Kingdom Of Men - 1. "King's Pawn"

Bishop gripped the steering wheel tightly, his calloused fingers tracing the worn leather surface as he drove along the winding country road. His tall, muscular frame shifted with a subtle tension, and his chestnut eyes, deep, warm, narrowed as he took in the vibrant blur of autumn leaves dancing around him.

Thick, dark brown hair framed his face, cropped close but exuding strength, while a well-groomed beard accentuated his strong jawline. Usually, his lips spoke of a gentle smile, radiating kindness effortlessly. But today, that smile was absent. Instead, a pale, haunting sorrow veiled his spirit.

A deep breath escaped his lips as he drove, and his gaze flickered to the phone resting in the cup holder. With a deliberate tap, he opened a folder labeled "King." His thumb paused momentarily, a mix of anticipation and hesitation swirling within him before he punched the first recording.

Suddenly, the familiar voice filled his earbuds, smooth and vibrant, as if King were beside him, pulling Bishop back into precious memories of raucous laughter, late-night conversations that stretched into dawn, and those quiet, stolen moments that solidified their bond.

But then came the gut-wrenching reminder: King was gone. Dead. A void had consumed Bishop's world, leaving only these precious audio fragments behind. They were more than just recordings. They were Bishop's inheritance, echoes of a lost life, memories transformed into haunting melodies.

"Hey, man. I guess if you're listening to this, well...It means I'm gone, huh?" King's voice cracked with a laugh. "Hell, I was never good with timing."

Bishop gripped the steering wheel tightly, his heart racing. Vivid images danced behind his eyelids, those long drives with King, filled with reckless abandon. He could still see King's infectious smile, the way he would throw his head back as if the universe itself were a grand joke only he could appreciate.

A wave of emotion surged through Bishop, threatening to spill over. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, relentless and insistent, as if trying to break free from a deep, hidden well within him. He fought hard to keep them at bay, his jaw clenched tight against the rising surge. With a shaky breath, he finally paused the recording, the weight settling heavily on his chest.

A sharp ring sliced through the heavy silence, yanking him back. It was Emily, his wife. Bishop took a deep breath, glancing at the screen before answering.

"Hey," he said, his voice low and edged with weariness.

On the other end, Emily's tone was cold and almost clinical, though careful politeness was underlying her words. "Hey. Just...thought I'd check in on you?"

The formality of her statement hit him harder than he anticipated. Once, her words had wrapped around him like a warm embrace, infused with an intimacy that needed no curtain between them. Now, her voice felt like a carefully constructed wall, each syllable reinforced with distance.

"I'm… yeah, I'm fine," he replied, sighing heavily. "The funeral's tomorrow, I think...so I'm heading there now."

A palpable silence hung between them, each waiting as if hesitant to disturb the fragile air. Finally, Emily's voice broke through, softer this time, as if she were trying to span the chasm that had opened between them. "Will… will the boys be there?"

Bishop managed a weak smile, though she couldn't see it. "Yeah. They'll be there. I haven't seen them in a while. King...he was the one that..."

The silence deepened, shifting from polite to uncomfortable. Emily's voice, colder this time, cut through. "I'm... I'm glad I didn't come. It's better this way."

"Emily," Bishop said, a note of exasperation edging into his voice, "please, don't start. Not today."

But she was already somewhere else, her mind locked in an unspoken tension that had grown roots between them over the years. Suddenly, a child's voice broke into the line. Patricia, Bishop's daughter's voice felt like a reprieve. "Daddy?" she called in her small, lilting voice, filled with curiosity and concern.

Bishop's face softened, his eyes filling with a warmth reserved only for her. "Hey, baby girl. How's my princess?"

"Mommy said you're sad," Patricia said, the innocent worry in her tone almost too much for Bishop to bear. "I don't want you to be sad, Daddy. I'm gonna kiss you until you're all better, okay?"

The tightness in his chest returned, but this time, it was different, softer, gentler, a sweet ache rather than a deep, suffocating pain. "That sounds perfect, baby girl," he whispered. "I'll see you soon, okay? I love you."

"I love you, Daddy," she replied, the small voice of his daughter filling every crack and hollow inside him. He ended the call, gripping the phone tightly before placing it back on the console. And then, as if some unseen hand had pressed down on his shoulders, Bishop leaned forward, collapsing against the steering wheel, finally letting the tears flow in heavy, silent waves. His shoulders heaved with each shuddering breath as he allowed himself to crumble.

