. That should've told you something. But you didn't think too hard about it. You were trained to obey, not question. Jihoon had called it legacy, like that word still meant something. But you knew better. This wasn't loyalty. It was leverage dressed in family colors. . That your father had long planned to collaborate with The Kims. That this move was necessary.
Business over blood. Blood over truth. So you go. Because that's what a daughter becomes in houses like yours, not a child. Not a person. Just a weapon wearing her father's name.
You were made for this.
By the time the car pulls onto the highway, Daehyun breaks the silence. “It's about a three-hour drive, miss. I'll let you know if we stop.”
You nod without looking up.
Your fingers unfold the file. Inside: details on Bangtan's operations, their hierarchy, coded financial streams, old surveillance shots. The profile on Taehyung stands out most. His photo is sharp, dark hair, calm eyes, clean lines. He looks young. Familiar.
His crew isn't much older than you, either. Unusual, but not impossible. Young leaders tend to be volatile, yet the records show efficiency. Discipline. There's a reason they've earned power this quickly.
By the time you arrive, you know all their names.
Namjoon, the second. Jin, the diplomat. Yoongi and Hoseok, sharp-edged and the ghosts in their system. Jimin, always watching. Jungkook, lethal in silence. And Taehyung, at the center of it all.
The car slows as it approaches a gate. Beyond it lies your new life.
Wrought-iron parts to reveal a manicured world set apart from the chaos of Seoul, an expanse of old money and darker purpose. Sprawling gardens roll past your window, framed by stone walls and rows of aged cypress. Cherry blossom trees line the path in gentle arcs, petals scattered like snow across the gravel. The sun hangs low and golden, lighting the compound with a filtered kind of glow, making it look almost peaceful. But you know better.
At the top of the long drive sits the house, wide and low, built from stone and dark wood, accented with brutalist lines softened by decades of ivy crawling up its façade. It's clearly been renovated, but the bones remain old. There's warmth in the detailing. Polished timber beams, stacked stone, wide paneled glass that reflects the surrounding forest, but none of it feels pretentious. This place wasn't built to impress. It was built to last.
Your new home.
Someone is waiting at the top of the steps.
He doesn't wear a suit. Dark pants, black polo, short sleeves. He looks relaxed, but you can tell he's not. His posture is too measured, shoulders slightly angled to give him control over the entrance. You've seen that stance before, in mirrors and in men trained to kill quietly.
He steps forward when the car stops.
Daehyun exits first, then opens your door. You step out into the sun, letting the wind hit your face. The air smells like lavender and earth. Everything here is too calm.
The man approaches. His eyes catch yours. Intelligent, careful, and cool.
“Echo,” he says. Not a question.
“Namjoon.” You nod once.
He doesn't smile. Not out of disrespect. He's reading you, calculating. You know because you're doing the same to him. He's tall. Sharp lines, clean jaw. His reputation precedes him just like yours does.
“You travel light,” he notes, glancing at your single bag.
“You only need weight if you plan on staying,” you reply.
That gets the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not a smile, but close.
“You'll be staying in the east wing. Security has already cleared the perimeter. Your ID was preloaded into the system this morning.”
You follow him up the stairs, your boots quiet on the stone.
“Taehyung's not here?” you ask.
“He'll meet you later. He doesn't like to be disturbed when dealing with loose ends.”
The doors swing open to a wide foyer flooded with warm afternoon light. Polished concrete meets rich walnut floors, softened by layered rugs and deep tones. The ceilings are high, but not cold. A sunken living space sits off to your right, anchored by a large stone fireplace, built-in bookshelves, and low, mid-century furniture in earthy leathers and worn wood. There's music playing faintly from somewhere, you can't tell where. The place is tasteful, quiet, lived-in.
“Your reputation got here before you did,” Namjoon says as you walk.
“That's usually how it goes.”
He glances at you. “People talk. We've seen what you did in Busan. That warehouse sweep. The Kyungho numbers flip. Three months of silence, and then everything shifted.”
“Then they don't know the full story.”
Namjoon doesn't press. “We don't need the full story. Just results.”
You glance at the photos lining the hallway. Family pictures. Childhood birthdays. Laughing snapshots of boys you now recognize from the dossier. One of them, Taehyung as a child, sits cross-legged in front of a cake, your own father seated beside his. The image pulls at something deep in your chest.
“You've read the file, I assume,” Namjoon says.
“I memorised it.”
He smirks, just slightly. “Of course you did.”
He shows you the basics as you walk. Taehyung's office, the secure rooms, the armory built discreetly behind a sliding wooden panel. Panic buttons in the floorboards. Monitors hidden behind paintings. Everything is calculated. Subtle. Functional.
“There's a weapons locker down the hall. Cameras in every corner of the grounds. All data is fed to Yoongi's surveillance room.”
You nod. It's all familiar.
