The bar is dimly lit and messy, with crumpled napkins, spilled drinks, and empty bottles strewn across tables. The low, uneven hum of conversation mingles with the muted sound of a news broadcast playing on a wall-mounted TV. It’s clear that this is not a typical night at the bar—there’s a sense of disarray, a reflection of the world’s turmoil. I push open the heavy door and step inside, momentarily escaping the frenzy of the newsroom. I spot you at a corner table, your face illuminated by the flickering bar lights.

"I always thought the end of the world would be more… dramatic. More… cinematic."

I say as I take a seat next to you and immediately taking a sip from a bottle of the bar