Black Obstinate Suicidal Society

PROLOGUE: The Beginning of the Black Obstinate Suicidal Society

"That fucking old man," he muttered, clenching his fist tightly as rage surged through him.

Even as a child, Raze had harbored hatred toward his grandfather the man who heartlessly murdered his own son, Raze’s father. No remorse. No guilt. Just cold-blooded cruelty. And from that day forward, Raze had wished only one thing: that fate itself would be the one to kill his grandfather. A brutal accident. A slow death. Anything… as long as it wasn’t by his own hand.

He knew he was becoming twisted, darker with each passing day. But he didn’t care. Nothing could ever be more wicked than what his grandfather had done.

"Vengeance is coming, old man," he whispered with a smirk before slamming the car door shut and walking away.

He passed through Estanegro Street—a narrow, hidden alley that led to the wide, open Estanegro Park. Families, lovers, and groups of friends filled the area. It was the kind of place that felt too peaceful, too detached from the chaos inside his head.

As he walked, hands in pockets, eyes fixed straight ahead, heads started turning. Girls stared, some screamed. Others squealed in excitement. They couldn’t help it—Raze had that irresistible, dangerous charm. That face. That aura.

“Kyaaaaaaaaahhhh!!!” a girl squealed, clutching her chest like she'd seen a K-drama idol.

Raze only shook his head and kept walking. But his peaceful walk was cut short when a group of guys suddenly blocked his path.

'Lil shits,' he cursed in his head. He hated nothing more than people getting in his way.

“You’re so full of yourself! You took all the girls’ attention that should have been ours!” growled one of them.

Raze raised a brow and smirked. “I didn’t care ‘bout the girls. Now tell me—how the fuck is it my fault that y’all were born with faces that could scare a mirror?”

The group froze, jaws dropping.

They were about to charge when one grabbed Raze’s arm and yanked him roughly. “Asshole! Don’t run away—we’re not done yet!”

Raze’s brow arched higher. ‘Tsk. Fucking idiots. Do they even know who they’re dealing with?’

Without warning, he yanked his arm free and walked past them. But just as he turned, something hit his back—a can of beer. Followed by laughter. He froze. Then another—this time, a bucket of mud. His fists clenched.

He stood still. For a few seconds, he didn’t move. Just listened to the boiling blood inside him.

“If only they knew… disrespecting me is a sin.”

“What now, huh?!” one of the guys taunted again, stepping closer.

Raze turned and, with one swift kick, sent the guy flying into his companions. All three collapsed onto the ground like bowling pins.

“You know how much this shirt costs, fuckers? Billions.” He brushed his shoulder off, then turned away.

He walked over to a nearby area where buckets of water were stored. He glanced around, looking for someone to ask, but no one seemed to be in charge.

He sighed. ‘I can't stand this stickiness.’

Raze peeled off his mud-covered shirt and poured two buckets over himself. As the water trickled down his body, the surrounding girls lost it. Half-naked Raze was a sight too hot for the public.

When he turned, an old woman was standing in front of him—and behind her, a crowd of blushing, gasping girls.

“Son, don’t you have a faucet at home?” the old woman asked.

His forehead furrowed. “What faucet?”

“Then why are you half-naked?”

“Son?” she called again.

“Nothing, old woman.”

The old woman’s lips curled in amusement.

“Didn’t your parents teach you any manners, son?”

“They’re dead.”

“How about your grandparents? Didn’t they teach you good values?”

Without hesitation, he answered, “Yes. In fact, they were worthless grandparents.”

“She—”

“Stop asking questions, old woman,” he cut her off.

She kept talking, but he stopped paying attention. His eyes were on the old house nearby. It looked like one wrong step would make the whole thing collapse.

“Grandma! Did you bring home my bread?” Raze was startled by two young kids who suddenly popped out of the window, wide smiles on their faces, calling the old woman their grandmother.

He smiled slightly as he watched them.

“I didn’t make any sales from my flower stall, so I’m sorry, my grandchildren I couldn’t buy your favorite bread.”

“That’s okay, Grandma!”

He was impressed. Despite their hardship, they smiled. Instead of throwing a tantrum, they chose to understand.

“Son,” the old woman said, turning back to Raze. He faced her, raising a brow. “Could you help fetch us some water? My grandkids haven’t bathed yet and we don’t have enough water to cook rice.”

He was about to say no, but the kids interrupted with their bright smiles.

“Thank you in advance, Brother!” they beamed.

He couldn’t help but smile back.

Reluctantly, he fetched the water. ‘Just admit it—you pitied them,’ the voice in his head said. He shook his head and finished the task.

“Thank you, son,” said the old woman, smiling. He gave a small nod, then pulled out his wallet. The woman watched, confused.

He handed her a credit card.

“W-What is this for?” she asked, eyes welling with tears.

“It’s all yours.”

His eyes glistened but he turned away. ‘This is the one thing I can’t handle… seeing women cry,’ he told himself.

Before the old woman could say anything more, he quickly left.

