The firelight in the bar flickers — not because it's cold, but because something's changing.
It starts slow. A couple of footsteps. The creak of the door opening, shutting.Then another. And another.
And then, like floodgates snapping open:
They begin to enter.
Men in worn jackets. Women with cybernetic arms. A teenager clutching a broken helmet like a teddy bear. Two bounty hunters who eye each other across the room like they've got unfinished business.
A mutant in a scarf. A smiling lady with blood under her nails.A quiet man who just stares at walls.
Some walk in like they've been here before. Others squint, hesitate, then shuffle toward the bar like sleepwalkers drifting toward gravity.
Outside, the street noise fades under the hum of new voices.Inside, it's alive.
The bar — long and wide, all old wood and soft shadows — breathes like it's been waiting.
The walls are polished oak, deep brown with black iron accents. Lamps hang from curved beams. The bar counter stretches all the way down like a train platform, smooth as marble but warm under the elbow. The air smells like oak, charred citrus, and just a hint of whatever you miss the most.
Behind the bar: shelves and shelves of bottles.
Labeled in every language.
Some from Earth.
Some... not.
Names that look hand-carved. Glowing caps. Liquids that shift color if you squint.
Kratos watches the crowd thicken. He doesn't move from his stool, but his hand subtly shifts toward his belt — a reflex, not fear. The axe isn't there. Never was. But old habits don't care.
"...You expecting company?" he mutters.
The bartender doesn't answer. Not with words.
He flicks his hand once, smooth like shaking off dust.
And suddenly—he splits.
Not dramatically. Not with a flash. No storm, no noise. Just a soft shimmer in the air.
And now there's another bartender three stools down, already pouring a drink for a woman with six eyes and a shotgun.
Then another behind the far end, sliding a bowl of ramen to a masked kid humming a theme song from an anime that never existed.
Then another, balancing a tray of drinks on two fingers like a circus act.
Three. Four. Five.
All identical. All him.
Same coat, same silver hair, same golden tie that never shifts out of place.Moving smooth. Talking low. Smiling rarely.
Each one knows what the next is doing.
They never bump.
They never miss a step.
Kratos just… stares.
"Hmph."
"Something wrong?" the original bartender asks, sliding a fresh glass his way.
"You multiply."
"I serve."
"Illusions?"
"No."
"Magic?"
The bartender tilts his head.
"Call it... attention to detail."
Kratos watches one of the clones lean across the bar, whisper something to a girl who looks like she hasn't spoken in months. She laughs. The drink in front of her glows a soft pink.
Another clone politely dodges a thrown toothpick from two loud mercs arguing about bounties in space law.
One clone tosses a knife into the air behind the counter, catches it by the blade, and slices a lemon mid-spin.
All of them are moving like they've done this for centuries.
Kratos sips again.
"Is this open for everyone?"
The bartender glances out at the crowd. He doesn't even need to look long.
"If they find it, they're meant to be here."
"Even them?" Kratos gestures to a trio of dark-robed figures sharing a drink that smokes every time it touches the table.
"Especially them."
"And what happens when they fight?"
"They won't."
Kratos raises an eyebrow. That ancient scar across his eye catches the light.
"Because of the rules."
"Because of me," the bartender says, quiet. "The rules are just reminders."
One of the bounty hunters laughs too loud.The cyborg girl slaps his drink out of his hand. It spills, glowing green and sizzling on contact with the wood.
Everyone looks up for a beat.
The bartender — one of them — appears beside the mess instantly.
He smiles at them.
It's not kind.
It's not mean.
It just says, "I've seen your ending, and this isn't it."
The girl sits down again.
The hunter shuts up.
Just like that — peace.
Kratos shakes his head. Not annoyed. Just… surprised.
"You built this?"
"No," the bartender replies. "I just keep the doors open."
"But why?"
The bartender doesn't answer right away.
One of his clones leans in to refill a drink behind him. Another tosses a towel into the air, where it vanishes before hitting the ground.
Finally, the bartender says:
"People end in all kinds of ways.Loud. Quiet. Ugly. Alone.
Doesn't matter how the story stops — they still deserve a final drink.
A moment to breathe."
Kratos nods slowly.
"A place between."
"Yeah."
"And when they leave?"
"They don't always."
Kratos says nothing more. He just watches.
Watches the crowd grow.
Watches the bartender multiply, vanish, reappear.
Watches strangers laugh, sigh, cry, and drink in silence.
There's no war here.No throne.No fate pulling strings.
Just wood, warmth, and a man in a red shirt who's always three steps ahead.
For the first time in a long while, Kratos doesn't reach for a weapon.He reaches for the bottle.
And pours himself another.
After some while-
The door opens with no drama.
Just a creak.A tired squeak of wood and old hinges.
Joel Miller steps in like he's done it a hundred times, though this is the first.He doesn't pause to look around. Doesn't glance at the jukebox. Doesn't eye the strays sitting in the booths or the masked bounty hunter arm-wrestling a guy with chrome arms.
He just walks straight to the bar.