Minutes passed, time becoming as blurred as his vision, and slowly, he forced himself to rise, wiping his eyes as he resumed the recording.

"I'm sorry, Bishop," King's voice whispered in his ear. "I won't be around to wreak havoc anymore. But hey...you tried. Kept me grounded as long as you could. I could've stayed longer... but I wasn't built like you. I wasn't strong enough."

Haunting and regretful thoughts echoed in Bishop's mind as he navigated the bending road. The rural desolation soon led to a small town where King had lived, a picturesque community cradled by rolling hills and trees cloaked in golden leaves. With each mile, familiar sights emerged, once vibrant with meaning but now imbued with a ghostly significance.

There was the diner on the corner, its chipped paint and flickering neon sign. Here, Bishop and King had shared countless breakfasts, laughter woven into each bite. And just down the street, the tiny bookstore stood, its weathered bricks and large front windows revealing a few faded paperbacks, remnants of the afternoons King had spent lost in tales he never quite finished.

Driving through, Bishop passed neat rows of tiny, closely spaced houses, each with tidy lawns and mailboxes painted in warm, cheerful colors. There was something achingly perfect about this place, a quietness that had always suited King's restless spirit. Now, that quietness felt like a shadow of King himself, an imprint on every house, every corner, every brick Bishop could see.

Finally, he pulled up to a small, cozy-looking cottage with a porch. King's home. Bishop paused, glancing at the windows where light once glowed with the lively spirit of a man who had filled every inch of that space with himself. Now, they stood dark and still, an empty shell.

Inhaling deeply, Bishop clenched his jaw, feeling King's heavy absence seep into his bones. As he parked the car, he took a moment to brace himself, fingers hovering over his phone. The recording of King paused mid-sentence as if the man himself was holding his breath, waiting for Bishop to press play.

But he couldn't. Not now.

With a final, shaky exhale, Bishop let instinct take over. He swung open the car door, the metallic clang echoing as he stepped into the unfamiliar world awaiting him.

Entering the house, he surveyed the crowd, a sea of faces blurred by mingled grief and nostalgia. Shallow conversation draped over the room like a gossamer veil, punctuated by the occasional clink of glass or soft laughter that seemed out of place. These people, shadows of a life he never knew, moved with a grace that felt foreign against the vibrant spirit of the man he remembered. Here, in this house that held fragments of King's life, the air weighed heavy with an elegiac aura, so many outsiders orbiting a man they called "Omar."

As soon as he stepped inside, it struck Bishop that King's life had splintered in ways he'd never imagined. He scanned the room, taking in the dark wood furniture, the plush, deep-seated armchairs, and the thick burgundy carpet, all exuding a sense of calm and taste he could never have associated with his friend. Along the walls were photographs framed in bronze and silver, depicting Omar posed beside a cast of characters Bishop could scarcely recognize. Here he was, King in a suit and tie, shaking hands with a grinning older man in front of some unidentified building. In another, he was holding a young child in his arms, his smile restrained, always mindful of the scrutiny of the lens.

Bishop's chest constricted a sudden tightness that made his heart pound in his ears. He was confronted with vivid snapshots of a life he had never shared, lived apart from their friendship. It felt like they were two threads in a grand tapestry, weaving in and out of each other's stories but never truly crossing paths. At that moment, Bishop felt like an unwelcome guest, a nosy tourist wandering through the landscape of his best friend's existence.

"Bishop, right?" a voice interrupted, soft but steady.

He turned, and a woman stood before him, her slender frame adorned in black with simple pearl earrings and no other adornments. Her face was drawn with the kind of grief that seemed so familiar it had become part of her skin, and her dark eyes met his with a mixture of gratitude and formality.

"Yes," Bishop replied, his voice sounding distant to his own ears. "And you must be…"

"Mara," she replied quietly. "Omar's wife. Thank you for coming."

Her posture held a delicate rigidity as if they sensed the daunting chasm of intimacy between King, Omar, and themselves, an insurmountable distance filled with shadows of what might have been.

"Thank you for having me," Bishop said, his words feeling hollow. There was a slight pause, and then Mara nodded, her mouth curving into a tight, subdued smile before she excused herself to greet another guest. As she turned, Bishop felt his sense of displacement sharpen, and he was on the verge of leaving for some air when a familiar, booming voice broke through the decorum.

"Hey, mother fucker!" A loud shout echoed through the room, causing heads to spin. Bishop turned, and his heart lifted. Rook was striding toward him with an unmistakable swagger.

