Last Mission ABO Dimension.

The yellowish glow of the Phillips Mansion's chandeliers cast soft shadows across the walls of the grand hall. It was an imposing place, adorned with luxurious ornaments that seemed to tell stories of past generations. Yet, at that moment, the air was heavy with tension, a stark contrast to the beauty of the surroundings.

Oliver, standing by one of the large windows, gazed beyond the garden. His posture was rigid, but his face, faintly illuminated by the light's reflection, bore a mix of sadness and frustration. He broke the silence.

"There are things that can never be undone," he began, his voice low but clear enough for everyone in the hall to hear. "Some events… orchestrated by criminals, altered the course of our family. Changed what we could have been. Life could have been different."

Beatrice, seated elegantly on a nearby sofa, slowly raised her gaze. There was a cold gleam in her eyes, something between curiosity and provocation.

"Different, Oliver? What exactly went wrong? And whose fault was it?" She leaned forward slightly, her words as sharp as blades. "Tyranny? Villains? Oh, of course… but to me, it's the scoundrels who seduce with absolute charm. Is that the explanation you're looking for?"

Oliver closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, but his expression remained calm. He knew Beatrice always spoke with words driven by emotion, but he had no intention of backing down. He opened his eyes and looked directly at her.

"I'm not looking for explanations, Mother. I'm asking you to see the facts." He gestured toward the garden, as if the trees outside were silent witnesses. "The story isn't just about what happened to us, but about what we continue to ignore, what we continue to perpetuate—for better or for worse."

Robert, standing nearby, crossed his arms. He exchanged a glance with Jared, who was at his side, and both silently agreed. There was some truth in Oliver's words, even if the hall was now steeped in a sour atmosphere.

Clarice, who had remained silent in the corner of the room until then, let out a short, sarcastic laugh. She rose slowly, her eyes gleaming with a mix of anger and mockery.

"My heart breaks for you, brother," she began, her tone theatrical, "knowing you've spent so many years without your dear brother… Poor Oliver, he only had a sister. And what a terrible burden that must have been for you, wasn't it?"

The sarcasm in her voice was sharp, but her words carried an undercurrent of latent pain. She turned abruptly to face him, her fists clenched.

"I hate all of this!" she cried, her voice erupting through the hall like an unexpected storm. In a fit of fury, she grabbed a delicate vase from a nearby table and hurled it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass echoed through the room, followed by a tense silence.

Clarice, her chest heaving, turned sharply and began ascending the stairs. Each step was heavy, marked by her anger. When she reached the top, she looked back, her eyes brimming with tears.

"I hate all of you," she muttered before vanishing down the corridor.

Beatrice, still seated, raised her arms in a gesture that was equal parts exasperation and surrender. Her voice sliced through the silence with a question laden with irony.

"And now? How exactly do we fix this, Oliver?"

The hall remained cloaked in a heavy silence. Robert, ever imposing in his stance, felt weary, while Jared averted his gaze, uncertain of how to respond. Oliver, however, stood motionless, his eyes fixed on the empty space where Clarice had stood.

"Perhaps," he said, almost to himself, "some things don't need fixing. Perhaps they need rebuilding."

Beatrice studied him for a moment, her eyes weighing every word. But she did not respond. She simply leaned back into the sofa, a faint, ironic smile curling her lips.

The warm glow of the Campbell Mansion's ornamental lamps lit the main entrance, casting long shadows over the stone path that led to the driveway. Inside, the sound of calm voices lingered, echoing the close of a productive day. Outside, however, the atmosphere was entirely different.

Aster, Damián, and Mason walked toward the car, waiting for the latter two. Their steps were slow, almost hesitant, as if something still needed to be said before they departed.

The night wind carried with it the scent of flowers but could not dispel the weight of the silence among them. The tranquility of their surroundings seemed to mock the unease shadowing them, growing heavier with each step. The trio walked side by side, but their minds were distant, entangled in the implications of what lay ahead.

Damián led the way, his shoulders tense, his posture revealing the internal struggle he was waging. Suddenly, he stopped and turned to face Aster and Mason. His eyes searched theirs, perhaps for a thread of certainty or a sign that they shared some unspoken understanding.

"They were watching me," Mason said, his voice low but charged with urgency. "Setsu and Fitzgerald. It wasn't just curiosity… there was something in their eyes, like they were piecing together a puzzle."

Damián furrowed his brow, crossing his arms with deliberate precision. His gaze hardened, as though Mason's words had crystallized something he had already suspected. People like them don't assemble puzzles, he thought. They hunt.

