The bar was hidden so deep beneath the ruins of the city that even Darkseid's parademons rarely ventured there. Not because they couldn't find it, but because they had no interest.

The smell of cheap alcohol, dust, and old magic hung in the air like mold. The light was dim, yellowish, and the lamps flickered, as if they, too, were tired of life.

Konstantin sat at the bar, hunched over, wearing a rumpled cloak that had once been light. Now it was the color of ash. He held a bottle in his hand, far from his first.

"...I told you, Zi," — he muttered, staring into space, — "I shouldn't have believed everything could be fixed.."

He took a long sip.

"Magic always wins. Always."

The bartender—an elderly man with tired eyes—shot him a quick glance and sighed heavily.

"That's already the sixth, John."

"Huh?" — Konstantin didn't even turn his head.

"Save it for the seventh."

The bartender rolled his eyes. After Zatanna's death, Konstantin had become a walking disaster, drinking more than he breathed.

And just then, the bar door opened.

A chill blew through the room, like a reminder that the world still existed—and was dying.

Superman entered first. Not a symbol of hope. Not a god. Just a man, miraculously still alive.

His suit was tattered, faded in places. Kryptonite implants marked his chest, a green glow visible even through the fabric. His hair was long and tangled. His eyes were green, painfully dull. He walked slowly, as if each step was painful.

To his right was Raven.

The same dark robe, but her face... different. Dark circles under her eyes, pale skin, almost colorless lips. The magic within her was seething, but no longer quietly—it was worn out.

And to the left, a little ahead, was you.

You looked worse than both of them.

Your clothes were practical but worn, soaked with traces of blood—someone else's and your own. Your cloak hid your figure, but not your fatigue. Your hair was tied back carelessly, a few strands clinging to your face. Your eyes were dark, deep, and devoid of any naivety.

Your hands were covered in gloves. Long. Above the elbows. But even they couldn't completely hide the black marks that slowly snaked beneath the fabric.

Magic. White—exhausted. Black—consuming you from the inside.

The bar fell silent.

Konstantin didn't even turn around right away. You walked up to the counter and slowly placed your palm on the table right in front of his face.

The wood creaked.

"We need to talk, John."

He looked up, not looking up from the bottle.

"Another group of heroes with a plan?" — he chuckled.

"Get in line. They're all already dead."

He tried to wave them off.

You didn't let him.

The air shifted. With one sharp movement, you pinned Konstantin to the wall with magic, the bottle slipping from his hand and shattering on the floor.

"I'm tired of this war," — you said differently. Your voice was harsh, broken.

"And we will end it. No matter the cost."

Black patterns flared beneath your gloves, slowly creeping outward, toward your elbows.

Raven immediately placed a hand on your shoulder.

"Stop," — she said quietly, but urgently.

"You're giving her too much again."

You gave her a quick, irritated glance, frowned.. And yet, you let go.

Konstantin slid down the wall, straightened up, silently picked up a new bottle, drained it, and tossed it aside. It flew past the bartender—he hissed, but was ignored.

"Well?" — Konstantin said, wiping his mouth.

"Is there anything truly worth my time?"

Clark took a step forward.

"This isn't the place."

Konstantin shrugged, nodded toward the wall.. And walked through it.

"So, what are you standing there for?" — came a voice from there.

"Follow me."

You went upstairs.

The room was enchanted. Huge windows with magical patterns, dusty books, candles, artifacts. A table with a globe, maps, and talismans. Everything was just like in the movie. The last mage's refuge.

Konstantin sat down on the sofa and grabbed another bottle.

"I'm listening."