He wiped them slowly, taking three minutes over a single glass, as if waiting for something.
At three in the afternoon, the first customer pushed open the door. He was an old man with completely white hair, leaning on a cane. He sat before the bar and looked at Old John. "Got any whiskey?"
Old John took down a bottle from the shelf. "Yeah, but it's pretty expensive."
The old man pulled out several crumpled bills. "Is this enough?"
Old John looked at them without saying anything, then turned and poured him a glass.
The old man took a sip and coughed twice. "It's been a long time. The last time I drank was before the angels fell."
Old John said nothing and continued wiping glasses.
The second customer arrived—a middle-aged woman in work clothes, her hands covered in calluses. She ordered a beer and sat alone in a corner, quietly drinking.
The third, the fourth, the fifth... In less than an hour, the tavern was full. Some drank, some chatted, and some simply sat there.
There was only one topic—the war in Heaven.
"Did you hear? That Metatron blew himself up," a bald man said.
"Blew himself up? Wasn't he killed by the president?" someone beside him asked in surprise.
"He blew himself up because he was afraid of being captured." The bald man lowered his voice. "I heard it from a demon hunter. He was on the battlefield and saw it with his own eyes."
The tavern fell quiet for a few seconds before the low murmur of discussion started again.
Old John finished wiping the last glass and placed it on the shelf. He looked at the people drinking for a while.
"Peaceful days have to be held in our own hands." A faint smile appeared at