Spreading Chaos and Mischief across Worlds

Somewhere between reality and thought, where dreams are born and laws dissolve like mist, Amon stood with one foot in the shadow of a mirror and the other on a rooftop overlooking Queens.

The wind here smelled of iron and smoke, of ambition and failure.

Below, the world bustled as usual.

Above, the sky trembled ever so slightly—as if sensing the pressure of a narrative that should not exist.

Amon smiled.

His cane, carved from wood that remembered the fall of angels, tapped once against the stone railing. Immediately, a ripple flowed out, unseen, but not unfelt.

Across the globe, hundreds of reflective surfaces briefly distorted—spoons bent, monitors flickered, lake water rippled without wind. And within each, a faint reflection blinked out of sync.

Him.

Just for a moment.

New Jersey – Wanda Maximoff's Cabin

The kettle whistled again.

Wanda didn't move.

She sat at her worn kitchen table, eyes half-lidded, fingers tracing the surface of the wood. Her mind was elsewhere—floating in the red mists of precognition and fragmented chaos spells.

Every night since he appeared in her dreams, she'd tried to trap him.

Hex wards.

Mirror barriers.

Time loops.

Nothing worked.

He simply was—like the space between breaths or the silence before a scream.

Today, she had a new plan.

She would let him in.

And pray her soul was still her own when it was done.

Elsewhere – Midtown High

Peter Parker was late.

Again.

But this time it wasn't a bank robbery or a mad scientist in a rhinoceros suit.

He'd been staring at a piece of graffiti.

Not the usual tags or teenage declarations of love.

This one showed an eye. A single monocled eye, drawn with impossibly fine precision. The lines shimmered subtly, as if daring the viewer to blink.

He had.

And the eye winked.

Now he was in detention for being fifteen minutes late to history class.

"You saw it again, didn't you?" whispered Ned beside him, who was also detained—for trying to defend Peter.

Peter nodded slowly. "I think… he's watching us."

"Who?"

Peter hesitated.

"I don't know."

Wanda's Cabin – That Evening

Amon arrived without ceremony.

No thunder. No portal. No dramatic gust of wind.

Just one moment, the porch was empty.

The next, he was seated on the railing, legs crossed, sipping tea that hadn't existed five seconds ago.

"You left your door open," he said.

Wanda stepped out, barefoot, red mist dancing along her fingertips. "It's not my door anymore. It's yours, isn't it?"

He tilted his head. "It could be. You'd be surprised how often that's true."

She studied him.

Dark suit. Gloved hands. Monocle. Cane resting across his lap.

Everything about him radiated composure.

But it was a lie.

He was a storm in disguise.

"You're not from this reality," Wanda said.

"I'm not from any reality."

A silence passed.

Wanda poured a second cup of tea, and set it across from him.

"So what do you want?"

Amon sipped, then smiled. "To be amused."

"To what end?"

"Does it matter? I've danced with gods and walked through endings. Sometimes, mischief is its own cathedral."

Meanwhile – Kamar-Taj

Wong stood over the Mirror of Implications, flipping through pages of the Book of Vishanti with increasing speed.

Every reading pointed to one conclusion:

A narrative invader.

Something not written into the weave of the multiverse. Not even part of the Sacred Timeline. A creature that existed only to unexist others.

He was no demon.

No god.

Not even a Watcher.

He was… something worse.

A free agent.

He drew a sigil in the air—an emergency summon to a multiversal contact: Illya Strange, the Mirror-Walker from Earth-8899.

"Come quickly," Wong whispered. "The chaos that bends the script has returned."

Conversation at the Cabin

"You could burn this world down," Wanda said, stirring her tea.

"I could," Amon agreed.

"But you haven't."

"Why would I ruin the stage before the performance? Chaos thrives best when it plays among the expectations of order."

Wanda's gaze narrowed. "You're trying to corrupt people."

He leaned in, smiling. "Not trying. I already have."

With a flick of his fingers, a holographic web spread between them—threads of fate and identity. Peter Parker's thread was tangled with his own. Ned's was fraying. A cultist's line glowed with eerie red, trailing into a police station where he had just whispered impossible truths to a detective.

Wanda clenched her fists.

"You're turning this into another Westview."

"No," he said softly. "I'm turning this into a mirror. You'd be surprised what people become when they see themselves without masks."

"And what do you see, Amon?"

He stood, brushing off his coat. "Only what's true, dear Scarlet Witch."

As he turned to vanish again, Wanda whispered, "You're not afraid of death."

He paused.

"I've worn it as a mask," he said. "Several times."

And then he was gone.

New York – The Maskbearers' First Prayer

The subway cult had grown.

Not in size, but in depth.

Each member had unlocked something new within themselves—powers they didn't understand, memories that weren't their own. One woman now spoke fluent ancient Greek despite never attending college. Another kept muttering in Enochian. A teenage boy painted prophecies in graffiti that predicted three subway collisions—then they didn't happen. As if reality changed to meet the prophecy.

They began calling themselves The Maskbearers.

And tonight, for the first time, they had a visitor.

He wore a simple black robe, and a monocle that shimmered even in the dark.

"Tell me," he asked gently, "what is the truth you believe?"

They knelt.

"Truth is illusion."

"Good," Amon said, and left behind a single card with a mirror etched into it.

When the police raided the tunnel two hours later, they found no one—only reflections screaming in panic from the water puddles on the floor.

Elsewhere – A Disturbance in the Mirror Dimension

Illya Strange arrived, cloaked in paradox.

"Wong," she said grimly, "you weren't exaggerating."

"No. He's already turned reality into a game."

Illya touched the air and felt the threads of narrative. "He's not just bending the rules… he's infecting them."

She summoned a map of the multiversal ley lines.

A dark blot pulsed near Earth-199999's spiritual nexus.

"That's where he is," she said. "And it's already too late to stop him cleanly."

"Then we don't stop him," Wong said. "We outplay him."

For a long moment, she said nothing.

Then: "We'll need Peter. The boy."

Chapter Close – The Eye of the Sorcerer Supreme

That night, Wong stood in the highest tower of the Sanctum Sanctorum, casting a deep-viewing spell into the astral winds.

Finally, he saw him.

A figure in a shifting cloak, eyes like twin abysses.

Watching back.

The spell shattered.

And in the silence, only Amon's voice echoed, somehow playful and chilling all at once:

"Now now, peeking isn't polite."