Everything faded.
Pain. Voices. The weight of the world.
And then—
Blackness.
Not the kind that sleeps, but the kind that stays.
…
Soft strings played in the distance. Violin and piano—melancholy and reverent.
A sweeping reveal brings into view a cemetery estate nestled in the hills just outside the city. Acres of manicured greenery and ancient trees surrounded rows of dignified graves, all silent, all still.
Except for one.
Thousands had gathered today.
Men—young and old, draped in tailored suits, subtle makeup, and satin gloves. And drag queens—tall, resplendent, shimmering with tears and sequins—had come in droves, heels sinking into soft grass. Their hair was coiffed like starlets of old, veils trembling in the breeze. Even in mourning, they were radiant, like flowers blooming defiantly at the edge of a storm.
They came because they knew what he had been.
A star without a stage.
A dream with skin and a mouth that could make gods fall.
They came for Lollipop.
The mausoleum was white marble, domed and elegant, its architecture custom-built in just under a week—paid in full by anonymous transfer. It was fronted by double doors of black glass etched with roses and curling script. Above them, carved in gold: Forever Sweet.
The casket had long since been sealed and placed inside, nestled in a chamber beneath the floor where only chosen visitors could ever descend. But the open ceremony still stretched on. More than just a funeral, it had become a spectacle—a final tribute to a man who had never once lived quietly.
A massive portrait framed the ceremony—Lollipop in pink satin, eyes dark as night rimmed with red, lips parted in a teasing smile, fingers playfully touching his cheek. The picture was a weapon and a benediction, a declaration of what he had been. Of what he had owned.
The line to pay respects wrapped down the path, out of the cemetery gates, and along the roadside. People wept. People left gifts—makeup, lollipops, perfume bottles, poems, handwritten letters.
But not one person spoke his real name.
Because that, too, had died with him.
…
Not far from the grave, tucked inside a sleek black luxury car with tinted windows, Mark Williams sat alone in the back seat.
He wore a finely tailored suit in matte black, his platinum cufflinks carved into roses, just like the ones lining the mausoleum. His tie was perfectly knotted, shoes shined, hands resting on his lap—still and trembling all at once.
The radio was on.
Soft murmurs of a live news report filtered into the quiet space.
"...has now officially been sentenced to death for the violent and senseless murder of a young man in the heart of the city last week. Adam Goobins, a former accountant, was arrested at the scene. The court found him guilty on all counts, including first-degree murder with premeditation..."
Mark raised his hand slowly, voice gravel-soft.
"Turn it up."
The driver, silent and professional, adjusted the dial.
"...the victim's name has been withheld from the media due to a privacy request submitted by a legal representative of an anonymous third party..."
Mark exhaled, slow and heavy. He closed his eyes.
Anonymous third party. That was what they called him now.
It had taken every ounce of money, legal pressure, and under-the-table power to keep Lollipop's name out of the headlines. He didn't want him picked apart in public. Didn't want any politician sneering about the life he lived. Didn't want the world judging his choices.
Lollipop had lived loud. Mark would protect what little privacy he had left in death.
Outside, the ceremony continued. But Mark didn't move. He watched through the tinted glass as the sea of mourners pressed in around the grave. Some collapsed in grief. Others prayed. A drag queen in white gloves sang a hymn that cracked in her throat halfway through. The sky, still gray, seemed to listen.
Hours passed.
The sun began to dip, casting a golden edge along the skyline. One by one, the mourners trickled away, swallowed by limousines, taxis, and silent walks down stone paths.
By twilight, only the wind remained.
Mark finally stepped out of the car.
The air was cold now, perfumed with crushed grass and wet stone. He walked slowly, each step deliberate, each breath an effort. In his hands was a bouquet—dozens of crimson French roses, each petal trimmed with dew, flown in fresh that morning. Lollipop's favorite.
He reached the front of the mausoleum. The air around it was sacred.
He knelt.
No one else had seen him today. That had been the point.
This was his moment.
"I brought you your favorites…"
He said softly.
