The morning papers in New York (Earth-96283) carried a strange, tragic headline: "TRAGEDY AT OSCORP: Three Board Members Dead of Sudden Heart Failure."
Norman Osborn sat in his office, the newspaper spread out on his mahogany desk. He read the report with a face made of stone, but his hands were trembling beneath the table.
Heart failure. That was the official cause. But Norman knew better. He had received the private autopsy reports, the ones money could buy but couldn't explain. Their hearts hadn't just stopped; they had exploded. Their faces were frozen in rictus masks of absolute, primal terror. They hadn't died of natural causes. They had been scared to death.
Norman looked at the empty chair across from him, imagining Rosen sitting there.
"He didn't touch them," Norman thought, a cold sweat pricking his hairline. "He didn't poison them. He didn't send a hitman. He just... cast a spell."
Rosen hadn't bothered to hide it. It was a demonstration.
Skill: Fear (Level 1).
In Warcraft III, this belonged to the neutral hero, the Pit Lord. In the game, "Howl of Terror" reduced enemy attack power. But in reality? It was a weapon of psychological mass destruction.
It functioned like the Warlock's "Fear" spell from World of Warcraft, but infinitely more potent. It dragged the victim's mind into a hallucination of their deepest, darkest nightmares. There was no limit on targets. No 15-second duration cap. As long as Rosen willed it, the nightmare continued.
The three shareholders—old men with weak hearts and guilty consciences—hadn't lasted five seconds. Rosen had looked at them, spoken a word, and their realities had shattered.
Norman Osborn, the future Green Goblin, the man who would one day terrorize New York, realized with clarity: I am the prey here.
The Main Universe (Earth-199999)
Rosen stepped back through the portal, leaving the terrified Norman Osborn to his corporate takeover. He was back in his Manhattan penthouse.
The first thing he did was check on his investments. Not the money—the people.
He closed his eyes, activating the link to the mechanical mouse hidden in the lining of Jessica's cape.
Visual data flooded his mind. It was dark, vibrating, and loud—or at least, it looked loud. The mechanical constructs had no microphones, so Rosen was watching a silent movie.
Jessica was strapped into the jump seat of a military transport plane—a C-17 Globemaster, judging by the interior ribbing. Sitting across from her were Phil Coulson and Clint Barton, both looking grim. There were other agents, too, checking weapons and securing parachutes.
"They left Budapest?" Rosen mused. "Did they catch Natasha? No, if they had, she'd be in handcuffs, not absent. Did they give up?"
Abandoning a target like the Black Widow wasn't Nick Fury's style. Something bigger must have happened. Something massive enough to pull a top-tier tactical team off a capture mission in Europe and redeploy them instantly.
Rosen focused. He needed to know what they were saying.
Through the mental link, he sent a command to the mouse. Nudge her.
On the plane, Jessica felt a distinct, rhythmic scratching against her ribs. She didn't flinch. She kept her face neutral, looking at Coulson, but her hand moved casually to her tactical vest. She pulled out a tablet—the mission briefing—and "idly" reviewed it, angling the screen just enough so that the mouse peeking out of her pocket could see it.
Rosen smiled in his apartment. "Smart girl."
This was why he had pushed her toward S.H.I.E.L.D. It wasn't just for her protection; it was for his intelligence network. He knew the general plot of the universe, but he didn't know the dates. He didn't know the specifics. Now, he had a direct line to Fury's inbox.
The image on the tablet came into focus.
[PRIORITY RED: KIDNAPPING / EXTRACTION] TARGET: Anthony Edward Stark STATUS: Missing / Presumed Hostile Captivity LAST KNOWN LOCATION: Kunar Province, Afghanistan.
Rosen sat up straight.
There, in high definition, was the photo of Tony Stark—the Merchant of Death, the playboy, the genius.
"It's begun," Rosen whispered.
The file detailed the ambush. The "Fun-Vee" convoy attack. The Ten Rings. The U.S. military was scouring the desert, but they were coming up empty.
Why was Jessica there? The briefing explained it: "Asset 'Homelander' requested for aerial reconnaissance and rapid extraction. Low radar signature. High durability."
They were using her as a human drone. A plane made noise. A helicopter was a target. But a woman flying at 60 mph through the mountains at night? She was invisible.
Rosen felt a strange sense of unreality. He had spent months preparing—building his base, gathering gold, leveling up, influencing the Raimi-verse. He had met Captain America in a garden and scared Norman Osborn straight.
But seeing Tony Stark's file... that was the starting gun.
The Marvel Universe wasn't just a setting anymore. The plot had officially started.
"The curtain is rising," Rosen murmured, watching the silent footage of Jessica checking her gauntlets. "And Iron Man is about to be born in a cave... with a box of scraps."