"Fitzgerald isn't just a bodyguard," Damián replied bluntly. "That man has training, experience, and neither scruples nor kindness. He was studying you, Mason. This isn't a coincidence."

Aster, always attuned to detail, sighed deeply before speaking. "If they know something, we're all in danger," he murmured. "We need to figure out why. We can't underestimate this."

Damián narrowed his eyes, his expression hardening further. He stepped forward, his voice cutting through the air with sharp intensity. "Figure it out, Aster? We don't have that luxury. They're a clear threat, and threats need to be eliminated before they spiral out of control."

Mason blinked, surprised by the coldness of the statement, but kept his composure. "Eliminated?" he repeated, trying to measure the implications of the word.

"Yes," Damián replied without hesitation. "During the tournament, they won't be vulnerable, but we'll have open opportunities. No distractions, no second chances. That will be the perfect moment."

Aster crossed his arms, tension etched into his features. "This has to be done with precision," he asserted. "If we leave traces, we could raise suspicions about ourselves. We can't act impulsively, Damián. A mistake here isn't an option."

The two began mapping out possible scenarios, their discussion taking on a clinical, almost surgical tone. They spoke of weaknesses, escape routes, and the safest times to act. Every word carried the weight of those who knew that one misstep could be fatal.

Damián leaned closer, his voice dropping to a near-conspiratorial whisper.

"The Great Hunt," he began, his voice brimming with lethal confidence. "Everyone will be out in the field, distracted, focused on their own targets. It will be the only time the stage is empty, the curtains wide open for us."

Aster furrowed his brow, mulling over the idea. "The space will be vast, the terrain unpredictable. We need something that works, no matter where they are."

Damián smirked, a cold glint in his eyes. He dragged the sole of his shoe across the damp ground, sketching an imaginary plan in the dirt.

Aster leaned in slightly, his eyes locked on Damián's face. "A human hunt," he murmured, absorbing the concept. "No firearms. No traces."

"Exactly," Damián confirmed. He continued drawing invisible strategies on the ground with his shoe, marking probable positions for Fitzgerald and Setsu. "Those two won't be active hunters, just silent overseers."

"Poison," Damián said plainly. "Something discreet but unforgiving. We can poison our weapons. That way, we can eliminate any looming threats and still conduct a swift interrogation."

"Arrows," Aster suggested, his tone measured. "Silent and precise. One well-placed shot and—"

Damián raised his hand, cutting him off. "Arrows could work, but we need certainty. I don't want room for error. We'll lure each of them into direct confrontations, hand-to-hand combat. Knives. If the strike is precise, the death will be swift and clean."

Aster hesitated but soon nodded. "Direct combat means we'll need to isolate them completely. And lure them in."

Aster rested his chin in his hand, studying the improvised, imaginary diagram on the ground. "We need to draw each of them out separately. If we attack both at the same time, the risk of one alerting the other is too great."

Mason, however, remained silent. He turned his gaze to the sky, where the stars gleamed indifferently to the storm raging within him. After a long moment, a melancholic smile curved his lips, and he broke the silence.

"You remind me of Peter Pan," he said, his tone unexpectedly soft.

Aster and Damián paused their discussion, staring at him with puzzled expressions. It was Damián who broke the moment, raising an eyebrow.

"Peter Pan?" he repeated, incredulous. "What the hell does that have to do with what we're talking about?"

Mason let out a brief laugh, tinged with sadness. "Yes. Peter Pan. Always off on adventures, treating dangers like games. But you, Damián… you're different. You're Peter Pan with a license to kill."

Aster tilted his head, studying Mason. He stepped closer, his voice firm yet gentle. "Mason," he said, "you're far away from here, aren't you? What's really going through your mind?"

Mason shook his head, looking away. "I just find it strange," he admitted. "We're here, planning… things that will take lives. And yet, there's something about the two of you that makes it feel right. Like I'm in a story that isn't mine."

Damián relaxed his stance, though his voice remained steady. "Listen, Mason. It doesn't matter what's happening; you're part of this. You're with us. And we take care of our own."

Aster nodded, his expression marked with determination. "He's right. We'll do what needs to be done. But above all, we'll make sure no one touches you."

Mason sighed, the smile returning, still laden with melancholy. "Peter Pan with a license to kill," he murmured again, almost to himself. "Good to know the Lost Boys have my back."

Damián let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "If I'm Peter Pan, then you're Tinker Bell. Always complaining, but always there."

Aster allowed himself a faint smile, letting that moment of levity break, for an instant, the mounting tension.

