The BFG clicked empty. Smoke curled from its barrel. Hell’s last gate lay shattered, the void behind it yawning silent, cold.

Doom Slayer stood still.

For the first time in years, there was no roar of demons. No cries. No fire. Just ash in the air and the slow hiss of cooling metal.

He stared down at the ruined earth, at the remnants of Mars strewn with bones that would never be buried. His armor—dented, scorched, cracked—hung heavy. His breath rasped quiet beneath the helmet. It was over.

He had won.

But there was no one left to tell him that.

The Slayer turned slowly, surveying the scorched horizon. He remembered Vega’s final transmission—fading, flickering—“You were never just a weapon.” He remembered Hayden’s betrayal. The UAC's endless greed. The way they had opened the gates for profit. The way Earth had screamed. The way humanity had burned.

He clenched his fists.

He wasn’t made for peace. He was forged in rage, tempered in endless war. But now… there was only silence.

His hand hovered near the holster of the Super Shotgun.

Not to fire.

Just to feel something.

The Slayer dropped to one knee beside the remains of a child's toy—half-melted, untouched by Hell’s tide. A stuffed rabbit. Eyes scorched black. He stared.

For a long time, he didn’t move.

He remembered Daisy.

And for a moment—just a heartbeat—he closed his eyes.

No growl. No scream. No vengeance.

Just a man.

Alone.