Last Mission ABO Dimension.

At the Farewell…

Mason tried to ease the tension with a lighthearted comment: "This will be a great opportunity to investigate any questions about the past, don't you think?"

Aster responded tersely, his face rigid like stone: "The past? You're talking about two pasts from different dimensions, both with Beatrice Phillips involved."

Damián observed silently, his gaze carrying a question that required no words. After a few seconds, he murmured, "Dealing with Beatrice is nothing. But understanding why Tetsu is here—that's another matter entirely. The only path forward is to investigate. This is a critical mission; be ready for anything… one step at a time, or one leap for it all."

Aster remained standing at the gates of the Campbell Mansion, watching as Damián and Mason disappeared along the winding path that led to the exit. The cold night air seemed denser, almost suffocating, as if it carried the weight of Damián's words.

He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. For months, he had nursed a silent contempt for Beatrice Phillips and everything she represented. It wasn't just personal—it was a moral judgment. Beatrice had crossed lines that should never be crossed, and the injustice of her actions was like a constant flame in his chest, burning slow but steady. He had been waiting for the right moment to act, to ensure that when justice finally came, it would be undeniable.

But now, something felt different. If Beatrice was connected to another dimension, if she was truly one of the emissaries of the universe's architects… then he was at a disadvantage. The thought made his shoulders stiffen, the weight of uncertainty piling on.

Opening his eyes, he fixed his gaze on the horizon. He knew there was no more avoiding it. The perfect moment he had been waiting for might never come—but he had to start now.

Sarah adjusted the string of pearls around her neck before making the call. Though her face remained neutral, a flicker of unease simmered beneath the surface. Her tone, when she spoke, was firm but carried a carefully rehearsed softness, as if neutrality were her best armor. "Beatrice. How good to hear from you."

Beatrice's response was quick, her enthusiasm slightly overplayed. "Sarah, the pleasure is all mine. I was just thinking of reaching out to you about the upcoming tournament. There are many details to align, especially with so many important guests to host."

Sarah raised an eyebrow, keeping her tone balanced. "Indeed. This tournament requires significant coordination. I imagine you have plenty of ideas in mind. However, perhaps it's time we place the younger generation at the center of this organization."

"Of course," Beatrice replied, her voice clear but tinged with an acidity that Sarah immediately recognized. "I'll visit tomorrow to discuss everything. After all, the event is a joint effort, and the mountains belong to our families. Bringing Aster with me seems appropriate."

Sarah's fingers grazed her pearls delicately—a subtle gesture, but revealing to anyone who knew her well. She maintained her collaborative tone, though carefully guarded. "Aster?" Her voice remained neutral, but Beatrice caught the slight shift in inflection.

On the other end of the line, Beatrice paused briefly, the silence thick with tension. "To my house? After everything that's happened, do you really think that's wise, Sarah?"

Sarah pressed her lips together before responding, her tone firm, striking the balance between courtesy and authority. "Beatrice, this is a delicate moment. This collaboration is essential to maintaining the stability that both families need. The tournament requires the participation of both houses and Aster, as a member of the Phillips family, must be involved."

Beatrice let out a short, humorless laugh before responding, her tone now sharper. "And Clarice? I imagine this could be… complicated for her, don't you think?"

Sarah drew a deep breath, suppressing any sign of irritation. Her voice remained composed, though every word carried calculated weight. "Clarice understands that some decisions are necessary. The faster everyone adjusts, the better it will be for all. Don't forget, Beatrice, that these lands and castles are a gift meant to unite the Phillips and Campbell families. Aster is a Phillips, and in the future, he will be lord of both estates. Our families are intertwined."

The pause that followed was long enough for Sarah to gauge the impact of her words. When Beatrice finally spoke, her voice was sweet, and cooperative, but with a frosty rigidity beneath the surface. "Of course, Sarah. I'm sure it will be a… fruitful experience for all of us. I'm looking forward to hosting you and am confident everything will go as planned. After all, family is what truly matters, isn't it?"

Sarah narrowed her eyes, even though Beatrice couldn't see her. "Yes," she replied slowly, each syllable weighted with meaning. "Family."

Beatrice ended the call with a smile that didn't reach her eyes. The phone remained in her hand for a moment, her fingers gripping it so tightly that her knuckles turned white. The silence in the room felt heavier than ever as her mind raced.

"Family," she murmured, her tone laced with venom and disdain. The word sounded like bitter irony on her lips.