The Kadman Mansion stood tall and imposing under the soft glow of the moon. Its ornate windows reflected hues of gold and white—a classical architecture that exuded elegance and deep roots in fortune and success. As the car carrying Damián and Mason approached, the main gate opened silently, revealing pristine gardens and an illuminated entrance that served as a dazzling invitation.

Mason gazed out the window, lost in thought. It was hard not to feel a sense of awe at the grandeur of the place. He broke the silence.

"I never thought I'd say this, but it's good to be home."

Damián raised an eyebrow, a fleeting smirk playing at the corner of his lips.

"Home? This is just a theatrical interlude in your life, Mason."

Despite the casual tone, Mason felt the lightness dissipate as they walked through the property. The mansion's welcoming atmosphere contrasted sharply with something growing inside him: a sense of belonging. Mason was a fugitive, a thief of secrets, someone who navigated the shadows of society. Even among allies, he couldn't shake the weight of being a man perpetually on the run.

As they stepped into the main hall, the bright light bathing the room momentarily blinded them. The walls and ornaments gleamed as though capturing sunlight, even at night. Despite the beauty, there was an undertone of coldness within him. The murmur of voices carried from one of the adjoining rooms, where a group was gathered.

Minutes Earlier…

The lights reflected off golden ornaments and polished surfaces, giving the space a warm yet stately atmosphere. Gunnar and Gretta sat in elegant chairs, while Elizabeth and Malcolm carried on a calm conversation. Benjamin, ever commanding in his posture, listened attentively, while Taylor stood close to Adam, silent but observant.

It was Gretta who broke the serenity of the conversation; her sweet voice tinged with a subtly calculated undertone.

"Was Damián always so… headstrong, Benjamin?" she asked, her casual smile hinting at an unspoken motive. "Or was he ever different as a child—perhaps more… manageable?"

Benjamin looked up at Gretta, his tone calm, though a flicker of irritation shone in his eyes.

"Damián was a sweet child, Gretta. Kind, generous. But he's been through a lot. When he lost his father… something shifted. He closed himself off—it all happened too fast. That kind of pain can harden anyone. I suppose it hardened all of us."

Elizabeth leaned forward slightly, her expression softening at Benjamin's words.

"That's true," she said with a reassuring smile. "Damián was just a child. Losing someone so vital in his life changed him. It's not obstinacy; it's protection."

Gretta raised an eyebrow, as though considering Elizabeth's words.

"Loss is, without a doubt, something that changes people. But… does it always have to be so… radical? I mean, he lost himself—he never sought out the family that could have helped fill that void. It seems he chose isolation over seeking support."

Malcolm leaned forward with a thoughtful and almost paternal tone. 

"Gretta is partially right. Damián isn't stubborn in a negative way. He's resilient. Not just anyone can face so much adversity and still stand tall. Benjamin, I'd say he gets a bit of that from you." 

Benjamin nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting a mix of pride and melancholy. 

"Damián does have a lot of me in him, but he also has a heart that never fully hardened. Even after everything, he still fights for the people he loves." 

Gretta offered a faint smile, though there was something condescending in it. 

"Fighting is admirable, but it can also be... dangerous. He's independent, yes, but sometimes independence can push away those who want to help." 

Adam seized the opportunity to lighten the mood further. He chuckled softly, leaning toward Benjamin. 

"Well, Mr. Benjamin, it seems Damián takes after you, then. Stubbornness seems to run in the family." 

Malcolm nodded in agreement, his voice calm yet firm. 

"He's a Williams, after all. Strength and focus run in his blood." 

Meanwhile, Andrews remained quiet, turning his whiskey glass in his hands, his eyes fixed on the amber liquid. His silence spoke more than any words could. 

At that moment, the sound of footsteps echoed through the hall, drawing everyone's attention to the main door. Damián and Mason entered, their presence cutting through the air like a blade. Silence fell over the group, and unspoken words hung in the atmosphere like an invisible shadow. 

Elizabeth was the first to speak, her smile a mix of sweetness and something deeper curving her lips. 

"Ah, here's the man of the hour," she said as if offering a compliment. 

Damián spread his arms in a theatrical gesture, his eyes gleaming with something not entirely humorous. 

"I hope you're not talking about me." The words carried a hint of irony, but there was an underlying weight he couldn't quite hide. 

Benjamin didn't mask his happiness, but Andrews remained serious. 

"Just observing your brother, who always knew who he was, to which family he belonged, and yet lived without seeking his origins. Admirable, in a way." 

"Or not," he added. "It makes him... independent. Perhaps too much so." 

Damián crossed the hall with soft steps, the sound of his soles echoing lightly in the impeccably lit space. His posture was confident, almost carefree, but there was a hidden caution in his eyes, a shadow no one else could see. When he stopped in front of Benjamin, his father, their exchanged glance bore the weight of a relationship still fragile, built more on formalities than genuine affection. 