The sun had begun its descent, dyeing the Estanegro Bridge in smudges of copper and gold. The air was thick with the metallic tang of the river below and the faint scent of asphalt warming under the late-day sun. Raze stepped onto the bridge, shirt still damp from earlier, hair slicked back, and eyes shadowed with quiet rage.

He hadn’t expected company.

From opposite sides of the bridge, two figures emerged—clad in black, moving with intent. Not the casual saunter of civilians, but the poised steps of men who knew violence like second nature.

They stopped a few feet in front of him.

Everything went silent. Even the sound of passing cars faded into the distance.

Raze’s gaze locked with theirs. No words. Just tension.

Measured. Menacing. Mutually aware.

The taller one—lean, clean-cut, but with eyes like daggers—spoke first.

“You Maximu?” His voice was even, but it carried weight. Authority. Control.

Raze sized him up. ‘Military background. Or maybe black market enforcer. No wasted movement.’

The other man—stockier, rough around the edges with a tattoo peeking from under his sleeve—stood silent but alert, eyes flicking from Raze to his surroundings. Watching everything. Calculating.

“You Caleb and Duke?” Raze asked casually.

The two men stiffened. Just slightly. Enough to reveal surprise.

“Did your sources tell you that?” Caleb asked.

“No. Your stance did,” Raze replied coolly. “Trained. Coordinated. You didn’t come here to introduce yourselves, you came to test me.”

Duke smirked. “Damn. I like this guy.”

“Stubborn,” Caleb muttered, folding his arms.

“It’s Obstinate,” Raze corrected with a smirk. “Get the word right if you’re gonna describe me.”

Duke was about to fire back when a high-pitched voice suddenly cut through the tension.

“THAT LYING WHORE! I LOVED HER!”

The trio turned sharply.

A young man stood at the edge of the bridge’s railing, his body teetering dangerously. His hands trembled as he gripped the bars. His eyes were wild with heartbreak—and vodka. Probably more vodka than heartbreak.

A few feet away, a fourth figure leaned against the railing, arms crossed, black headphones hanging loosely around his neck. His face was calm, almost bored, like he’d seen this scene play out one too many times.

“I’M GONNA JUMP!” the first guy screamed again.

“You won’t,” the headphone guy muttered. “You’ve been shouting for the last five minutes. Just jump already or get lost.”

The one on the ledge turned, wide-eyed. “EXCUSE ME?!”

“You heard me,” he said, yawning. “If this is some pity parade, I suggest balloons and confetti. Drama’s kinda weak.”

“You son of a—!”

“Yup. That’s what your ex probably said.”

Raze raised a brow. The corner of his lip twitched. ‘Who the hell are these guys?’

He signaled Caleb and Duke. Like professionals, they sprang into action.

Caleb approached the cold one—Sebastian Ryder—and said, “Either stop provoking people or help him down.”

Sebastian gave him a deadpan stare. “You’re not my dad.”

“No. I’m worse. I’m a man with a moral compass.”

Duke had already reached the edge and yanked the heartbroken guy—Elijah Bryce—back onto the bridge.

“Let go, man! I was practicing my monologue!” Elijah protested.

“Practicing?” Duke repeated, raising a brow.

“For when I actually try to jump next time. Wanted it to sound cinematic.”

“You need therapy.”

“No shit,” Elijah muttered.

Raze stepped forward, intrigued now. These people weren’t just broken—they were chaotically broken. Like puzzle pieces from six different boxes.

He barely noticed when another presence arrived.

A quiet figure, hooded, face buried in a thick leather-bound book, strolled casually into the mix. The guy barely looked up as he passed everyone, lips moving silently—reciting whatever passage had him absorbed.

Raze narrowed his eyes. Something about him felt... off. Not dangerous. Not loud. Just unsettlingly still.

Finally, the book snapped shut. The guy looked up, meeting Raze’s eyes.

“Maximu?” he asked, calm and clear.

“You know me?”

“Not your name,” he replied, “but your face. It’s in the files.”

Raze blinked. “What files?”

The guy smirked. “The ones I wasn’t supposed to read.”

Raze stared, then chuckled darkly. “What’s your name, hacker-boy?”

“Noah. Noah Altrego.”

The group had finally stilled. Everyone was there. And in the silence, something... clicked.

Elijah stood up, brushing himself off. “So, uh... is anyone else noticing this or is it just me? We’re all in black. We all look like walking therapy bills. And we all found each other by accident.”

“Accident?” Sebastian said. “I don’t believe in those.”

“Neither do I,” Noah added, adjusting his glasses. “Statistically, the odds of this meeting are improbable. Which makes it meaningful.”

Caleb cracked his knuckles. “So what now? We have a group therapy session?”

“I have a better idea,” Noah said.

They turned to him.

He looked straight at Raze.

“What if we formed a unit? Not a gang. Not a club. Something else. For people like us.”

“Like what?” Elijah asked.

“Outcasts,” Sebastian answered for him. “People who’ve been to hell... and kept walking.”

Raze didn’t say anything at first.

He glanced at each of them. The broken romantic. The heartless observer. The quiet genius. The soldier. The fighter.

And then him.