The man was formidable, towering above the crowd with a broad, muscular frame that nearly strained the seams of his tailored suit. His thick dark brown hair, tousled and rugged, framed a face adorned with a dense beard, giving him an edge of wild allure. But it was his piercing green eyes, brilliant and unapologetically fierce, that genuinely captivated the room. They sparkled with a raw, almost primal energy that contrasted sharply with the somber atmosphere of the memorial service.

Rook's shirt was casually undone at a few buttons, exposing a glimpse of chest hair that added to his indomitable aura. A few heads turned in mild disapproval at his loud entrance, yet Rook remained oblivious to their judgment, seemingly unfazed by it. He moved through life as if every moment were his stage, living with a vibrant exuberance that demanded attention and unapologetically celebrated existence.

"Look at you," Rook grinned, his voice carrying a slight slur, hinting he'd had a few too many. Before Bishop could react, Rook's arms engulfed him, pulling him into a bear hug that belied his usual crudeness with an unguarded tenderness. "Been too fucking long, man," Rook said, his voice thick with both laughter and a trace of sadness. "You holding up?"

Bishop swallowed, managing a faint smile. "I'm...okay."

"Okay," Rook said, releasing him with a slight clap on the back. "So, 'okay' is all we can manage, huh?" He stepped back, glancing around the room with mischief and disdain. "You'd think the old bastard would've wanted something a little more… lively, yeah? This place feels like a fucking museum."

Despite himself, Bishop let out a genuine chuckle at Rook's comment. After all, Rook was the quintessential brute, loud and boisterous, living life like a bull in a china shop. But in that moment, Bishop found himself grateful for Rook's unapologetic energy. His brashness cut through the heavy atmosphere like a breath of fresh air, lightening the oppressive solemnity that had settled around them.

"Ah, almost forgot," Rook said, noticing a tall, willowy blonde hovering nearby. He motioned her over with an exaggerated wave. "Bishop, meet Shannon."

"Shania," she corrected, casting Rook an annoyed look, though he seemed unfazed.

"Shania, Shannon, tomato, tomahto," Rook shrugged, giving her a wink. "This here's my brother-in-arms, Bishop."

Shania offered a halfhearted smile, clearly resigned to her role as Rook's current arm candy. Bishop nodded politely, his gaze briefly meeting hers with a wry understanding. Rook could never hold onto names, and it seemed he hadn't changed.

Before Bishop could respond, Rook's arm wrapped firmly around his shoulder, guiding him deeper into the house. "Come on, let's go pay our respects."

The two men entered a room at the back, the air viscous with the fragrance of flowers and the flickering glow of candles. Bishop's heart ached as he approached the casket, where Omar, once a force of nature, lay in serene stillness. His pale face seemed almost peaceful, yet it was a haunting echo of the vibrant man who had once filled every corner with life.

"Jesus fucking Christ," Rook muttered beside him, unfiltered as ever. "They've stuffed him in a suit. Can you believe it? He'd have laughed his ass off at the sight of himself like this."

"Keep it down," Bishop warned, feeling the weight of disapproving stares from others in the room. But Rook was unperturbed, his voice growing louder.

"Why? This isn't him. King wouldn't have wanted this. He'd have wanted us to go out, get pissed and stoned out of our fucking minds!" he said, gesturing at the casket with a derisive snort.

The air in the room grew tense. The guests were visibly taken aback by Rook's outburst, their expressions a mixture of horror and scandalized shock. Seeing the storm brewing, Bishop grabbed Rook by the arm and steered him into the hallway away from the murmuring crowd.

"Come on, Rook," Bishop muttered. "This isn't the time or place."

Rook rolled his eyes but allowed himself to be led, though not without glancing back at Shania and grabbing her wrist as they passed. She looked startled as he pulled her toward the bathroom with a muttered, "Come on, babe." She seemed flustered but followed him, her heels clicking as they disappeared into the tiny toilet.

Once again alone, Bishop drifted toward a small table near the entrance, where an open book lay invitingly, filled with heartfelt messages. He leaned into it, his fingers gliding over the delicate script, the words of those who remembered his friend. Gentle, generous, compassionate, as kind as they were, they felt oddly lifeless, far removed from the vibrant spirit that was King.

Bishop's frown deepened as he scanned the pages. These people spoke of Omar in tones that barely scratched the surface of who he truly was. They painted him in a light that felt foreign, almost unrecognizable. At that moment, amidst strangers in an unfamiliar house, Bishop confronted a painful truth: King had been many things to many people, and perhaps he had only ever glimpsed a fragment of the man.