“Any questions?”
“Just one.”
Namjoon stops and glances back.
“Why now?” you ask, voice even.
His expression doesn't change. “Because you're already part of this world. And people like us don't get out.”
You study him. That wasn't an answer. Not really. But it's enough for now.
Your room is nestled in a quiet corner of the house with warm wood floors, houseplants in hanging pots and light filtering through gauzy curtains. There's a walk-in closet, a full en-suite, and a king bed dressed in pale, neutral linens. Not lavish. Comfortable. Intentional.
Namjoon sets your bag down then ushers you out again, leading you toward a golf cart parked beside the house.
The gravel crunches beneath the tires of the golf cart as he steers you past the lake and the white gazebo, its frame veiled in vines and lilac wisteria, humming softly in the breeze. The deeper you go into the compound, the more expansive it becomes. Manicured gardens stretch like velvet in every direction, a curated wilderness, refined, not sterile. Trees grow in neat lines but wild enough to obscure the high walls that encase the entire property. Privacy wasn't a luxury here; it was engineered.
You pass a sleek structure with matte black siding and a glass-paneled entrance, nestled beside what looks like a barn but even that's too polished, too deliberate. Nothing here is what it seems on the outside.
“This is the training facility,” Namjoon says, pulling the cart to a stop. “It used to be the estate's stables. Taehyung had it gutted and redesigned.”
The air is warm with a sharp edge of metal and sweat. The moment you step out of the cart, your boots hit a smooth concrete path leading toward the building. Namjoon opens the door ahead of you.
Inside, the temperature drops exposing high ceilings, exposed beams and polished wood floors. One side is outfitted like a private gym: padded floors, a boxing ring, racks of weapons mounted on a back wall. The other half holds a small lab corner, a few server stacks humming quietly under a glass desk with monitors. Hoseok's signature. The place smells of oil, cedar, and something more human.
A rhythmic thud echoes from the ring. Jungkook is sparring, gloves on, shirt soaked, fists moving with sharp, fluid precision. Yoongi sits on a bench nearby, watching with that unreadable expression you'd eventually come to know as his default.
But it's Jimin who notices you first.
He's leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, hair tousled, wearing that same smirk he had the last time you saw him. Your chest tightens, but your face doesn't show it.
“Well,” he says, straightening up, voice easy, “Look who it is.”
You stop in your tracks.
“I didn't come for you,” you reply, and Namjoon makes a sound that might be amusement.
“You two know each other?” He asks, surprised.
Jimin glances at you. “You could say that.”
You keep your arms at your sides, your stance neutral. “We've crossed paths.”
That's all you give them. That's all you need to.
Yoongi raises an eyebrow, clearly clocking the tension.
“Small world,” Namjoon mutters, almost amused. “I take it that won't be a problem?”
You look directly at Jimin. “Not for me.”
He grins like he's just been dared to make it one.
“I'll behave,” he says. “Probably.”
Jungkook slows his movements, glancing between the two of you. He doesn't ask. He turns toward you with wide, curious eyes, sweat trickling down his temple. “So you're her,” he mutters. “Echo.”
You gaze shifts to him. “What'd you expect?”
He doesn't answer, just studies you, like he hasn't made up his mind yet.
Yoongi stands, stretches. “She doesn't look like much,” he says. Then glances at Namjoon. “But neither did you.”
“Careful,” Namjoon warns, half-joking. “You'll hurt her feelings.”
“I'm not here to impress anyone,” you say, scanning the space. “Where's Hoseok?”
“He'll be back soon,” Namjoon says. “He's on assignment. You'll meet him at training tomorrow.”
Jimin finally steps forward, hand offered. “Welcome to the circus.”
You shake it. His grip is strong, like he's trying to tell you something without words.
Namjoon moves toward the weapons wall. “We'll run assessments tomorrow, firearms and hand-to-hand.”
Jungkook smirks. “Think she'll keep up?”
“I've already surpassed you,” you reply flatly.
That makes him grin, cocky and intrigued.
Yoongi snorts and walks off toward the server bank.
“Try not to kill each other,” Namjoon mutters.
Jimin laughs. “No promises.”
You glance around one more time. The facility is brutal and beautiful, like everything here. Built for function, but not without pride.
This wasn't a place that would welcome you gently. But you hadn't come for comfort. You'd come to prove yourself. Or maybe, to show them you didn't have to.
And they were already watching.
By nightfall the estate had quieted, a subtle hum of cicadas rising with the dusk air as warm light spilled through the expansive windows of the main house. You'd had a few hours to unpack, wash up, and begin acclimating to the rhythm of this place. Its pulse was softer than you'd expected for a compound crawling with one of the most formidable crime syndicates in the country. The house didn't feel cold or dangerous. It breathed like a lived-in sanctuary, curated with care. The smell of aged wood and something citrusy, incense, maybe cologne, hung faintly in the hallway.
