There are places in every world that lie between the lines. Places the ordinary eye skips over, not from blindness, but from a deep-seated instinct—an unspoken understanding that this should not be noticed.
Amon strolled through one such alley in Brooklyn.
It was neither day nor night here, the shadows too thick and the sun oddly reluctant to illuminate the space between rusted dumpsters and forgotten brick walls. He walked past the graffiti of a forgotten gang war, fingers brushing the crude paint that rearranged itself into glyphs in his wake.
In his pocket, the brass timepiece clicked rhythmically, ticking not in seconds, but in possibilities.
With every step, the alley became longer.
With every breath, the alley became older.
And when he emerged, he stood not in New York anymore—but in a metaphysical corridor made of shifting illusions and world-fragments, where concepts rather than matter built the walls.
This was where Strange used to walk in dreams.
Where Wanda Maximoff, reborn as the Scarlet Witch, once peeled away reality to find her children in the Void.
Amon smirked. "So many doorways. So few doors."
He waved his hand.
Immediately, three mirror-like panels hovered before him. One reflected Stephen Strange's astral form, busy meditating with his soul split in half. Another flickered with Loki's TVA record, still unresolved. And the last showed Wanda, asleep in a cabin far from civilization, fingers twitching in a dream soaked in prophecy.
All three, whether they knew it or not, felt the ripple of his presence.
That amused him.
He was the Error, after all.
He was not meant to be anywhere.
And yet, he was here.
Elsewhere – Kamar-Taj, Nepal
Wong poured over ancient texts while candles flickered around the chamber. He hadn't slept since the encounter.
Whoever that man was, he hadn't left a trace behind.
No scent.
No arcane resonance.
No magical footprint.
But he had left questions—and Wong hated questions that stared back.
A young acolyte entered, bowing. "Master Wong. There's… a distortion in the mirror archive."
Wong's brows furrowed. "What kind of distortion?"
"The scrying mirror is… replaying predictions it never made."
He stood at once, staff in hand.
Together they entered the mirror vault—an ancient room where magical glass recorded threads of probable futures.
Inside, dozens of mirrors stood still.
Except one.
It pulsed like a heartbeat.
Wong approached slowly.
In its depths, he saw himself, standing over a fallen Sanctum Sanctorum, holding Strange's broken cloak and whispering, "The Error was never a who—it was a when."
Wong stepped back, visibly shaken.
The mirror cracked.
Midtown, New York – Midtown School of Science and Technology
Peter Parker felt something off.
It wasn't Spider-Sense. That sixth sense came with buzzes and jolts, like proximity warnings.
This was different. It felt like… he'd forgotten something.
Or someone.
He looked at Ned beside him in the cafeteria, halfway through a sandwich. "Hey, did we walk past that guy again today?"
Ned frowned. "What guy?"
"The one with the cane and hat. You know—he tipped his hat at Mrs. Ortiz, and she started laughing and crying at the same time."
Ned blinked. "I don't… remember anyone like that, Pete."
Peter leaned back slowly. His eyes unfocused. Something tickled the back of his skull.
Like a dream half-remembered.
He dropped it. For now.
But that night, when Peter looked into the bathroom mirror, his reflection wasn't blinking in sync.
Meanwhile – In a Museum of the Forgotten
Amon strolled through a quiet exhibit on cosmic relics, concealed beneath a false floor of the Natural History Museum. He'd whispered a different idea into the staffer's thoughts earlier—a false memory of a donation from Reed Richards. Thus, the doors were unlocked to him now.
He stood before a containment unit housing a cracked shard of The Darkhold—the infamous tome of chaos magic, destroyed by Wanda Maximoff.
Even shattered, it pulsed with forbidden knowledge.
"Chaos magic," Amon mused, tapping the glass with his finger. "Your world has such delightful flavors of madness."
He smiled at his reflection in the glass. But it wasn't his reflection anymore.
A second Amon stood behind the glass—one with crimson eyes, wearing a grin that split just a little too wide.
They both spoke at once: "Let's teach them what chaos truly means."
He pressed a hand against the glass, and for a brief moment, the shard pulsed like a living heart.
Then he walked away.
Unseen, the containment spells began to unravel.
Wanda Maximoff's Cabin – Somewhere Remote
The tea kettle whistled.
Wanda sat cross-legged on the porch, eyes closed.
But she didn't reach for the tea.
Her fingers twitched as she meditated—not toward serenity, but repetition.
One name kept surfacing in her visions. A name no one had ever spoken aloud, but felt inevitable.
"Amon."
The name had no source.
No past.
No future.
Just... inevitability.
A cold breeze swept through the cabin.
She opened her eyes.
And saw a figure in the woods. Wearing a hat.
By the time she stood, it was gone.
Back in New York – A Small Cult Awakens
In the shadow of an abandoned subway tunnel, six people stood in silence.
They had nothing in common.
A waitress, a hedge fund analyst, a failed magician, a teenager, a historian, and a conspiracy vlogger.
They all dreamed the same dream last night:
A man in a monocle handing them a mask.
Now, they found each other through cryptic graffiti tags, strange coincidences, and websites that didn't exist yesterday.
The leader, a pale young man with gold-thread gloves, raised his voice.
"He is coming, and with him, the truth unravels."
They didn't question.
They knew.
Because each of them, at some point in the last forty-eight hours, had seen themselves doing something they never remembered doing.
Some called it déjà vu.
Others called it possession.
They called it faith.
Back in the Penthouse
Amon lounged on a red velvet couch, legs over the armrest, watching the city through a telescope that didn't point at stars—but at decision points.
He whispered into it like a phone.
"I do love this world. So full of contradictions."
He pulled a newspaper clipping from a drawer.
"STARK INDUSTRIES TO ANNOUNCE NEW AI OVERSIGHT PROGRAM—'DEMIURGE'"
He smirked. "Oh, Tony… If only you'd lived to see the wrong god wake up."
On the coffee table, a stack of mirrors reflected not the room, but possible consequences.
In one, New York burned as Strange battled a multi-headed serpent that spoke in riddles.
In another, Loki knelt at the feet of a mirror showing himself as king.
In a third, Wanda screamed as her sons dissolved into red thread.
In all three, the same man stood in the background.
Watching.
Smiling.
Loki's Lair – Outside Time
Loki blinked.
Then frowned.
Then blinked again.
A scroll he hadn't written was now in his hand.
The signature at the bottom read: "With love, A."
He opened it.
It was a riddle.
"What cannot be pruned, only observed?
What mocks all Variants without a word?
What wears a mask, but never lies?
What shatters truths, but never dies?"
Loki narrowed his eyes.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt something very close to… worry.
Closing Scene – On the Roof of the Sanctum Sanctorum
Wong stood beneath the stars, holding an ancient compass that refused to point.
Beside him, a spectral echo of Strange appeared—just a fragment, left behind in a failsafe spell.
Wong spoke quietly.
"I think we have a visitor."
Strange's echo blinked. "From another universe?"
"No. From… outside narratives altogether."
A pause.
Strange's voice grew wary. "A Void entity?"
"No," Wong said, eyes hard. "Something older than Voids. A living contradiction."
The compass spun wildly.
Wong added, "He wears a monocle."
Strange froze.
Then, quietly: "Oh no."