As his fingers lingered over the open book, each entry felt like a story from a different universe, a narrative of a man he struggled to connect with through his own memories. He was so engrossed in this silent communion with King's untold life that a voice calling his name barely penetrated his thoughts. But there was a warmth in that voice, a genuine, almost melodic light that gently pulled him back from the depths of his reverie.

Bishop's breath hitched in his throat as he looked up.

Standing at the doorway was the most extraordinary figure, illuminated by the golden sunlight pouring through the open window. Nearly as tall as Bishop, the man exuded an effortless allure, his golden hair tumbled in tousled ringlets, framing a chiseled face adorned by a perfectly groomed beard. But it was his eyes that genuinely mesmerized, a striking shade of gold that felt almost otherworldly. Even clad in tailored apparel, his smooth, athletic build hinted at a strength and vitality that was impossible to ignore. He moved with a regal, relaxed elegance that commanded attention without uttering a word.

Bishop's lips curved into a genuine smile as he murmured, "Knight."

Knight's face lit up with a smile as he crossed the room, closing the distance between them in a few smooth strides. As they embraced, Bishop felt a familiar warmth in the hug, Knight's arms wrapping around him with a tenderness that softened the sadness hanging over him.

"Good to see you, Bishop," Knight murmured as they pulled apart, the hint of a mischievous gleam in his golden eyes. "You look like shit."

Bishop chuckled, the sound coming from somewhere deep in his chest. "You always knew how to lift someone's spirits," he replied, shaking his head. "It's…good to see you too."

Knight glanced around the crowded room before leaning in, dropping his voice. "Where is he?"

Bishop nodded his head toward the hallway. "Bathroom," he muttered, a slight smirk pulling at his lips. Knight's eyebrows lifted, and he chuckled, shaking his head in that way that suggested he'd expected nothing less.

Knight approached the bathroom door, his footsteps soft against the carpet. Reaching it, he paused, pressing his ear to the door, and was met with a muffled sound of a woman's moans coming from inside. A playful smirk flickered across his face as he knocked firmly.

"Occupied!" came Rook's gruff, slightly irritated voice from within.

Knight knocked again, his smile only growing when Rook's voice rose rougher, angrier. "I said I'm busy!"

After a moment, the door yanked open, and Rook's towering form filled the frame. His emerald eyes blazed with barely restrained fury until they landed on Knight. The irritation vanished instantly, replaced by a broad grin that softened his otherwise fierce features. Rook looked almost boyish for a heartbeat, a rare glimmer of joy breaking through his rough edges.

"Well, well, if it isn't the pretty boy himself," Rook grinned. "Get out."

Knight arched an eyebrow, his gaze fixed on Shania as she struggled to pull her panties up, smooth her dress, and tame her unruly hair into some semblance of order. A mischievous smirk curled his lips as he gestured with an amused thumb toward the hallway. "He meant you."

Shania shot him a fiery glare, her embarrassment palpable as she slipped past the two men. The sharp click of her heels echoed her frustration as she plunged into the crowd of mourners, her cheeks flushed a deep crimson. Knight watched her go, the twinkle of humor still flickering in his eyes, until Rook abruptly seized him by the arm, hauling him into the small, dimly lit bathroom and slamming the door shut behind them.

A few paces away, Bishop couldn't help but chuckle at the unfolding scene, his amusement visible as he observed the playful dynamic between the two. Rook and Knight had always danced on the edge of rough camaraderie and flirtatious teasing. Beneath Rook's bravado and crude humor lay a softer side that emerged only in Knight's presence. There was an effortless quality to Knight's laughter, a serene calmness that perfectly countered Rook's wild energy. Together, they embodied a perfect synergy of chaos and tranquility, two forces foreordained to complement one another.

Leaving the hush of the gathering behind, Bishop slipped through the sliding glass door and into the yard. The grass, vibrant green and freshly cut, stretched out before him while blooms danced at the edges of the garden, splashes of color against the clear blue sky. The sun poured, wrapping him warmly as he stepped onto the patio.

With a deep sigh, Bishop settled onto the porch steps, his eyes wandering over the tranquil scene. In this moment, surrounded by the soft rustle of leaves and the distant buzz of nature, a flicker of peace broke through his sorrow. He felt a little less isolated, buoyed by the presence of those who understood King best.

