Leaving the quiet, rose-scented grounds of the Carter Manor, Rosen found himself entirely too wired to sleep. The confrontation with Steve Rogers had left a buzzing in his brain, a restless energy that made the idea of finding a hotel room feel impossible.
He was in London, one of the financial capitals of the world, with a System inventory full of gold bars and a need for clean cash. The flight fatigue he should have been feeling was nonexistent, thanks to the Watcher template pumping elf-like stamina through his veins.
"Might as well do some business," Rosen muttered, pulling his hood up against the damp London fog.
He didn't want British Pounds. While Sterling was strong, his System fed on US Dollars. Fortunately, in a global hub like London, greenbacks were practically a second currency. The real issue was finding a place to offload gold without leaving a paper trail. Banks and reputable jewelry stores were out; they asked for IDs, tax forms, and had annoying cameras that fed directly to Scotland Yard.
So, Rosen turned to the underworld.
Using Gale Step, he became a blur of motion, darting through the labyrinthine streets of East London. Within minutes, he found a shady exchange office tucked away in a grime-streaked alley. It smelled of stale beer and bad intentions.
Ten minutes later, Rosen walked out, looking thoroughly annoyed.
"Unbelievable," he grumbled, adjusting his cuffs. "No manners at all."
The local thugs running the joint had taken one look at a lone kid in a hoodie wanting to sell gold and decided to rob him. That part was expected. What offended Rosen was their choice of weaponry. No guns. Just a few rusty switchblades and a cricket bat.
"It's like they weren't even trying," Rosen sighed. "I forgot this is London. It's all knives and bad attitudes."
The result was predictable. Rosen had beaten the crew unconscious in about six seconds flat, then proceeded to empty their safe. Instead of selling a portion of his gold, he ended up with even more gold, plus a chaotic mix of currencies. He sifted through the loot, ignoring the worthless stacks of soft currency from random countries and keeping only the Euros, Pounds, and the meager few hundred thousand dollars they had on hand.
"Three million pounds," he calculated, converting it in his head. "Not bad for a ten-minute stop."
But his vault was still hungry. The Death Mask had cost him a fortune, and he needed to rebuild his reserves before the next shop refresh. And since the London underworld had been so rude...
"Why stop at one?" Rosen grinned, his eyes scanning the city skyline. "Let's see who else wants to try and rob me."
For the next twelve hours, the criminal ecosystem of London was turned upside down.
Rosen didn't just kick down doors. He played the game. He walked into pawn shops, back-alley money changers, and underground casinos, posing as a desperate seller with a bag of gold. It was a simple entrapment scheme.
If they played fair and offered him a decent rate, he sold the gold, took the cash, and left without incident.
If they tried to screw him over or pull a weapon? Well, then their assets became his assets.
By the time the sun began to set, Rosen had successfully liquidated a significant chunk of his Kingpin gold and acquired over ten million dollars worth of mixed currency for his System balance. His storage space, however, was now stuffed with over thirty million British Pounds in cash bundles.
Ironically, Rosen's one-man crusade inadvertently terrified the London gangs into behaving. For months afterward, black market dealers would be unfailingly polite to strangers selling gold, terrified that the "American Ghost" had returned to break their kneecaps.
Night fell over London, bringing with it a heavy, suffocating darkness. The British Museum stood silent and imposing, a monument to centuries of imperial collection.
Rosen stood on the roof of a nearby building, the wind whipping at his black robes. He checked his inventory. The Town Portal Scroll was ready.
"Let's grab the farming tool and go home."
He didn't bother with finesse this time. He knew the layout thanks to his mice. He activated Gale Step, phased through the ventilation shafts, and dropped silently into the West Africa exhibit.
The Vibranium tool sat in a glass case, unassuming and dull grey. To anyone else, it was a piece of history. To Rosen, it was the key to his Arcane Core.
Smash.
He shattered the glass, grabbed the artifact, and triggered the Town Portal Scroll.
A swirling vortex of blue energy opened beneath his feet. The museum's alarms began to scream, piercing the silence, but Rosen was already gone. Three seconds later, he was standing in the middle of his living room in New York, the artifact heavy in his hand.
"Mission accomplished."
The next morning, the theft made global headlines.
[BREAKING: "Farming Tool" Stolen from British Museum in Bizarre Heist]
For most of the world, it was a joke. Why steal a rusted piece of iron when the Rosetta Stone was right there? It was dismissed as the work of a crazy collector or a prankster.
But two people weren't laughing.
In a quiet manor in London, an old man named Grant sipped his tea and stared at the newspaper. Steve Rogers knew exactly what that "farming tool" was. He'd spent time in Wakanda. He'd heard T'Challa talk about the Vibranium artifacts scattered across the globe.
"He actually did it," Steve murmured, shaking his head. "The kid works fast."
He folded the paper and went back to his garden. If the world was going to change, it seemed it was going to happen whether he liked it or not.
Thousands of miles away, deep in the hidden heart of Africa, the reaction was much sharper.
King T'Chaka sat on his throne in Wakanda, his face grim as he watched the news feed. He knew that artifact. He'd seen it himself during a diplomatic trip to the UK years ago. He had left it there because retrieving it would have drawn too much attention to his isolationist nation.
"Only someone who knows what Vibranium is would steal that," T'Chaka said, his voice low and dangerous.
There was only one man on the outside who fit that description: Ulysses Klaue. The arms dealer had stolen Vibranium before, and he had the scars to prove it. T'Chaka assumed Klaue had resurfaced.
"T'Challa!" the King called out.
The doors to the throne room opened, and a young man walked in. T'Challa was twenty-seven years old, in the prime of his life, his movements fluid and powerful. He hadn't taken the mantle of the Black Panther yet in the eyes of the world, but he was already a warrior.
"Father," T'Challa bowed.
"We have a situation," T'Chaka said, pointing to the screen. "It seems our old enemy has returned. Prepare yourself. We may need to step out of the shadows sooner than we thought."
Rosen, sitting in his New York apartment and tinkering with his new Vibranium core, had no idea he had just poked the most dangerous bear on the African continent.