The Avengers stepped in at the most critical moment, forcing both sides of the war to halt their attacks and sit down at the negotiating table. It wasn't peace born from goodwill, nor from mutual understanding—it was peace carved out of exhaustion, fear, and the looming threat of complete annihilation.
Inside the hastily assembled meeting room, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Cohen sat at the center with an easy smile, relaxed as if this were nothing more than a casual business meeting. On either side of him, however, the representatives of Wakanda and the United States looked like they wanted to tear each other apart. If not for the Avengers' presence, this room would have turned into another battlefield within seconds.
Both sides had paid a brutal price.
Wakanda's ground forces had been nearly wiped out, their defensive lines shattered beyond repair. Only a portion of their aerial forces remained, and even those were battered and depleted. The city itself had taken severe damage, teetering on the edge of collapse, its once-proud defenses now scarred and broken.
The United States military, on the other hand, still had enough strength to push forward if they truly committed. If they gritted their teeth and launched a final offensive, they might even be able to destroy Wakanda completely. But that possibility came with a terrifying cost.
The Wakandans still had more than twenty fighter jets left.
And no one could guarantee what kind of final retaliation they might unleash.
If even one or two more American aircraft carriers were sunk, the consequences would be catastrophic. It wouldn't just be a military loss—it would signal the collapse of American global dominance. And once that external dominance crumbled, the internal fractures—racial tensions, immigration conflicts, gun control debates, and social divisions—would erupt all at once.
Those were problems the government itself had allowed to grow, and now they no longer had the means to contain them.
If things spiraled out of control, the entire nation could fracture beyond repair.
"Ahem, everyone, let's not be so tense," Cohen said, spreading his hands with an easygoing grin. "The fact that we're all sitting here means the war is already over."
He leaned back slightly, his tone light but deliberate. "The Avengers are here, so naturally, justice and kindness follow. War is cruel, pointless, and messy. Why not sit down and talk things through like civilized people?"
His gaze swept across both sides before settling into a faint smirk. "After all, only demons start fights without saying a word. And dealing with demons just happens to be our specialty."
On the Wakandan side, Shuri let out a cold laugh, her eyes filled with undisguised hostility. "You say it's over? Don't make me laugh. You outsiders started this war. Wakanda decides when it ends."
Cohen chuckled softly, as if humoring a child throwing a tantrum. "Easy there. If you insist on continuing, I'm afraid the next thing you'll see is Wakanda reduced to ruins."
"You—!"
Shuri slammed her hands against the table and shot to her feet, fury blazing in her eyes. But before she could say another word, a sudden flash of intense light exploded right in front of her face.
"Bastard!"
She cried out instantly, her vision overwhelmed as she staggered backward, clutching her eyes. Disoriented, she lost her balance and collapsed to the ground.
Across the table, T'Challa's expression changed sharply, instinctively pushing himself up from his seat. But before he could fully rise, Cohen was already behind him, his hand pressing firmly down on his shoulders.
"Relax," Cohen said calmly. "It's just a flash. She'll recover in a minute."
His grip tightened ever so slightly, his voice dropping in tone. "You're a king now. Try acting like one."
T'Challa's muscles tensed as he tried to stand, the chair beneath him creaking under the strain. But the hand on his shoulders felt immovable, like a mountain pressing him down. No matter how much strength he used, he couldn't break free.
A chill ran down his spine.
So this was Cohen's power.
If someone like him had joined the battlefield earlier, Wakanda might have already been erased.
"What exactly are you trying to do?" T'Challa asked through clenched teeth. "Help the U.S. military crush Wakanda?"
Cohen clicked his tongue in annoyance. "Were you even listening? I'm here to uphold justice."
He released T'Challa and returned to his seat, crossing his legs casually. "Here's a simple proposal. Wakanda and the United States sign a ceasefire agreement. Open up trade, exchange technology, cooperate for mutual development, and build something better."
"No!" Shuri shouted from the floor, her vision still blurred. "We will never cooperate with the man who killed our father!"
T'Challa remained silent, his expression unreadable as he sank into thought.
After a long pause, he finally spoke.
"I have three conditions."
Cohen raised an eyebrow, intrigued. "Let's hear them."
"First," T'Challa said, his voice steady, "Wakanda will not cooperate exclusively with the United States. We will establish partnerships with all nations."
"You've got to be kidding me!"
The U.S. representative, Commissioner Smith, slammed his hand on the table, his face flushed with anger. "We lost tens of thousands of men and multiple carriers for this war, and now you want to share the results with the entire world?"
"Agreed," Cohen said instantly.
"…What?"
Smith stared at him, dumbfounded, his mouth twitching as if he wanted to argue but didn't dare. The president had made it clear—Cohen had full authority. No matter how absurd it seemed, he had to swallow it.
"Second," T'Challa continued, "the U.S. military is forbidden from stationing troops within 500 kilometers of Wakanda."
"Impossible!" Smith shot back immediately. "How do we know you won't go back on your word?"
Cohen said nothing, simply watching the exchange with mild interest.
"Three hundred kilometers," T'Challa amended through clenched teeth.
"Thirty!" Smith roared, slamming the table again.