He hardly moved as footsteps approached, the unmistakable cadence of Rook's heavy stride followed by Knight's more delicate steps, a duet of familiarity. A grin spread across his face as Rook thudded down next to him with a jovial grunt, scratching his nose, a nervous quirk born from too much cocaine. It felt good to be together, to share this moment amidst the chaos of their hearts.

Bishop rolled his eyes, a gentle chuckle escaping his lips. "Still itchy, I see."

"Yeah, yeah. Fuck you too," Rook muttered, trying to keep his face impassive but failing as he cracked a crooked grin. He slung his massive arm around Bishop's shoulders, pulling him into a lopsided embrace. Rook had always been heavy-handed with his affection, but there was a subtle gentleness in how his fingers settled around Bishop, almost like an anchor.

Bishop reached into the depths of his jacket, producing a neatly rolled joint that seemed to hold the promise of nostalgia. The earthy, slightly spicy aroma filled the air as he flicked his lighter. He took a measured drag, savoring the moment as he held the smoke in his lungs, then released a delicate plume that danced away on the warm breeze. With a mischievous grin, he passed it to Rook, who eagerly accepted it, lifting it to his lips with a spark of anticipation before drawing in a resounding hit and passing it off to Knight.

Nestled in a comfortable silence, the three friends reveled in the sprawling landscape that unfolded before them. As the joint made its rounds, it felt less like an act and more like a ritual, a thread binding them to the reckless joy of their youth.

The quiet was sacred.

Rook held the last smoldering inch between his fingers, tilting his head back to let the sun warm his face, his green eyes partially closed. In an unexpected gesture of affection, he reached over, his rugged hand brushing through Bishop's hair with a tender touch. It was a rare moment for Rook, his tough exterior often acting as a shield, but in this oasis, Bishop glimpsed the softer side of his friend, wrapped in the warmth of shared history and unshakeable fellowship.

For far too long, the world had pressed Bishopt to be the pillar of strength for his family and daughter. Yet, nestled here amidst Rook's raw power and Knight's unwavering warmth, he found a rare moment of vulnerability.

With his golden hair catching the last rays of the fading sun, Knight sat cross-legged in front of them, leaning back against Rook's sturdy legs. Though the youngest of the trio, he exuded a wisdom that soothed their turbulent spirits, providing a sense of balance amidst the chaos of their lives.

In this quiet cocoon of intimacy, they clung to each other as if preserving something precious against the heavy backdrop of their losses. Knight tilted his head back to gaze up at them, his golden eyes shimmering with warmth, a soft smile gracing his lips.

Rook reached out, his hand resting gently on Knight's shoulder, the mask of gruffness slipping away to reveal a tender vulnerability. At that moment, Bishop could see the profound sorrow reflected in Rook's eyes, which mirrored his own yet were somehow softened by their bond. It was a bond they had once believed would withstand anything, even the harshest trials of life. And death.

"One for all," Knight murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, his eyes moving from Rook to Bishop.

Bishop smiled, feeling the weight of their shared history, their raw and unfiltered love for each other at that moment. "And all for one," he replied, his voice thick but steady.

Rook gave a low chuckle, pulling them both a little closer with a strength that felt unbreakable. "Damn right."

They settled into each other's embrace, a sanctuary built on memories of King. The sorrow weighed on them, yet a profound comfort emerged amid the grief.

*

Hours later, the somber gathering had shifted to the town's church.

Bishop reluctantly climbed to the pulpit. He could still feel the remnants of the weed he had smoked earlier, clouding his thoughts and amplifying his sense of loss. Gripping the podium tightly, he scanned the sea of alien faces, eyes that spoke of quiet disapproval and veiled pity but lacked the warmth King had always inspired.

The priest droned on, reciting hollow platitudes that felt foreign to Bishop's heart. Omar was portrayed as a devoted father, a devout church member, and a community pillar, but that polished image didn't match the man Bishop had known. King had never been a church-going, God-fearing family man. He was a whirlwind of passion, alive with wild dreams, reckless adventures, and a courage that defied the mundane. In his essence, King was a force of nature, a soulful spirit that could never be neatly boxed into the roles prescribed by others.

Clearing his throat, Bishop began, his voice low and uneven. "King and I grew up together. Back then, the world seemed...endless. We had nothing but time. We were just kids with dreams, pushing boundaries, raising hell…" A smirk tugged at his lips as he recalled a flash of their shared youth, a tiny spark that began to ignite something raw and angry inside him.