"Only the best."
He set the bouquet down against the doors and ran a gloved hand along the glass, fingertips trailing over the etched roses.
"I wanted to come earlier. But you know how I am. You always knew."
His voice broke a little.
"They didn't even know your real name. But they still showed up. Every last one of them. Thousands. You would've loved it."
Silence.
The cemetery was still.
The mausoleum stood silent under the glow of the moon, its golden etchings shimmering faintly like starlight trapped in stone. The scent of fresh roses clung to the night air, mixing with the perfume of wet grass and distant incense from lingering offerings. A hush fell over the space—almost sacred.
Mark's shoulders tensed slightly.
A sound.
A footstep.
His head turned.
Polished Italian leather met cobblestone with the precision of power. From behind the veil of twilight and ivy-wrapped trees emerged a man tall and sculpted, with hair like ash-blond silk brushed back to reveal an elegant, aristocratic face. His gray eyes gleamed beneath his tailored coat, high collar lined with velvet and cashmere. Everything about him spoke of curated luxury—refinement passed down through dynasties.
Devon Andrews.
CEO of Andrews International. Old money, older power. A man whose influence whispered through politics, fashion, real estate, and vice alike. But in this moment, his gaze held no boardroom coldness. Only loss.
He slowed as he reached the mausoleum.
And paused.
Another figure emerged from behind the marble mausoleum, facing them with grim solemnity. Slightly taller, broader at the shoulders, with sharp cheekbones and dark curls still damp from rain. He wore a minimalist charcoal suit, perfectly cut, no tie. His presence radiated control—but also heat, like a fire banked just beneath the surface.
Nathan Fillion.
Tech mogul turned global sensation. The Fillion Group touched everything—energy, AI, aerospace, even entertainment. Tabloids called him the youngest kingmaker of the digital age. But his eyes, now fixed on the engraved doors, were rimmed in red. The bouquet at his side, wild violets wrapped in black silk, trembled faintly in his grip.
Devon's voice was smooth as aged scotch.
"I expected to be alone."
Nathan's response was quieter. Still, it cut just as deep.
"So did I."
From the shadows nearby, Mark Williams lingered beside the roses he'd laid moments before. He said nothing—just watched.
Devon studied Nathan with the detached disapproval of old money sizing up a self-made upstart.
"You're Nathan Fillion, aren't you?"
He asked, voice laced with cool amusement.
"The man who tried to buy the Louvre... just to turn it into a private game lounge."
Nathan's jaw flexed.
"And you're Devon Andrews. The fossil who thinks silk sheets make him better in bed."
Devon's smile didn't falter.
"I was Lollipop's first."
Nathan stepped forward.
"And I was his favorite."
Lightning didn't crack—but it may as well have. The temperature dropped.
Mark blinked. He hadn't moved. Not since they both arrived.
Devon tucked his gloves into his coat, walking slowly up to the black marble.
"He was seventeen when I met him. Had just changed his name. Still green. But God, that mouth…"
Devon's eyes softened, haunted.
"He looked at me like I was a god. And I treated him like one. Bought him his first apartment. His first pair of heels. Called him Lollipop before anyone else did."
Nathan scoffed under his breath.
"I met him at twenty-three. I was fresh off the cover of Forbes. I'd booked a private show through a mutual contact. When he walked in wearing those thigh-high stockings and that damn pink corset—" Nathan swallowed thickly.
"I thought I was dreaming. That wasn't a man. That was temptation made flesh."
Devon turned, sharp now.
"But he didn't love you."
"And he didn't love you either."
They stared each other down—two titans circling the same star.
Nathan gestured toward the mausoleum.
"I gave him the penthouse in New York. The diamond leash he wore at the Met Gala that year? That was mine. He kept it. Even after he stopped answering my calls."
Devon's voice dropped lower.
"You bought him glitter. I gave him identity. Before me, he was nameless. Hollow. I taught him how to walk in power."
"He taught himself!"
Nathan snapped.
"You just happened to be there first."
They were standing inches apart now, both hands clenched, breathing just shy of a snarl.
