Natasha held the small glass vial, staring at the glowing green liquid swirling inside. It looked like something out of a science fiction movie—or a fairy tale gone wrong.
"Drink it," the masked man had said. "No strings attached."
Natasha hesitated. Her training screamed at her to throw it away, to never trust a stranger, especially one who moved like a ghost and wore armor that looked like it belonged in a museum of horrors. But then she looked at him again.
He stood in the center of the dusty safehouse, wrapped in heavy, ornate plate armor that seemed to absorb the dim light. A cloak made of shimmering, fiery fabric hung from his shoulders, and in his hand, he held a circular, triple-bladed weapon that hummed with a low, menacing energy.
She had tried to escape on the way here. Twice.
The first time, she'd tried to slip into a crowd near the metro station. He had simply appeared in front of her, materializing out of thin air before she could even take three steps.
The second time, she'd tried to disable him with a concealed knife she kept in her boot. She'd driven the blade into a gap in his armor with all her strength.
The knife had shattered. The armor hadn't even scratched.
[Blade Mail (Special Item)] Price: $50,000,000 Effect: Increases armor by +8 (Equivalent to 800mm of homogeneous rolled steel). Returns 20% of melee damage to the attacker. Self-repairing.
Rosen had spent a fortune on this piece. In the real world, "Armor +8" didn't just mean damage reduction; it meant he was wearing a tank. The 800mm steel equivalent was stronger than the frontal glacis of an M1 Abrams. He could take a direct hit from a cruise missile and walk away dusting off his shoulders.
More importantly, this specific item from the Special Store had two unique perks. First, it could be customized. Rosen had modeled it after the male version of the Warden's armor from Warcraft, completing his transformation into a male Maiev Shadowsong. Second, it had Self-Recovery. Unlike his other gear, if this armor took damage, it would slowly knit itself back together, saving him millions in replacement costs.
Natasha knew none of this. All she knew was that she was injured, cornered, and facing a man who was invulnerable.
She uncorked the vial and downed it in one gulp.
The effect was instantaneous.
A warm, tingling sensation rushed through her veins, chasing away the cold ache in her ribs and the throbbing in her skull. She watched in disbelief as the cuts on her arms knitted together, the bruised skin fading from purple to a healthy, pale tone. Even the chronic ache in her shoulder—a souvenir from a mission gone bad three years ago—vanished.
She touched her face, feeling the skin smooth and revitalized. It wasn't just healing; it was rejuvenation.
"What is this?" Natasha whispered, looking at the empty vial. "It's... miraculous."
"Life Potion," Rosen said, his voice distorted by the helm. "Heals injuries, purges toxins, even slows aging if you use it enough. Expensive, though."
Natasha set the vial down on the rotting table. She looked at Rosen with a new, sharper focus.
"Thank you," she said, her tone guarded but respectful. "Now, cut the crap. You didn't save me out of the kindness of your heart. What do you want? I won't believe a guy dressed like a medieval nightmare is running a charity."
She wasn't naive. She knew how the game was played. People like him—people with power—didn't offer help without expecting a return on investment.
Rosen chuckled, the sound deep and metallic. "Smart girl. You're right. I'm not a charity. I'm recruiting."
He stepped closer, the fire cloak rustling. "I know about the Red Room, Natasha. I know about Dreykov. I know you want out."
Natasha stiffened. "And you think you can offer me a way out? S.H.I.E.L.D. tried. They sent a flying tank and an archer to bring me in."
"S.H.I.E.L.D. offers a cage," Rosen countered. "A nicer cage, sure. better food, dental plan. But you'd still be a tool. You'd still answer to a handler. I'm offering something else."
"Which is?"
"Employment," Rosen said. "Work for me. Use your skills on my terms. When you're not on a mission? You're free. Live your life. Date who you want. Buy a house. No handlers, no brainwashing, no red ledger."
Natasha studied him. It sounded too good to be true. But then she thought about the potion. She thought about the armor. She thought about the way he had dismantled her escape attempts without even raising his voice.
If he wanted to force her, he could have. He hadn't.
"And if I say no?" she asked.
"Then I walk away," Rosen lied smoothly. "You can take your chances with Barton and the flying woman. Or maybe Dreykov finds you first."
It was a bluff, of course. Rosen wasn't about to let a prime asset walk away. But Natasha didn't know that.
She looked at the empty vial again. Freedom. Real freedom. And access to resources that made S.H.I.E.L.D. look primitive.
"Okay," Natasha said slowly. "I'm listening. But first... you have to help me kill Dreykov."
Rosen smiled beneath his mask. "I thought you'd never ask."