Guts sat back down.
Didn't say a word.
Didn't look at the people he just destroyed.Didn't ask for applause.Didn't even finish his drink in a rush.
He just... sat.
The smell of smoke still lingered. Tables were shattered. One of the ceiling lamps sparked like it wasn't sure if it wanted to hang on or fall already.
Deadpool leaned back against the counter, hands behind his head.
"Okay. So. Guts, right? You do weddings?"
Guts didn't respond.
Joel slowly looked around.
Chairs overturned. Booths split in half. Blood. Burn marks. A dude twitching against the jukebox.
He turned to the bartender.
"You… uh. You gonna fix all this?"
The bartender didn't even look up.
He flicked his fingers.
Snap.
Just one, smooth motion.
And then—Like time hiccupped.
The broken chairs straightened.
Glass shards rolled backward, reassembling into full bottles.
Splinters slithered back into legs of tables.
The cracked wall sealed itself, good as new.
Even the jukebox blinked, sighed like it had just woken from a nap, and switched songs without skipping.
Not a sound beyond the soft reset hum of the bar's heart beating again.
Joel blinked.
Deadpool pointed.
"Oh yeah. Should've warned you, cowboy. He's got admin rights."
The bartender finally looked up, deadpan.
"You break it, I fix it. That's the trade."
Joel shook his head.
"Don't even charge for damages?"
The bartender smirked.
"I gave up charging after I had to bill Godzilla and King Ghidorah for 'ambient seismic trauma.'"
"...Fair."
Kratos remained where he was, arms crossed.
Watching Guts.
Guts slowly rotated his shoulder once, the massive sword across his back settling with a quiet clunk.
Joel looked at the giant man beside him again.
"You always that fast?"
Guts finally replied, voice gravel-thick.
"Only when they're that stupid."
Joel chuckled and lifted his drink.
"Ain't gonna argue with that."
Deadpool grabbed a glass and raised it too.
"To bar fights and broken timelines!"
The bartender raised nothing.
But his clone slid another round toward them all.
The bar had been wrecked.
Then it wasn't.
And just like that, The Last Round went back to what it always was:
A weird, quiet space where reality gave up — but the drinks never stopped.
Few moments later-
The neon buzz outside had faded. Streetlights hummed like lullabies for the half-dead city.
Inside, the bar was calm again.
No smoke. No blood. Just quiet conversations fading out… like the end of a long dream.
Guts stood up from the counter.
No words.
No goodbyes.
He slid his glass forward, nodded once to the bartender — the kind of nod that meant thanks, but don't expect a smile — and walked out the front door.
His cloak followed behind, trailing dust and silence.
Deadpool was next.
He was mid-rant about something involving tacos, space-cops, and the difference between vampires and tax attorneys when his phone buzzed.
He looked down.
"...Ah. Speak of the devil."
He tapped it.
"Blind Al! My beautiful, half-blind jail warden!"
"You left the stove on, didn't you?" came the raspy voice through the line.
"Define 'on.'"
"Wade."
"Gotta go, fellas!" Wade said cheerfully, sliding backward off his stool."If anyone asks, I was never here. Especially if it's the fire department."
He vanished through the door with a skip and a final wave.
Joel stretched, finishing the last drop of his drink.
The clock above the bar ticked past 2:07 AM.
He stood up, rubbing his back.
"Appreciate the whiskey. And the fact I didn't get vaporized."
The bartender gave a casual wave.
"Come by anytime. Night's always waiting."
Joel nodded to Kratos.
"You take care, big guy."
"Likewise."
"And hey," Joel added with a grin, "next time, bring the kid. Maybe he and Ellie can swap survival stories."
Kratos just gave a slow, approving nod.
Joel tipped his hat and walked out into the night.
Now only Kratos remained.
He hadn't touched his last drink.
He just stared into it like it held more answers than any god ever did.
The bartender finally spoke.
"You still in that apartment? The one with the faulty heater?"
Kratos glanced up, surprised the man knew.
"Yes. Atreus prefers the city air."
The bartender smirked.
"City air's full of smog, sirens, and overpriced takeout. Must be nice."
"It is… peace."
Kratos stood.
The stool creaked under his weight as he stepped back, gaze calm now — not hardened like before.
"Thank you."
The bartender just nodded.
No thanks needed here.
Kratos walked out into the night, the wind catching the edge of his coat. For a moment, the door stayed open.
Then:
DING.
Closed.
The bartender exhaled.
Turned off the last of the lights.
All that remained was the glow of the old jukebox, still whispering out slow jazz.
He leaned against the counter, staring at the door.
"Bar's closed," he said to no one.
"But the story's just getting good."