The world was cruel.
Angel had learned that lesson far too early. At just four years old, he watched helplessly as his entire life was stripped away—his parents, his siblings, his home, and even his right to dream. It wasn't disease or disaster that took them, but the cold, calculated retaliation of men in suits. The conflict had stemmed from his father's work—something secret, something dangerous. All Angel had left afterward was an empty name and an overwhelming, corrosive hatred.
From that hatred, something monstrous grew.
The Obsidian Court—a name whispered with dread, the true rulers of the world's underbelly. A clandestine council formed from the nine most powerful figures in the global criminal underworld. Their influence stretched like veins through governments, economies, and wars. Where empires rose and fell, the Court remained immutable—untouchable. The world dubbed them Code Zero, a classification above all threat levels.
Among them were eight feared Seats, each representing a different facet of control, and one figure who ruled above them all—the Overseer.
The Ace, enforcer of final will.
The War Advisor, master of strategy and subterfuge.
The Talent Scout, recruiter, manipulator, and spy.
The Executive, keeper of wealth and architect of economic empires.
The Commander, internal disciplinarian and enforcer of order.
The Lieutenant, assassin and executioner of the Court's enemies.
The Quartermaster, manager of logistics, weapons, and production.
The Deputy, internal regulator—the balancer of chaos.
Angel had taken the last seat. The youngest ever to rise to such a position. He was now The Deputy.
---
Tijuana, Mexico
Cártel Del Eclipse Main Base
The air was thick with smoke, tension, and the scent of scorched earth. Inside the cartel's gilded compound, an office stilled under oppressive silence. Black-clad guards flanked the room, rifles at the ready. Their uniforms bore gold stripes and a jaguar insignia on the collar—symbols of loyalty to the Deputy's force, the Golden Fangs. Their obsidian helmets concealed all trace of identity, save for the single golden mark down the center.
A man knelt despite the chair provided, sweat beading down his brow. Across from him sat Angel, sharp-eyed, gold-accented suit pristine.
"Deputy," the man said, bowing his head, "I greet the Court's humble presence."
"El Eclipse," Angel replied dryly, "Calm down. I've barely crossed into my twenties, and you're already making me feel old."
There was no warmth in his voice.
"I'll cut to the chase. You know what you did wrong."
"I—I was wrong," the cartel boss stammered. "The promises swayed me. The gold, the power... please, forgive me, great Deputy!"
Angel gestured to the empty chair. "Sit. It's hard talking to someone groveling on the floor."
El Eclipse obeyed without question, trembling.
Angel placed a golden magnum and a single, shining bullet on the table with a soft thud. He inserted the bullet into the chamber, spun it lazily, and set it down between them.
"Let's play a game I picked up from the Bratva," he said casually. "Russian roulette."
El Eclipse's heart dropped.
"A chance," Angel added with a dark grin, "to kill the Deputy."
The gun stopped with its barrel pointing toward El Eclipse. He reached out, gripping it with shaking hands. He raised it to his chin, hesitated... then shifted it toward Angel.
"Adios."
Click.
A loud bang tore through the silence—not from the trigger, but from his hand. It exploded in a spray of blood and bone. He screamed in agony, clutching the stump where his hand had been.
"Seriously?" Angel sighed, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "That was my favorite magnum."
He stood slowly.
"You really thought I'd trust you? I asked the Quartermaster to craft a mine shaped like a bullet—detonates if tampered with. You played yourself, El Eclipse."
El Eclipse writhed, sobbing. "Please... spare my sons. They had nothing to do with this."
"Then perhaps you should've considered that before plotting rebellion behind the Commander's back."
Angel turned his back on the man.
"Adios."
The moment he stepped out, gunfire erupted behind him—brief, brutal. Outside, his men were already setting fire to the cartel's factories, destroying its supply chains and burning the branded fields that once defined Mexico's most feared syndicate. Years of blood empire reduced to ashes in a single day.
A man in a butler's uniform stood by the obsidian-colored Rolls Royce parked outside the compound.
"Good work, my lord," he said, bowing.
Angel nodded. "Alfonso. Head to the meeting point."
"At once."
The vehicle rolled smoothly toward the southern coast, down roads far from the public eye. They arrived at a secluded beach estate—Playa Sombra Negra, the Court's private sanctuary in Sierra de la Costa Grande, Guerrero.
At the gates stood guards in pure black. No color, no insignia—just full obsidian helmets. The Court's main force, answerable only to the Overseer himself.
After clearance, they were welcomed by an elderly man in a dark suit.
"Greetings to the Deputy," said Elzequie Armenta, the mansion's caretaker. "All power to the Seat whose shadow shapes the world."
"Thank you, Armenta. Alfonso will remain with you."
"As you wish."
Angel moved through the grand hallway of the estate. Polished obsidian tiles gleamed underfoot, the walls painted in shades so dark it felt like walking through shadows themselves.
At the end of the corridor, two black-helmed guards opened a large door. Inside, a small but high-security conference room awaited.
Eight tablets were already placed around the oval table—each one displaying a different symbol and color, denoting a Seat of the Obsidian Court. The voices of their wielders echoed through the secured network.
In the center, a large screen flickered to life, showing a cloaked figure—The Overseer.
"It's been a long time," Angel greeted as he sat.
A female voice from one of the tablets responded.
"This better be worth our attention," the Talent Scout said coldly.
"If this is another cartel cleanup," muttered the Lieutenant, "I'll kill him myself."
The bickering stopped the moment the Overseer's voice echoed through the chamber.
"Silence."
Stillness fell.
A new voice, calm and calculated, broke it—The War Advisor.
"An image will now be presented."
Each screen displayed a photo: a simple, unassuming flash drive.
Angel's eyes narrowed.
"This..." murmured the Executive.
The War Advisor continued. "Through the Quartermaster's engineering and the Executive's funding, we have created a device capable of tipping the world into submission."
Murmurs erupted. Angel leaned forward.
"The drive contains classified information on every political and economic elite on the planet. Blackmail, corruption trails, criminal ties—all of it. For years, we have operated from the shadows. With this, we no longer need to."
Angel's blood ran cold.
"Continent by continent, our power will stretch. No longer whispers in dark alleys. We will become law itself."
The War Advisor raised a hand. "But there is a problem. The drive was hidden by its creator before his... untimely death. Its location remains unknown."
The Overseer's voice returned, deep and final.
"As sanctioned by my will, the Seat who retrieves this drive shall dictate the Court's next ruling."
Angel stared at the flickering image, tension knotting in his gut. He was The Deputy. His role was to mediate the power struggles between the Seats—to ensure balance. But now?
Now that balance was about to shatter.