But as the words flowed, his sadness began to curdle, darkening into anger. Bishop felt it rise, prickling his skin, coursing through him like a rush of fire. They were dressed in black and mouthing empty condolences for a man they'd never known. How dare they try to reduce King to this sterile, sanitized image?

His voice grew louder, fiercer. "King was more than this, more than this hollow, pristine shell you all want him to be. He was…he was free. He didn't belong here... God, he'd laugh at all of you..." He looked around, seeing only wide-eyed shock, which only spurred him on. "The man I knew, the man I loved, was never just 'Omar'...he was King, damn it! He was our King."

Suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, the memory crashed into him, King's cackle, raucous and untamed, rising from some chaotic prank or scandalous reveal. It caught Bishop off guard, and before he could rein it in, a burst of laughter bubbled up, starting as a stifled chuckle and then erupting into a full-bodied laugh that reverberated through the hushed church, bouncing off the stone walls in a way that felt both outré and hauntingly appropriate.

He couldn't help himself. Tears welled up as his laughter spiraled toward the hysterical, and he caught a glimpse of Knight, his shoulders shaking in shared amusement, while Rook threw his head back, roaring with laughter that filled the mournful air. The three of them were laughing like madmen, oblivious to the solemnity around them.

The gathered mourners gaped in shock, disbelief etched across their faces as if they'd stumbled into a blasphemy. And maybe they had. The laughter swelled, a heady mix of joy and absurdity amid sorrow, as they found an unlikely connection in the chaos.

"I'm sorry," Bishop gasped, clutching his side as he tried to breathe. He forced himself to stifle the laughter, but the smile lingered as he shook his head and muttered, "I'm sorry, I…" He stumbled away from the podium, unable to meet the disapproving glares. He pushed through the doors and half-ran, half-stumbling down the church steps, his mind and body still humming from the high, laughter, and loss.

He sank onto the final step, his head dropping into his hands as he struggled to regain his breath. Gradually, the fog of the weed lifted, leaving behind a piercing clarity that cut through the haze and seized back the sharp ache of loss. Gazing into the desolate street, his face twisted with an unfiltered, raw pain.

"Why did you leave us...you fucking traitor?" he whispered, his voice barely audible over the distant hum of passing cars, a lone tear tracing down his cheek.

"Quite the spectacle in there."

The smooth and calm voice floated to him from the shadows, carrying an air of amusement. Bishop turned, his vision momentarily clouded as he focused on the figure leaning nonchalantly against the weathered church wall.

The young man, not much older than nineteen or twenty, had dark hair that gently moved in the breeze, a chiseled face outlined sharply in the light, and striking cerulean eyes sparkled like shards of polished glass. Bishop felt a jolt in his chest.

The resemblance was eerie, like a specter of King materializing before him.

"Sorry for… all that," Bishop mumbled, raking a hand through his hair, futilely attempting to regain composure.

The young man shrugged, seemingly unperturbed. With a casual flick, he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, extending it toward Bishop with a knowing smirk. After hesitating, Bishop accepted one, his fingers brushing against the cool packaging. The young man struck a lighter, and the flame bloomed, illuminating his features with a warm, golden glow that danced in the twilight. Bishop couldn't help but be drawn in, intrigued by this unexpected encounter.

"Patrick...right?" Bishop asked, visibly trying to remember a name that had seldom fled King's lips. The young man's expression balked with discomfort.

"I remember your face. From the picture in his study," the young man said, lighting Bishop's cigarette. His voice was smooth but slightly edged. He took a drag from his cigarette, exhaling with a languid grace, his expression unreadable.

Bishop studied him, his gaze drinking in every familiar feature. "You look…exactly like your father," he said softly, almost in awe. It was as though King had returned, a flicker of life reborn in this boy.

Patrick shrugged, a faint bitterness curling his lips. "Yeah, I get that a lot." His voice had a hardness, a sadness beneath the aloofness that struck Bishop as beautiful and tragic.

"I'm…sorry," Bishop offered gently, searching for something to say, but Patrick cut him off, his gaze darkening.

"Don't be," he said bluntly, a touch of venom in his words. "He wasn't worth it."

Bishop flinched, feeling the blow of those words in a way that surprised him. "I don't think you should speak about him that way," he replied softly, his voice laced with a note of pain that caught Patrick off guard. "Sorry...I didn't mean to..." he choked. "I meant...maybe you'd think differently if you'd known him...when he wasn't..." Bishop stammered.