The two went back and forth, voices rising as the argument escalated. Eventually, they settled on 150 kilometers—a distance that still allowed U.S. missile systems to strike within minutes if necessary.
But in his inexperience, T'Challa overlooked a critical detail.
He never specified how many bases the U.S. could establish within that range.
A costly oversight.
"The third condition," T'Challa said, his eyes hardening, "is that the U.S. must hand over the man who killed my father."
"Not happening," Cohen cut in immediately.
He leaned back, his tone almost amused. "You expect me to hand over Colonel Rhodes? Stark's closest friend?"
T'Challa's gaze snapped toward the American delegation, quickly identifying James Rhodes among them. Killing intent surged in his eyes.
"You're the one?" he said coldly.
He turned back toward Cohen and Smith. "Hand him over. Or these negotiations end right now."
Cohen let out a low laugh. "You really think you can touch him? Have you considered whether Iron Man would allow that?"
He tapped the table lightly, his tone turning sharper. "Stark's armor is the most advanced weapon system on the planet. Rhodes alone can take down multiple aircraft in that suit. If Stark himself stepped onto the battlefield, Wakanda would've already fallen."
T'Challa's expression turned icy. "So Stark is also responsible."
Smith and the other American officials exchanged uneasy glances, shooting Cohen looks that clearly said: What are you doing?
Even Rhodes stared at him, disbelief written all over his face.
Was this negotiation… or betrayal?
Cohen shrugged casually. "By that logic, the entire United States is responsible. Rhodes is a decorated war hero. Stark is a key defense contractor. Neither of them is going anywhere."
Then he looked directly at Rhodes and added, "Relax. As long as I'm here, no one will touch you."
Rhodes' face turned an ugly shade of green.
Right. Because that was reassuring.
Cohen tapped the table again, drawing everyone's attention. "King T'Challa, I can't agree to all your conditions. I'm here to promote peace, not to cripple one side."
He paused briefly before dropping his next line.
"Besides, I came prepared. I've got dozens of Stark-manufactured combat drones backing the U.S. expeditionary force. Once they're deployed and take out your remaining aircraft, it's over for you."
As he spoke, Smith began frantically signaling him with his eyes.
"What?"
Cohen blinked, then slapped his forehead as if just realizing something. "Ah, right. That was classified."
He turned back to T'Challa with a sympathetic smile. "Look, I'm already giving you a heads-up. An old saying goes—where there's life, there's hope. Wakanda's already taken heavy losses. If you keep fighting, there won't be anyone left."
He leaned forward slightly, his voice softening just enough to sound reasonable. "Besides, you already killed General Ross. Call it even."
T'Challa stared at Rhodes for a long moment, his jaw tightening.
Finally, he spoke.
"…Fine."
"Perfect."
With Cohen orchestrating the flow, the first phase of negotiations concluded smoothly. The finer details would take time to hammer out, but the foundation had been laid. For Cohen, his role was already complete.
The rest of the Avengers, who had arrived expecting a battle, found themselves standing on the sidelines, largely unnecessary.
…
Back in New York, Cohen received a classified report almost immediately.
Although the U.S. government had officially dismantled S.H.I.E.L.D., arresting many of its agents and seizing its major facilities, that victory had only scratched the surface. The organization's hidden infrastructure—its safe houses, covert bases, and black sites—remained intact across the world.
And at the center of it all, Nick Fury was still pulling strings.
Inside the United States, S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives were forced to stay in the shadows. But Cohen had never stopped watching them.
Thanks to Hydra.
Hydra's infiltration ran deep—so deep that even now, Fury was surrounded by double agents without realizing it.
For days, there had been no movement, no signals. Cohen had guessed they were operating from a highly secure location, completely cut off from outside communication.
Until this morning.
The message that finally came through didn't reveal Fury's location.
But it revealed his plan.
Fury had formed a new organization—the Injustice League—and was preparing his first move against Cohen.
His target?
Alcatraz.
The Worthington Labs.
And the boy known for one terrifying ability—the power to neutralize mutant genes.
Fury intended to use that power to cripple Cohen's greatest allies.
After reading the report, Cohen didn't act immediately.
Instead, he smiled faintly.
And decided to wait.
…
Deep within an undisclosed S.H.I.E.L.D. facility, Nick Fury sat across a long table, trying to persuade a man who had only recently returned to the world.
Steve Rogers.
The man who had once symbolized everything America claimed to stand for.
Documents and photographs were spread across the table as Fury pushed them forward, his voice intense.
"I'm telling you, this man—Cohen—is not what he appears to be. He didn't just save the world out of the goodness of his heart. Everything he's done has a purpose."
Fury leaned forward, his single eye locked onto Steve. "I have evidence. Plenty of it. He's ambitious, manipulative, and if we let him continue unchecked, he'll become a disaster for this world."
Steve had only been awake for a short time after decades frozen in ice, and already the world felt unrecognizable.
He glanced at Fury, then at the documents, but didn't reach for them.
Instead, he spoke calmly.
"From what I've seen," he said, "he's saved tens of millions of lives."
His gaze sharpened slightly.
"How many have you saved?"
....
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