"Who's there?"
The voice was raspy with age but carried the weight of a man who had commanded armies. Steve Rogers didn't just ask the question; he aimed it. His gaze was locked precisely on the empty patch of air where Rosen was standing.
Rosen froze, genuinely stunned.
He was currently in Gale Step. This wasn't just a simple optical illusion. Over the past few weeks, Rosen had realized the skill was literal—it was Wind Walk. When active, the air itself wrapped around him like a second skin, dampening sound and sealing his scent. It even generated a cushion of high-pressure air under his boots, lifting him less than half an inch off the ground. He wasn't walking; he was technically hovering.
There was no friction. No footfalls. No crushed grass.
Yet, the old man in the canvas hat had tracked him. It wasn't the paranoid intuition of Sharon Carter, who merely sensed a presence. Steve Rogers knew. He was looking right into Rosen's eyes, invisible or not.
"I guess the Super Soldier Serum really doesn't expire," Rosen thought, a cold sweat pricking his neck.
Realizing the jig was up, Rosen made a choice. He willed the skill to deactivate.
The wind cushion vanished. The light bent back into place. Rosen appeared on the lawn out of thin air, dressed in his black heist robes. But it was his face that made the air in the garden grow heavy.
He wasn't wearing a ski mask or a bandana. He was wearing the Death Mask.
It was a terrifying piece of craftsmanship—a skull carved from some unknown, obsidian-like material, radiating a faint, sickly purple energy.
He'd bought it from the Special Store just this week. The price tag? An eye-watering $30 million.
In Warcraft III, the Mask of Death was a late-game item that granted 50% Lifesteal on attacks. When it first popped up in the shop, Rosen had actually been annoyed. He had been saving his cash for a Sobi Mask (the "Artist's Mask") to boost his mana regeneration. He was an Agility hero burning through mana like a muscle car burns gas, and he had a serious case of "firepower anxiety." To him, you could never have enough bullets in the chamber.
But then he read the System's description for the Death Mask, and his jaw had hit the floor.
[Death Mask (Special Item)] Effect: Siphons the life force of enemies killed by the wearer. This energy heals injuries and extends the wearer's natural lifespan.
Extends lifespan.
That was the hook. Immortality.
Rosen had the Watcher template, sure, but that gave him elven agility, not elven longevity. He was still aging. The Death Mask was a literal ticket to eternal life. Who could say no to that? He had emptied his entire treasury—raiding three extra gangs in a single night—just to secure the $30 million before the shop refreshed.
The catch? To live forever, you had to kill.
Rosen looked at the mask in his reflection sometimes. It was menacing, cruel, and powerful. But so far, he'd only worn it as a disguise. He hadn't killed anyone yet. He was a thief, not a murderer. At least, not yet.
Steve Rogers stared at the masked figure, his hands tightening on the garden shears.
"Who are you?" Steve asked, his eyes narrowing as he scanned the black robes and the glowing skull mask. "An Asgardian? Or did the sorcerers at Kamar-Taj lose one of their own?"
It was a logical guess. In Steve's experience—spanning two timelines and a war against Thanos—teleportation and invisibility usually meant magic.
"Who I am doesn't matter," Rosen said, his voice distorted by the mask into a hollow, metallic rasp. "I'm just a guy who wanted to see the legend in the flesh. I wanted to see how Captain America—the man who stands up for the little guy—could retire to a garden while the world went to hell for fifty years."
The accusation hung in the damp London air.
Rosen knew the internet debates from his old world. People called Steve selfish for staying in the past, for not saving Bucky sooner, for letting Hydra grow inside SHIELD just so he could have his dance with Peggy.
But Rosen didn't buy that. He actually thought Steve was too selfless.
Steve hadn't stayed back to hide; he'd stayed back to fix the timeline by doing the hardest thing possible: nothing. He knew that if he interfered—if he saved Kennedy, or stopped 9/11, or killed Pierce in 1970—he might accidentally prevent the Avengers from forming. He might stop Tony Stark from becoming Iron Man. And if Tony didn't become Iron Man, who snaps their fingers to kill Thanos?
Steve Rogers had sacrificed his conscience to save the universe. He had forced himself to watch tragedies unfold, knowing he could stop them, but choosing not to for the "greater good."
And that was exactly why Rosen couldn't stand him.
Rosen was an ordinary guy. He was selfish. He liked money. He liked power. If he had the power to stop a tragedy, he'd do it—not because of a grand plan, but because he felt like it. Steve's ruthless, calculated rationality... it made Rosen's skin crawl. It was too perfect. Too god-like.
"You sat by the fire," Rosen continued, stepping closer, the eyes of the Death Mask flaring. "You knew Hydra was growing right under Peggy's nose. You knew Bucky was being tortured in a cryo-chamber in Siberia. And you just... pruned your roses."
Steve didn't flinch. He didn't look guilty. He just looked tired.
"You think it's that simple?" Steve said softly. "You think knowing the future makes it easy to change it?"
"I think it makes it tempting," Rosen countered. "And I think it takes a special kind of coldness to ignore the temptation."