Spreading Chaos and Mischief across Worlds

The glyph-scribed floor beneath Wong's feet trembled as he and Agatha descended deeper into the forbidden layers of the Eldritch Vault.

These corridors were never meant to be walked.

Their creation was a precaution from an age long before Strange, before even the Ancient One. Carved into the folds beneath dimensional probability, they served as a prison for entities that defied the natural order—not by brute strength, but by ideology.

"This feels like a mistake," Agatha muttered, drawing her tattered cloak tighter. "Even I wouldn't open this vault."

"You've dabbled in darkness," Wong replied. "You understand its cost. But Amon… he rewrites it. He doesn't need a price. He makes new rules."

As they walked, lanterns lining the hallway blinked one by one. Each flicker of light was a memory being rewritten — some lost entirely, some subtly changed. Wong pressed on regardless.

They reached the final door: a crystalline seal, etched in thirteen languages, none of them known to mortals. A floating sphere hovered above it, spinning erratically.

"This is the Vault of the Fractured Star," Wong whispered. "Not a cell. A quarantine."

Agatha raised a hand. "You still haven't told me who's inside."

He turned to face her, grim.

"I didn't say it because I wasn't sure you'd help if I did."

With a flick of his fingers, Wong summoned a sequence of glowing sigils and slid them into the locking mechanism.

The vault groaned.

Behind the door, something stirred.

Inside the Vault

The chamber was vast and surreal — a pocket dimension stitched together by paradox. Time here did not flow properly. Gravity bent sideways. Colors refracted in ways that defied human understanding.

And at its center floated a single man—trapped in a prison of recursive runes, bound in layers of shimmering thread that pulsed with light and shadow. His robes were torn, his beard longer than Wong remembered, his eyes still burning with intelligence… and madness.

Agatha stepped forward slowly. "Is that…"

"Yes," Wong answered quietly. "A variant. From a doomed reality."

The imprisoned man opened one eye.

"Ah," he said with a tired smile. "So the dream ends. And the curtain rises again."

Agatha scowled. "Tell me it's not him."

"Stephen Strange," Wong said. "But not ours. This one… calls himself the Fractured Star."

The man in the center chuckled. "What's in a name, if not a delightful little lie?"

Flashback – The Fractured Star

This variant of Stephen Strange had not been corrupted by the Darkhold or defeated by his own arrogance. No, his sin had been different: he sought to understand narrative itself. To map destiny like a constellation. To steal power not from demons or death… but from story structure.

He learned to bend fate lines, merge timelines, create new arcs. In his world, he had built a Library of All Outcomes, where each decision birthed a new play—and he, its playwright.

But eventually, he became obsessed with the idea of "unpredictability."

That was when he found Amon.

Not in person. Not yet.

But in whispers, in echoes, in a mirror that refused to show a reflection unless the question was a lie.

When Strange attempted to scribe the name "Amon" into his fate charts, the multiverse recoiled.

Reality began glitching. Time collapsed inwards. Events began happening before the causes that triggered them.

The Living Tribunal intervened. Strange was captured. His reality pruned. He was locked away in the Vault of the Fractured Star.

Until now.

Present

"You must be truly desperate," Strange said, hovering with folded legs and bound arms. "Freeing me to fight a mind-meddler."

Wong kept a firm tone. "This isn't a request. It's a parole."

Strange chuckled. "You speak as though you could keep me contained again."

Agatha stepped forward. "Do you know who he is?"

"Amon?" Strange nodded. "Oh yes. I know of him. Or rather… I know what he is."

Wong raised an eyebrow. "And?"

"He's not a god. Not a villain. He's not even a parasite." Strange smiled. "He's an idea. A story with no author. He enters your world not to conquer it, but to edit it."

The air grew colder.

"And you believe you can out-edit him?" Agatha asked.

Strange's smile widened. "No. I believe I can confuse him."

Wong narrowed his eyes. "We're not here to start another multiversal war."

"No, but if you want to stop Amon," Strange said, leaning forward, "you need someone who knows how to twist narratives without falling into one."

Wong sighed. "We'll set a condition: assist us in containing Amon, and your seal will be reevaluated."

"Deal," Strange said. "But I want something first."

Agatha rolled her eyes. "Of course."

"Before we fight a liar," Strange said, "I need to speak to someone who used to be one."

Wong blinked. "Who?"

Strange smiled.

"Loki."

Elsewhere…

Wanda Maximoff stood before a mirror that no longer reflected her face.

Instead, it showed fragments of other Wandas — smiling, crying, killing. One whispered in Sokovian. Another screamed from behind a veil of glass.

She stepped back.

The room around her twisted. She had found a refuge far from Westview — an abandoned pocket dimension once used by witches who studied causal paradox. She had claimed it for herself.

Now, she layered it with runes, built a mental maze from symbols both ancient and new.

"Amon…," she muttered, drawing his name onto parchment only to see it burn away. "You want chaos. But I've lived in chaos. I was born there."

She placed her hands on the stone altar and began weaving something.

Not a curse.

Not an illusion.

But a fail-safe.

Something that could trap a god.

Far away, Amon stood in the rafters of an opera house long abandoned by time.

He wore a new face now—handsome, unassuming, forgettable. Beside him, illusions danced on stage: Wanda. Wong. Strange. Loki.

All playing their parts.

He clapped slowly. "Ah, the cast assembles."

He adjusted his monocle.

"Now let's see who forgets their lines first."