Mark finally stepped closer, gaze still distant.
"You both think this is about you."
Neither man looked at him.
Nathan raised his chin.
"I was the one who made him scream for hours. Four rounds, back to back, no breaks. He called me a god by the end."
Devon didn't flinch.
"He came five times with me—once without me even touching him. He said he'd never felt anything like it."
Mark looked away.
"I held him as he died."
Silence.
Nathan's lip curled.
"Fuck you."
Devon stared at the mausoleum doors.
The air was heavy with the weight of grief and testosterone.
Then Devon exhaled and stepped back.
"Tell me something…"
He said, voice quieter.
"Did he ever make you coffee in the morning? Dance in the kitchen wearing nothing but his socks?"
Nathan blinked.
Devon went on, wistful now.
"Did he ever curl against your chest after and whisper nonsense in his sleep?"
Nathan's silence was answer enough.
He set the bouquet down beside the roses Mark had brought.
"I once watched him sing along to a stupid cartoon theme song while brushing his teeth…"
Nathan said softly.
"He didn't know I was watching. He was off-key. And perfect."
Mark remained silent, gaze fixed on the sky.
Devon knelt.
"I thought I'd be the only one here tonight…"
He said.
"Turns out, we all thought that."
The three of them stood in a strange triangle now—wealthy, powerful men who had once been allowed into the orbit of something too bright to last.
"I didn't just love him..."
Devon murmured.
"He made me feel alive."
Nathan nodded slowly.
"He made me feel wanted. For me. Not for my money. Not for my name."
Mark finally looked up at the mausoleum.
"He made me human."
No more jabs.
No more bravado.
Just silence, and breath, and memory.
They stood there a while longer—three shadows in the moonlight—until the wind finally stirred and carried the scent of roses deeper into the night.
Then came the sound of footsteps again.
They were soft. Confident. Not hurried. Each tap of rubber sole on stone was deliberate, almost graceful, cutting through the hush like a whisper through silk.
The three men turned toward the source.
Out from the treeline walked a small figure, no more than 5'8", clad in a loose wool coat, gloves, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadowed most of his face. A black mask covered the lower half. Dyed silver hair curled slightly out from under the brim. In his gloved hands, he carried a large, matte-black box—roughly the size of a toolbox, sleek and clean, like it belonged in a designer boutique.
The stranger made his way toward the mausoleum without flinching or faltering, his back straight, his pace unbothered by the three men now watching him with growing suspicion.
Devon's brow furrowed.
Mark took an instinctive step closer to the mausoleum.
Only Nathan moved to block the stranger's path, eyes narrowing.
"Who the hell are you?"
He demanded.
"This isn't open to the public."
The masked man gave him a side glance—unbothered, unmoved—and without answering, stepped around him with quiet grace, approaching the marble doors. He placed the box gently at the foot of the mausoleum and knelt.
"What is he doing?"
Mark murmured.
Nathan's hands curled into fists.
The man undid the latches on the box and slowly opened the lid.
Devon's nose wrinkled as he took a cautious step forward, then paused.
Inside the box was a glimmering collection of adult toys.
Dozens.
Some lined with pink leather, others shaped in obscene, exotic curves. A few glittered like jewels, while others were utilitarian, black, stainless steel, polished silicone. Dildos, plugs, handcuffs, clamps, beads—arranged lovingly on a layer of crushed velvet, as if each one were a sacred offering.
The air froze.
"You sick fuck—"
Nathan growled, stepping forward.
Mark reached for his phone.
Devon's voice darkened.
"Get away from him. Now."
But before any of them could lunge, a fourth figure emerged from the path behind them. A man in a tailored navy suit, holding a leather portfolio under one arm and a small tablet under the other. He walked briskly toward them and raised a hand.
"Gentlemen—please. Do not interfere. Mr. Kyle Borr is here under legal authority as next of kin."
They all turned as one.
The man flipped open the portfolio.
