There's a sound you don't really notice until everything else stops.
Not thunder.
Not screaming.
Not the end of the world.
It's the sound of a stool dragging against old wood.
Slow. Familiar. Like someone settling into a place they never left.
The bar is quiet.
Not because it's late, but because it exists outside of all that.
Time doesn't tick here.
It just... watches.
Behind the counter, a man hums a tune with no name.
Not loud. Just enough to feel like something's alive in here.
He's cleaning a glass that doesn't need cleaning. Elbow on the counter, wrist lazy, eyes somewhere far off. The kind of stare you only see in people who've watched too many things end.
He looks... normal.
Old black shirt, sleeves rolled up. Vest that's probably been out of style since fashion was invented. Tired pants, clean shoes. There's a long coat draped over a barstool like it's been there forever.
No name tag.No introduction.No smile.
Just the Bartender.
He leans back, stretches his neck till it cracks, then finally speaks.
His voice isn't deep or dramatic. Just steady. Like a story that never ends.
"It didn't blow up, y'know. The world, I mean.Didn't get nuked. Didn't get snapped.
It just... got bigger. Too big."
He wipes the glass one last time, then sets it down. Reaches for the half-lit sign above the counter.
"You remember that phase? The one where everything needed a multiverse?
'What if Superman was evil.'
'What if Batman was a dinosaur.'
'What if Deadpool remembered you were watching him.'
You kept asking what if. So the universe answered.
Everything became true. All at once."
A soft click echoes as he turns the sign on.It doesn't say "OPEN".
It just flickers between NOW SERVING and DRINKS FIRST, QUESTIONS LATER.
The bartender pours himself something dark and sets the bottle aside.
The whistle returns for a moment, then dies as he continues.
"Multiverses—every single one of them—collapsed inwards like dominoes in a vacuum.Collided, merged, shattered.
You name it, it showed up. Gods, monsters, timelines that shouldn't have survived the first rewrite.
One Earth, now. Just one. That's all that's left.
And it's a mess."
"There used to be rules.
One Earth per branch.
One reality per line.
Then someone—don't know who, don't care—ripped the thread.
Pulled too hard. Now we've got gods in alleys and zombies in Moscow.
Gotham's got a Starbucks. Metropolis is underwater.
Wakanda? Fused with Latveria.
Doom didn't even argue."
He takes a sip. Winces. Not because it's bad. Just because he remembers the last time it was worse.
"Five years since the Collapse. That's what we call it now. Real catchy, right?
One Earth. One final setting.Everything that was left got dragged in—stories, timelines, side characters, background noise.Even the crap nobody cared about."
A beat of silence.
He stares at the counter. Runs his fingers along a small carving near the edge. A name scratched out long ago.
"They say superheroes keep the world in check.
Funny, considering South Russia's still sealed off because of the Z-Virus, and no cape wants to go near it.
Not even the flying ones.
You know why?
Because superheroes are more dangerous than the undead.
And you thought 2020 was bad."
He points behind him with his thumb.
A wooden sign hangs over a shelf of bottles. Old, cracked, nailed in sideways.
The Last Round — House Rules
1. No fighting. Ever.
2. No rewriting your past.
3. First drink's on me.
4. The bartender decides when your story's over.
"People come in here thinking they're safe.
Truth is, they're just... paused.
See, this place floats between everything that's been thrown away.Ended timelines. Scrapped stories. Canceled sequels.
When your arc's done, you come here.
Like clockwork."
He pours a second drink. No one's around, but he does it anyway. Places it carefully on the counter like it's meant for someone specific.
Then he pauses.
Looks right at [You].
"I know what you're thinking.'This some kind of crossover fanfic thing? Some lazy bar setting for dead franchises?'
Nah.
This is what's left when you stop caring. When you binge and forget.
When you write gods into being and then never check back to see what happened to 'em."
A soft click.
The jukebox in the corner kicks to life.
It doesn't spin discs. Doesn't take coins.
It just plays whatever someone in another universe once loved.
Tonight it hums something slow.
Something sad.
A lullaby for timelines.
"You ever meet someone who's still alive but doesn't have a story anymore?
That's most of the people who walk in here."
The bartender reaches beneath the counter and pulls out a weathered book. No title. Just pages and pages of crossed-out names. Some in ink. Some in blood. Some... fading as he looks at them.
He closes it.
Lets it rest next to the drinks.
"But they keep coming.Doesn't matter if it's a cowboy, a demon, or a space marine.They all end up here.
And I always have a seat ready."
A beat.
Then—
DING.
The bell above the door rings.
The bartender doesn't flinch. Doesn't look up.
He slides the second drink forward. It stops just before the edge, perfect placement.
"There it is."
Bootsteps. Heavy ones. Dust trails behind them. Whoever just walked in doesn't speak.
The bartender finally raises his eyes.
No surprise. Just recognition. Like he's seen this scene a hundred times.
"Rough night?"
He nods at the drink.
"First round's on me. Don't say I never did you a favor."
The jukebox hums louder.
Outside the bar, the void swirls. Stories spin like torn pages, caught in a wind that doesn't blow.
Inside, the lights stay warm. The drinks stay cold. The stories keep walking in.
And the bartender?He just waits.
Because the door never locks.And the next one's already on their way.