She placed the phone on the table, the impact reverberating through the quiet room. For a moment, she stood still, her eyes fixed on a distant point as she absorbed the blow. Castles, lands, titles—all part of a plan that now seemed to slip through her fingers. A plan meant to unite the families, now handed over to Aster—the bastard son of Jared.

Beatrice felt the anger bubbling beneath her skin, a slow and corrosive fire. She thought of everything she had manipulated, all she had done to secure her position. Now, two idealistic old men—Mallet Campbell and Robert Phillips—were throwing it all into a game she had never agreed to play.

She turned abruptly, walking to the window. The golden light of sunset bathed the room, but her eyes, hard and calculating, were fixed on the horizon.

"Sarah thinks she's in control," she murmured, her voice dripping with contempt. "But she's underestimating what I'm capable of."

A dangerous smile curved her lips as she pivoted on her heels, her firm steps echoing across the marble floor. Her mind was already devising a plan, each move meticulously calculated. For Beatrice, losing was not an option.

"They want a game?" She stopped before the table, her fingers trailing over its polished surface as if sketching invisible strategies. "Very well. Let's play. But it won't go the way they expect."

Back at the Kadman Mansion, Damián slammed the door to his room shut with a brusque motion. His breathing was heavy, as if every step he had taken from the hall to his room had been a burden. He unfastened the belt cinching his slender waist, unbuttoned the loose white shirt, and began undressing with urgency, as though the clothes weighed on him like chains. The cold air of the room touched his skin as he removed each piece—his socks, his underwear, everything. Finally, standing naked, he drew in a deep breath. He stood still for a few seconds, letting the room's coolness and the faint caress of the air settle on his body. For a fleeting moment, the world seemed to hold its breath.

After a beat, he collapsed onto the bed with force, as if trying to shake off the tension he had carried all day. He ran his hands over his face and let out a sharp, exasperated sigh. "What the fuck kind of day was that?" he murmured, his voice raspy. "What the fuck kind of week has this been?" His mind spun: his father, a nemesis from the past, the cursed chessboard of fate. A bitter chuckle escaped him, full of weariness. "Ah… so much goddamn drama."

He closed his eyes for a moment, but the restlessness in his body refused to subside. Suddenly, he sat up, running a hand through his hair. "Shit!" he growled, frustration bursting out in an unrestrained shout. "I need a fucking bath."

With determination, he rose and made his way to the bathroom. He turned on the bathtub faucet, letting the hot water flow, and stepped into the shower to wash away the day. He scrubbed vigorously, needing to rid himself not only of sweat and the scent of the day but also of something deeper, intangible—something clinging to him like a shadow. The hot water cascaded over his skin, mingling with the soap as he rubbed it over every inch of his body. He needed to strip away this invisible weight, this strange energy suffocating him.

When the tub was finally full, its surface covered in fragrant foam, Damián stepped in. The heat enveloped him immediately, and he leaned back, closing his eyes. The silence, paired with the soothing warmth of the water, offered an almost complete relief. Almost. He sank deeper into the water until only his face remained above the surface.

But his mind, perpetually restless, refused to quiet. His thoughts turned to Adam. A spark coursed through him as the memory of the previous night took hold. The image was vivid: his body twisting under Adam's fierce touch, each movement charged with primal desire. Adam's lips, his devouring kisses, and that tongue… Fuck, that tongue. Damián's body responded instantly to the memory, as though reliving the heat of the moment.

A soft moan escaped his lips, a sound mingling pleasure and frustration. He remembered himself that night, crying out as his hands gripped the sheets. "—Ahhh… fuck… Harder! Harder!—" The memory was electric, so real he could almost feel Adam's hands gripping his waist, the kisses that left marks on his skin. Every detail felt so near, so alive.

He opened his eyes, staring up at the ceiling. A short, almost bitter smile tugged at his lips. "My old self would kill me for this," he thought, letting out a rough laugh that echoed softly in the bathroom. And maybe it was true. The Damián of another dimension—the cold, calculating assassin—would never allow such vulnerability, let alone intimacy with another man. But this Damián, the one who existed in this moment, played the role of an ideal omega, one who found himself intoxicated by the rush of pheromones—a maddeningly irresistible rush that Adam delivered in waves. Damn it, he hated to admit it, but he was becoming… soft. And that was very, very dangerous.

Damián sank deeper into the water, letting the warmth smother everything around him. He needed peace. Or maybe he just needed Adam again. That damn alpha knew how to kiss like a devil.