Patrick's cerulean eyes narrowed with a piercing intensity, a fleeting shadow of mystery dancing across his features. He advanced a step, the smoke curling from his lips, and leaned in, each detail of his father's visage reflected in the striking lines of his own face. Bishop was captivated, caught in the moment as the connection between father and son shimmered before him.

"Too late for that now, don't you think?" Patrick's tone was cutting, almost mocking, as he blew smoke directly into Bishop's face, the bitter tang filling his lungs. His gaze softened slightly, a strange intensity taking over as he closed the distance between them even more until they were mere inches apart.

Bishop's breath faltered, his heart racing under the intensity of Patrick's gaze. Those piercing blue eyes bored into him, stripping away his carefully constructed facade and laying bare every wound and hidden regret he thought he had buried deep. For two people who had never met, it felt uncomfortably intimate, as though Patrick could not only see his grief but understand its weight, forcing Bishop to confront the sorrow he had tried so hard to conceal.

Patrick's voice dropped to a whisper, his eyes drilling into Bishop's. "Sometimes, he'd call your name in his sleep. You were lucky. You were the only one who got to know him, the real him, not the mask."

Bishop swallowed, his throat dry, his heart racing as he felt the boy's breath. It was King's breath. "Why…why do you say that?"

Patrick's lips curled into a bittersweet, enigmatic smile. "I don't know...maybe I wish I'd…" He faltered, his voice fading into an uneasy silence, a flash of vulnerability momentarily breaking through his demeanor. Just as he seemed on the brink of revelation, Rook's formidable voice thundered down from the top of the stairs, shattering the fragile moment.

Bishop's gaze snapped away from Patrick, tension coiling in his body. He glanced up to see Rook swaying slightly, his eyes clouded but intent on them. When Bishop returned his focus to Patrick, he found the distance had returned, an impenetrable wall rising.

Without saying another word, Patrick took one last drag, his piercing cerulean eyes locking onto Bishop's in a lingering goodbye that stretched into eternity. Then, he turned and walked away.

Rook's heavy footsteps echoed off the church steps, disrupting the spell that had enveloped Bishop. He squinted at Patrick's retreating figure, confusion slowly giving way to dawning recognition.

"Who the fuck was that…?" Rook trailed off, a hand gesturing loosely in Patrick's direction, his rough voice tinged with bewilderment.

"That was King's son," Bishop said, his voice steady, almost hollow.

Knight let out a low chuckle, nudging Rook with an elbow. "You must be high as a kite not to have noticed the resemblance. Kid's practically King's ghost walking around."

Rook rubbed his jaw, a hint of embarrassment flickering across his face, but curiosity sparkled in his green eyes as he tracked Patrick until he vanished inside the church. Bishop's gaze lingered on the spot where Patrick had stood before he inhaled deeply, rallied his thoughts, and turned to his friends, his expression sharpening.

"Everything set for tonight?" Bishop asked, his voice low, measured.

Rook straightened up, nodding firmly. "Yeah. Van's ready, all packed and loaded. We'll be out of here as soon as we get him out."

Bishop took a moment, letting the certainty of Rook's words settle in. He glanced over to Knight, who stood a bit apart, his golden eyes thoughtful, fingers fidgeting absently with the keys in his pocket.

"When's the burial?" Bishop asked.

"Tomorrow morning," Knight replied, voice soft but clear and somehow final. They all knew what that meant.

Tomorrow, it would be over.
But not for them.

"Good," Bishop murmured, his gaze shifting from one friend to another. "Let's make this count."

*

As darkness draped over the town that night, the three friends moved like whispers, navigating the shadowy edge of the church grounds as they stealthily slipped through a grimy mortuary window.

Knight wasted no time, his skilled hands dancing over the mortuary's locks with a practiced ease. Meanwhile, Bishop and Rook held their breaths as they carefully lifted King's coffin from its solemn resting place.

"Careful, you dumb fuck. Stop lifting it so high!" Bishop warned with a raged whisper.

"It's not my fault you can't keep up, you fucking pussy. Why do I always have to do the heavy lifting?" Rook mocked in the same tone.

The rich mahogany felt simultaneously foreign and eerily familiar beneath Bishop's fingertips. Despite the morbid nature of their mission, a triumphant smile broke across his face, kindling a spark of excitement.