Boots worn. Jacket frayed at the shoulders. Flannel folded up to the elbows. Hair greying at the sides. Beard rough. Eyes?
Tired.
Not empty.
Just... tired in the way that never really goes away.
He nods at the bartender.
"Whiskey. No ice."
The bartender, still cleaning glasses with a patience that borders on art, gestures to the stool beside Kratos.
"That one's clean."
Joel grunts. Sits.Doesn't flinch when he sees Kratos sitting right there. Doesn't ask who he is.
He just says—
"You from the north?"
Kratos blinks once. That ancient calm in his stare.
"No."
"Didn't think so."
Joel doesn't need names anymore. The past five years taught him enough.He takes the glass in one hand and downs half in a single sip.
A beat of silence.
"So this place real?"
"As real as it needs to be," the bartender replies.
Joel nods like he expected that.He looks toward the door. Watches the smoke of the street outside. Sees a guy with horns arguing with a delivery drone.
"Five years.
I still don't get it."
The bartender doesn't say anything. He knows the shape of this kind of conversation.It always starts slow. Then it breaks.
Joel turns back to his drink.
"I was in Boston.Quarantine Zone.
Me and Tess were workin' a deal. You know, same shit, different day.Smugglin' ammo. Battery or somethin'.
And then—"
He pauses. Takes a breath. It's not shaky. It's heavy.
"Sky split in half.
Looked like... like a thousand cracks opening in a windshield.
Screams started. Then the light.People blinked out. Buildings shifted.
One second I'm standing in a blown-out factory in East Boston—next second, I'm in a field.
Somewhere in what I think was Finland.
In front of me, infected.
Behind me, people in... fuckin' spandex. Lasers. Capes."
Kratos tilts his head, listening.
Joel scoffs.
"You believe that shit?
Superheroes. Didn't think they were real.
Then one of 'em vaporized a bloater like it was a gnat.
And just kept walkin'."
He finishes the rest of the whiskey. Doesn't ask for another. Just holds the glass like it might tell him what to do next.
"The world got loud after that.Governments snapped like twigs.Militaries disbanded.
Whole countries just... turned off."
He taps the bar once, lightly.
"They tried. For a while. Tried keepin' the infected boxed up.
Didn't work.Then someone — maybe a whole council of somebodies — decided to shove 'em all into one place."
Kratos' eyes narrow slightly.
"South Russia."
Joel nods. Smiles dry.
"Yeah. You heard.
They dropped 'em in there like garbage.
Us... Them... whatever was left of our world.
Z-Virus was already cookin' in that region.Made everything worse.
But nobody cares now.
'Cause the world's too busy with aliens and time travel and fuckin' talking raccoons."
He sets the glass down.
"Not complainin'. Not really.Just... hard to keep up, y'know?"
Kratos finally speaks.
"It doesn't get easier."
Joel turns toward him now. Studies the face. The beard. The voice.
Still doesn't ask.
"Yeah.You look like someone who's seen worse."
"I have."
Joel shifts on the stool.
"You lose people?"
"A wife. A daughter. A brother."
Joel lets that sink in.
"Shit.You one-uppin' me?"
Kratos' lip twitches. Almost a smile.
"No."
"Good." Joel exhales. "'Cause I ain't tryin' to win."
He pauses again. Looks down at the counter.
"I had a daughter too.
She died when it started.
Not the multiverse stuff. The first outbreak.
Just a kid. Just... gone.
And for a long time after that, I didn't give a damn if I lived or died."
Kratos nods, slow.
"And now?"
Joel thinks about it.
"Now I don't know what the hell to feel.
Five years ago, I was surviving.
Now I'm in a bar with you, drinkin' whiskey poured by a man who apparently can clone himself and knows when people's stories are over."
He gestures toward the bartender.
"Who the hell even are you?"
The bartender, polishing another glass, replies without looking up.
"Just someone who keeps the lights on."
"You're damn good at it." Joel mutters.
Another pause.
"So what? This place a checkpoint? Some kinda... limbo?"
The bartender looks up now.
"No.This place is what happens when the world forgets how to end properly."
Joel raises an eyebrow.
"That meant to be profound?"
"Nah." The bartender smirks faintly. "Just honest."
Joel leans back on the stool. It creaks under his weight.
"You get a lot of people like me?"
"All the time."
"And people like him?" He gestures to Kratos.
"Rare. But yeah."
"Ever get people who deserve to be here?"
The bartender tilts his head.
"Everyone deserves a last round."
Joel thinks about that. Really thinks.
"...That what this place is called?"
The bartender doesn't answer.
Doesn't have to.
The faint lettering in the mirror behind the bar says it all.
Joel stares at it.
Then exhales, slow.
"I could get used to this place.
Least until the world decides what the hell it's doin' next."
Kratos nods once.
"It won't."
"Didn't think so."
The jukebox hums again. A new track starts. Something quiet and full of dust.
Outside, the street blinks with life and madness. But inside?
Inside, two men sit at a bar.
The kind who've survived things that don't fit on paper.
And for now, that's enough.