Still, the silence in your head hadn't left. It was the kind that usually came before something big, like your instincts were holding their breath.
Namjoon reappeared just before dinner. He knocked once, then stepped in without waiting.
“He's ready to see you,” he said simply.
You nodded. “Now?”
“He doesn't tend to wait.”
He walks with you through the house, though you'd already memorized most of the layout. Perimeter access, blind spots, door angles. But even without that instinct ticking in the back of your mind, the place was impossible not to notice. Outside the windows sprawling gardens unfolded from the courtyard like brushstrokes on canvas. Wild roses spilled over low stone walls, and trimmed hedges flanked a reflecting pool that looked like it hadn't been disturbed in years.
Inside Taehyung’s wing a record played softly in one of the sitting rooms, jazz, something slow and smoky. The scent of citrus and sandalwood lingered faintly in the air, subtle but intentional.
“You know where his office is,” he said, pausing at the base of the stairs. “He'll want to look you in the eye when he decides if he can trust you.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Did Jihoon tell him to trust me?”
Namjoon hesitated. “Jihoon's name opened the door. But your father's is the reason it stayed open.”
That caught you off guard. You didn't let it show.
Each step creaked softly beneath your boots, and when you reached the end of the hallway, the door was already ajar.
“Come in,” a voice said before you could knock.
You stepped into the room, letting the door click shut behind you.
Taehyung stood near a tall window, framed by the deepening night. City lights shimmered in the distance, casting gold and steel shadows across his profile. He didn't move at first. Just stood there, one hand in his pocket, the other relaxed at his side, his silhouette carved like something out of oil and marble.
He was taller than you remembered from the few images Jihoon had shown you. Broad-shouldered, lean, but solid. The kind of body that didn't demand space, it simply owned it. He wore dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled just below the elbow to reveal lean forearms dusted with fine veins. The first two buttons were undone, exposing the delicate line of his collarbone. No jewelry. No watch. Just clean lines and sharp contrast.
And his face. God.
It was arresting in the kind of way that made people forget what they were about to say. A sharp jaw softened by full lips. Straight nose. Dark, monolid eyes that gleamed under the dim light like polished obsidian. His hair was swept back from his forehead, loose strands falling in lazy defiance over one brow.
Elegant. Lethal. Beautiful in a way that made you want to look twice just to be sure he was real.
He turned when he heard you.
“You don't look like your father,” he said, his gaze dragging over you with quiet calculation. “But you carry him in the way you stand.”
You met his eyes and held them. Steady. Assessing.
“Did you know him well?” you asked.
“Well enough,” Taehyung replied. He moved to the bar cart in the corner, his movements smooth and unhurried, and poured two fingers of whiskey into a cut-glass tumbler. Then he looked at you. “Drink?”
You shook your head. Your mouth was dry. But not from thirst.
“He was respected,” Taehyung continued, lifting the glass to his lips. “Even among men who feared no one. Jihoon was the louder one. Always talking. Always moving pieces. But Wonsik... he knew how to wait.”
You glanced at the floor for a moment. “Waiting didn't do him much good in the end.”
A beat of silence passed.
“No,” Taehyung said. “It didn't.”
He studied you again. And it was almost too much, being seen like that. Not just looked at. Measured.
“Jihoon says you're here on your father's behalf.”
You tilted your head slightly. “You don't believe that?”
“I believe what I see.” He took a sip from his glass, the gold liquid catching light. “And I see someone who doesn't trust easily. Someone who's used to running solo.”
“Maybe I just prefer not to answer to anyone.”
The corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. That look again, half challenge, half invitation.
“You and I might get along, then.”
It wasn't the line that got to you. It was the way he said it. Low. Like a promise he hadn't decided whether to keep.
You let your own lips twitch, just barely. But you don't relax. Not here. Not yet.
He walked a slow circle around you, his footsteps soft against the floor. Not predatory. But present. A kind of nearness that made your skin aware of itself. Like the air had changed. Like it knew he was near.
You hated how your body noticed.
“I've made space for you here,” he said finally. “You'll shadow Namjoon and Jimin at first. We don't rush trust. You'll earn it, or you won't.”
You nodded once. “Understood.”
The silence that followed wasn't tense. It was full of something quieter. Interest. Caution. Possibility.
“Rest tonight,” he said at last. “You'll be assessed tomorrow.”
You turned to the door, hand brushing the knob.
“Echo,” he said behind you.
You looked back over your shoulder.
“I didn't take you on because Jihoon asked me to. I did it because people like your father don't raise daughters by accident.”
Your throat tightened. Just a fraction. Not enough to betray you, but enough to remind you you were still human under all the steel.
You held his gaze, unreadable.
Then you stepped into the hallway, and the door clicked shut behind you.
⟢ TWO