He closed his eyes once more, allowing himself to slip further into the fragrant foam. For now, the hot water was his refuge. Tomorrow, the chaos of the world would be waiting for him again.

*The morning air was crisp* as Mason and Damián arrived at the Campbell Mansion, their footsteps echoing softly on the stone steps leading to the imposing structure. Mason's impeccable appearance contrasted sharply with Damián's striking, purposeful style. The visit to the Phillips Mansion was only a few hours away, and both carried the weight of anticipation in their own ways.

Damián's choice of attire spoke volumes without him needing to say a word. He wore a plain black shirt, its understated elegance complemented by a sleek, fitted leather vest, slightly tailored to hug his frame. While the exterior of the vest was smooth and discreet, its interior revealed Damián's meticulous preparation for the unknown. Carefully stowed within were essential tools:

- Duct Tape: Compact but reliable for improvisation.

- Disposable Gloves: Thin yet durable, ready for delicate or risky tasks.

- A Folding Knife: Elegant, sharp, and tested, its blade gleaming with readiness.

- Clips and Miniature Keys: Perfect for unlocking doors or fiddling with improvised mechanisms, tucked neatly into a slim pocket.

- A Reinforced Mini Rope: Lightweight yet incredibly sturdy, coiled with precision in a hidden compartment.

- A Compact Pepper Spray: Small enough to remain unnoticed but potent enough to neutralize any threat.

Damián adjusted his vest and shrugged nonchalantly, his voice calm yet tinged with a trace of sarcasm. 

"Ready for anything. This isn't just a visit, Mason. It's an investigation."

Mason, on the other hand, opted for a less "combative" style, though his gear and sharp intellect more than compensated. On his wrist, he wore a *customized smart watch*, designed to intercept networks and detect digital signals nearby. In his pocket was a small device that resembled an ordinary USB drive but was, in fact, a powerful hacking tool capable of breaching systems in seconds. His phone, another marvel of engineering, was equipped with *untraceable listening devices, encrypted micro-recorders*, and a *GPS tracker* capable of identifying active transmissions within a five-kilometer radius.

Mason walked with a visible spring in his step, his excitement unmistakable. It was his first time stepping out of the controlled environment of screens and codes, and he clearly relished the novelty of being part of a field operation.

Breaking the silence, Mason turned to Damián. 

"Okay, so… what's the game plan? I want to make sure I don't mess anything up."

Damián cast him a sidelong glance, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. 

"Game plan? Just keep your ears and eyes sharp, and don't get distracted by unimportant details. This isn't a game, Mason."

"Got it," Mason replied, though his animated expression remained unchanged. He gestured toward his smartwatch and the hacking device in his pocket. 

"I've got tools for everything, you know. I'm ready to intercept signals, hack networks, and even track transmissions. It's like being in a video game, but… in real life."

Damián rolled his eyes, though a hint of amusement softened his stern demeanor. 

"Less enthusiasm, more focus. We're not players here."

Mason chuckled, adjusting the collar of his jacket. 

"Right, right. But just to clarify, are we the cops or the bad guys in this story?"

Damián came to an abrupt halt, turning to Mason with a look that was equal parts irony and reflection. Tilting his head slightly, he seemed to weigh the question before answering. 

"I don't know," he replied, his tone deliberately casual. "Considering you and I have questionable pasts, and Aster's the only legitimate federal agent in the group… odds are, we're the bad guys. Two against one."

Mason blinked, caught off guard by the candid response, but he didn't back down. 

"But haven't you turned over a new leaf? I mean, you're on the right side now… right?"

Damián rolled his eyes again, resuming his stride. 

"Not entirely," he admitted with a touch of skepticism in his voice. "Let's just say… I'm in transition. I've been in transition for a few years now."

Mason hesitated for a moment, processing the response, before speaking with conviction. 

"Well, I want to be one of the good guys." He stopped walking, casting a determined look at Damián. "No matter what happens, I need to be the hero at some point in my life."

Damián paused again, this time studying Mason with a deeper focus. For a fleeting moment, his expression softened, almost imperceptibly, before delivering his dry reply: 

"Good luck with that."

---

As they stepped through the grand doors of the elegant Campbell Mansion, they were greeted by the subtle aroma of morning tea and polished wood. Aubree, the ever-efficient butler, stood waiting, his posture immaculate and his demeanor professional. 

"Gentlemen, welcome," he said with a slight bow of his head. "May I escort you to the drawing-room?"