With a knowing glance, they heaved the heavy coffin toward the waiting van outside, adrenaline coursing through them as they embraced the thrill of their audacious plan. A muted high-five from Rook rang out as the van's back doors finally clanged shut, signaling not just the end of an unconventional funeral but the exhilarating start of a bold new farewell.

Yet, just as the thrill settled into their chests, a voice sliced through the stillness, freezing them in place.

"What the fuck are you guys doing?"

In perfect synchronization, they pivoted, every muscle coiled with tension, hearts pounding in frantic beats that echoed panic and defiance. They braced themselves for a confrontation.

And there he stood, illuminated by a solitary streetlamp, his presence casting an enigmatic shadow. Patrick. The subtle glow of moonlight accentuated the strong line of his jaw, rendering his expression inscrutable. He didn't exude anger or shock.

In fact, he wore an air of intrigue.

Bishop exhaled slowly, a wave of calm washing over him. He locked eyes with Patrick, those deep, familiar blue orbs drawing him in like a magnet. "We're doing what he would've wanted," he said, his voice soft but firm. "We're giving him the send-off he deserves. This..." he gestured at the church behind them, at the casket, "This ain't your dad. Trust me."

Silence hung in the air as Bishop noticed a flicker in Patrick's eyes, raw and almost palpable, as if a fragment of King was gazing back at him, quietly handing over a torch of loyalty that demanded no words.

With a subtle shift, Patrick stepped closer, a faint smile playing at the corners of his lips, hinting at a deeper bond yet to be fully revealed. "Okay," he said, his voice steady but barely above a whisper. "But I wanna go, too."

Rook snorted, shaking his head, while Knight's golden gaze flicked between them, wary yet intrigued.

Bishop raised an eyebrow, fighting back a chuckle. "I don't think that's a good idea, kid," he advised, fighting off his amusement at the boy's request.

"If you don't take me, I'll call the police," Patrick threatened, his blue gaze intensifying.

Bishop stole a glance over his shoulder. Rook shrugged, an eyebrow raised in mild surprise, while Knight remained focused on their surroundings, his foot tapping nervously against the asphalt. With a slight sigh, Bishop turned back to Patrick. "Won't your mother be worried?" he asked.

Patrick's expression grew colder, a flicker of resentment hardening his voice. "She doesn't care."

Bishop stood frozen, taken aback by Patrick's raw bitterness. It was a weighty disappointment that felt entirely unjust for someone so young. Yet, beneath that surface anger, there was an unsettling familiarity, a haunting echo of Patrick's father, a man they were determined to honor.

Suddenly, as if a spark had ignited within him, a faint smile flickered across Patrick's solemn face, reminiscent of King's warmth. In that fleeting moment, something within Bishop shifted, awakening feelings he thought long buried.

He suddenly realized he couldn't bring himself to push the boy away.

"So…" Bishop's voice softened, his eyes meeting the boy's in the shadows. "You're cool with us taking your dad for a spin and giving him a proper send-off?"

The boy nodded slowly.

"Then I guess we got a deal, Patrick." Bishop finally uttered.

Patrick's jaw tensed, and his brief smile vanished as he corrected Bishop, "Don't call me that."

"Alright," Bishop replied carefully. "What do you want me to call you, then? What did King call you?"

An eerie stillness enveloped the quiet intersection as if an unseen force were turning the pages of an untold tale. Patrick's eyes sparked with intensity, a mix of wounded determination and fierce resilience dancing in his cerulean depths. After a moment that felt suspended in time, he spoke, his voice barely above a whisper yet laced with unyielding strength.

"He called me Pawn."

In that instant, the three men exchanged knowing smiles. The old camaraderie flickered back to life, inviting this unexpected new ally into their fold. As Bishop slid into the driver's seat, he leaned out the window, a playful grin stretching across his face.

"Well, Pawn," he called, his voice echoing through the night, "you coming, or what?"

Pawn's lips broke into a radiant smile as he raced toward the van, hoisting himself into the back as the engine thundered. The four men, bound by a shared resolve, sped off into the night, leaving behind a world heavy with mourning and pretense.

But, little did they realize that an extraordinary adventure lay ahead of them.

One that would be shaped by the spirit of the very man who had inspired each of them to truly embrace the beauty of life...

"I can't stop thinking about that last trip we made. Things felt so alive, man. I felt so fucking alive. I wish we could...you know...keep that momentum going. But I suppose that's life, right? I know...things will feel different from now on. Wrong, empty. They do for me. But, Bishop, no matter what happens, I want you to know...I..."

(To be continued...)