The end of the universe isn’t hot; it’s cold. The boiling water on the stove chills, then freezes. Stars scream their defiance, swallowing entire systems, before cooling to slag. Iron—the truest end for a star, the element which cannot undergo energy-positive fusion within their cores—is all that remains.
Some curmudgeonly sorts prefer the false immortality of brown dwarf stars. They fool no one. Some larger-than-life gluttons expand into red giants, living a billion years until their empire, too, collapses. Some of the truly radiant push the bounds of godhood: black holes. They take everything and never give it back. Cannot give it back, if they want to persist. This, too, is false immortality: they exhale Hawking radiation. For every first breath, there must be a last.