"I'm Martin Leung, I'm the estate attorney of the deceased. Per the instructions in the final will and testament of the individual known publicly as Lollipop, Mr. Borr is executing a posthumous clause: 'Place my favorite toys by my tomb so I have fun in the afterlife as well.'"
"Next of—"
Devon cut off.
"Next of kin?"
Nathan repeated, incredulous.
"Since when did he have—?"
Mark's eyes narrowed.
"Lollipop had no family left."
Kyle, still kneeling, gently placed each toy at the base of the mausoleum. The work was methodical, almost reverent. His fingers brushed over a pair of plush leather cuffs with visible fondness before he placed them beside a polished rose-gold plug with a pink gemstone base.
Then he stood, finally facing the three men.
His silver hair framed the curve of his jaw beneath the mask. His eyes, deep and sharp as black glass, glinted with quiet judgment.
Devon bristled.
"This is your idea of honoring him?"
Nathan stepped forward again.
"You're disgusting."
Kyle tilted his head slightly.
He looked at each with the weight of someone who had nothing to prove, only something to protect.
"I heard everything…"
He said flatly, voice calm but laced with steel.
"Your dick-measuring contest. Your little grief-fueled flex about how many times he moaned your name. You really think that is what he was about?"
Mark bristled. Devon straightened. Nathan's nostrils flared.
Kyle reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone, tapped it, and held it up so the sound could be heard clearly. A short recording began to play, clear and unmistakably intimate.
Lollipop's voice filled the silence.
"Come closer. God, you're so warm. I swear, I could stay like this forever. Kyle… I love you. You know that, right? I really, really love you."
There was the sound of shifting blankets. A laugh. Then Kyle's voice.
"Love you too, dummy. Now stop hogging the popcorn or I'm kicking you off this bed."
The recording stopped.
No one moved.
Kyle slipped the phone back into his coat. His voice, when he finally spoke, was quiet—but razor-sharp.
"What you three were saying..."
Nathan's mouth opened, but Kyle cut him off with a hand.
"I'm here to tell you all: Lollipop didn't love you. Not the way you think."
Mark's brow furrowed, eyes flicking toward the mausoleum.
Devon scoffed.
"You think that makes you special? You think one little recording—?"
"I'm his—was his best friend…"
Kyle said flatly.
"The only real one he ever had. We grew up together. Same school. Same block. I was there when his parents died. I gave him a couch to sleep on when the world spat him out. I fed him when he didn't eat. I bandaged his bruises when his clients got rough. And when he chose this life, I was the one who let him go—without judgment."
The air turned colder.
Kyle continued.
"You think you saw him because you fucked him a few times? You think those smiles and gasps and 'I love you's were real?"
His voice turned almost pitying.
"He said that to everyone. He performed it. Perfectly. You paid to see the dream."
His eyes lingered on each man in turn.
"But I saw him when the makeup was gone. When the heels were off. When he had panic attacks at 3 a.m. and curled into a ball because he missed his father so much it made him physically sick. You didn't see the real Lollipop. I did."
Nathan looked away first.
Devon's jaw was tight, but he said nothing.
Mark closed his eyes.
Kyle turned back toward the toys.
"These were his favorites. He used to call them his 'trophies.' Not from clients. But from memories. He wanted them with him. Not hidden in shame. But celebrated."
He knelt once more and gently tucked the last toy—a pair of rose-pink clamps—beside the box.
Then he stood, dusted off his hands, and looked skyward.
"I didn't come here to fight you…"
He said, voice softer now.
"I came to say goodbye. To the closest thing I ever had to a brother."
He turned without another word and walked off down the path.
No one followed.
The three powerful men remained, each suddenly small in the face of that kind of love—the kind that asked for nothing in return. The kind that didn't need to prove itself through diamonds or dominance or declarations.
Only Kyle had known the truth.
Only Kyle had truly seen him.
And now, as the night swallowed the path ahead, the soft tap of his shoes fading into the breeze, Lollipop's final secret lay quietly at rest, cradled in marble and roses, surrounded not by men who conquered him—
—but by the ones who loved him.