Los Angeles. A bar in a run-down neighborhood.
The bar owner was an old Russian man who loved vodka. To the locals and regulars, he was a grumpy but soft-hearted old man. Though he cursed up a storm every time a customer asked to run a tab, he always gave in and let them do it anyway.
Because of that, this small bar became a favorite hangout spot for the locals every night—it was always lively.
From across the street, Robert stood and studied the bar. He had just traveled here from the seaside castle, moving through the sky with Moonwalk. He knew the owner wasn't really Russian but an ethnic Chinese of Russian descent. This bar was, in fact, one of the Spear Bureau's independent covert lines in North America.
Six months ago—at the end of last year—the Spear Bureau's intelligence network in the Americas suffered a devastating blow. The head of the branch vanished. Many agents were either killed or captured. The one behind it all was none other than "Black Egg" Nick Fury.
In the world of intelligence, there was no right or wrong—only opposing sides. When you crossed paths, it was kill or be killed.
This Los Angeles line was classified at the highest level; only the Americas Division Chief had clearance to know it existed. It was only to be used for critical intelligence or to smuggle high-value assets out of the U.S.—and it would be activated only once.
Countless unsung heroes spent their lives playing roles in foreign lands, waiting for a "wake-up call" that might never come. And when it did, they had to abandon everything—family, home, and personal dreams—dedicating their lives, and even their lives' blood, to the greater cause.
Success need not be mine. But I will be part of that success.
The bar was still standing, which meant the line hadn't been activated. Still, Robert didn't let his guard down. He swept the area with his Observation Haki. No hidden threats.
The Observation Haki he inherited from Whitebeard was formidable, but it couldn't match Roger's ability to "hear the voice of all things," nor could it match Queen Otohime's gift of hearing people's hearts. It only allowed him to detect the number of living beings nearby and gauge their strength.
Right now, his Observation Haki radius is only two kilometers.
Although Robert also had the "Ki" from the Dragon Ball world in his body, he had never learned proper sensing techniques. Besides, Ki was unique to the Dragon Ball world. Marvel-world beings likely had another kind of life energy—but it wasn't Ki. At least, there had never been a crossover between Toriyama and Stan Lee.
Without lingering across the street, Robert stepped forward like an ordinary customer and entered the bar.
Inside, it was noisy and smoky.
Sweat, body odor, stinky feet, cheap perfume, alcohol, cigarette smoke—all mixed into one. Even though Robert was mentally prepared, he couldn't help frowning.
He walked to the counter and said to the owner, "Whiskey."
The rare sight of an Asian face made the owner glance at him twice, but he quickly returned to his work.
The moment Robert entered the bar, ten kilometers away in the S.H.I.E.L.D. Los Angeles branch, Level 7 agent Grant Ward noticed him.
"Zoom in on that face," Ward ordered a technician.
Robert's new disguise appeared on the screen.
"Run a background check," Ward said.
Minutes later, S.H.I.E.L.D.'s information network pulled up the man's detailed profile.
Ward skimmed it—an ethnic Korean from Arizona. His travel records showed he had flown into L.A. two days ago.
Seeing nothing suspicious, Ward lost interest.
At that moment, a woman in a black catsuit walked into the monitoring room. Short, with Asian features.
"Melinda, if you keep skipping shifts like this, I won't be able to explain it to the Director," Ward said helplessly.
"I told you, I drank too much water. I had to go to the bathroom," said Melinda May—nicknamed "The Cavalry"—with an icy glare.
At this time, the two were still in a romantic relationship.
Office romances were frowned upon in most workplaces, but for agents—especially field agents who danced with death daily—casual relationships weren't taboo. In fact, their superiors encouraged it. Playing a married couple or lovers on missions required no acting.
"Melinda, we're agents. We have our side," Ward reminded her. "Don't forget—you're American."
"I don't need you to remind me," she replied coldly.
"Sir," one of the agents monitoring the bar said, "we've been watching this place for months, and the target hasn't shown up. What if we send in the 'Impersonator'? It might provoke a reaction and get us results."
"His wounds are healed?" Ward asked.
"Yes," the agent nodded.
"And the results?"
"The Academy's best plastic surgeons handled it personally. Flawless match."
"The accent?"
"Tested by our Mandarin experts. No issues."
Ward hesitated. The agent pressed on: "Sir, from what we know, this bar is just a dead drop. The owner has probably never met the previous Spear Bureau handler."
"I get it—you all want a win. So do I." Ward's expression hardened. "But rule number one of espionage is caution."
"We can't just sit around forever," the agent muttered.
The frustration was visible. They'd been stuck in this holding pattern for months. No missions. No fieldwork. No hazard pay.
And in America, living paycheck to paycheck was normal. Field agents burned through money even faster with their nightlife. Now, after months of inactivity, many of them were barely covering their bills.
They didn't care how vital cutting off the Spear Bureau's North American network was to S.H.I.E.L.D.'s grand strategy. All they cared about was that if this dragged on, the bank would come knocking.
Anything was better than this endless waiting.
"Do it," Melinda May suddenly spoke up.
"Mel!" Ward turned sharply.
"If the Spear Bureau never shows up, what's your plan? Sit here for life?" She spread her hands. "Or do you have a better idea?"
Ward stayed silent.
"Then we send the Impersonator," Melinda said firmly. "I'm a Level 7 agent. I have the authority to call this shot."
The L.A. agents immediately moved. They'd had enough of this dead-end assignment.
An hour later, another Asian man walked into the bar.
Robert, who had been quietly drinking and ignoring the owner, turned and saw him. A slow, meaningful smile crept across his face.
"Interesting," he murmured.
He glanced at the owner one last time, tossed a ten-dollar bill on the counter, and walked out—brushing past the Asian newcomer.
In espionage, there are humans and there are ghosts.
Who's human? Who's a ghost?
Until the very end—who can truly tell?
(End of Chapter)