Benjamin, however, allowed a slight, almost emotional smile to slip through. He extended his hand toward Damián, but at the last second, turned it into a brief yet sincere hug. 

"It's good to see you here, son," he said, his voice laden with something close to pride. 

Damián hesitated for a moment before accepting the gesture. His tone was neutral yet polite. 

"It's good to see you too, I suppose." 

Benjamin gently squeezed his shoulder before stepping back, still smiling. The love he felt for his son was evident in his gaze, even if it wasn't reciprocated to the same degree. 

Beside Benjamin, Andrews stood observing the interaction with calculated eyes. Andrews, with his commanding presence, was the kind of man who dominated a room simply by being in it. Tall, with fiery red hair that seemed to catch every ray of light and golden eyes that gleamed like amber, he was a force of nature. His serious expression carried a magnetic air that was hard to ignore. 

Damián turned to him, his eyes studying Andrews with a mix of curiosity and detachment. What was he supposed to feel? He had lost Janine, his sister, and now he had a brother. But the raw truth was… he felt nothing. No affection, no resentment. Just a practical emptiness.

Andrews stepped forward and extended his hand, the gesture firm and direct.

"Damián," he said, his voice deep and imbued with authority.

Damián shook his hand with equal firmness.

"Andrews," he replied simply, without emotion but also without hostility.

There was a brief but significant pause. Then Andrews did something unexpected. He pulled Damián into a quick, formal hug that, curiously, didn't feel forced.

"Welcome back to the family," he said, stepping back with a faint smile.

Mason, who had been watching from the corner of his eye, felt a lump in his throat as he took in Andrews up close. His presence was overwhelming, like that of an Olympian god.

"This… this isn't fair," he thought, quickly averting his gaze. "How can someone be so… perfect? Tall, red-haired, golden-eyed… He's like a Renaissance painting come to life."

Biting his lip, Mason tried not to blush, but when Andrews looked directly at him and gave a slight nod, his heart raced.

"Focus, Mason. Focus," he repeated to himself, trying to maintain his composure.

Damián noticed Mason's discomfort and decided to intervene, introducing him.

"This is Mason," he said with a slight smile. "A close friend… and someone very special."

Mason blinked, surprised by Damián's choice of words. He tried to say something but ended up merely nodding shyly at Andrews, who regarded him with a curious look before responding:

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mason." His voice was deep but carried an unexpected gentleness.

Soon, the group was ushered into the dining room, where an elaborate meal awaited them. The table, meticulously decorated, looked like a work of art in itself. Mason sat directly across from Andrews, clearly excited but trying not to make it obvious.

As conversations flowed, revolving around the tournament and recent activities, Damián commented casually:

"The gardens at the Phillips Mansion are impressive. The architecture and design truly capture their grandeur."

Mason, who had been quiet until then, decided to chime in.

"Impressive, yes. But… I didn't feel safe there."

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"Didn't feel safe? Why, Mason?"

Mason set down his utensils and, with a genuinely shocked expression, looked around to draw everyone's attention.

"Clarice told us, quite clearly, that there are snakes in the gardens. Literally. I was horrified!

A place so beautiful, and they allow something like that?

Literally. Snakes. I'm still trying to understand how anyone can live in a place so beautiful and, at the same time, so… deadly.

What a lack of concern for safety!"

Mason's statement was so unexpected that Damián couldn't hold back his laughter. He threw his head back, letting out a loud laugh that echoed through the room.

"Snakes in the gardens!" he exclaimed between laughs. "Mason, the snakes weren't there to attack you. They probably have bigger problems… like surviving visitors like you."

Mason crossed his arms, pretending to be offended.

"Laugh all you want, Damián. But it's true. It's a dangerous place!"

Elizabeth, observing the exchange with an amused smile, couldn't hold back her laughter either.

"Well, at least we know you have a keen sense of security, Mason," she said with a chuckle.

Mason shrugged, trying to maintain his dignity.

"I'm just saying… someone should warn them about the risks. It's a real danger. If that's how they treat their home, imagine the castle in the mountains…"

Taylor, overhearing this, almost choked but managed to suppress her reaction. *"This idiot is openly mocking the Phillips family… and Lady Elizabeth finds it amusing?"* she thought, indignantly.

To Taylor, if you put a tent over the grand hall, it would become a circus; fence it in, and it would be a madhouse. Mason was either a clown or a madman in her eyes.

The atmosphere grew light again, the laughter dissipating any lingering tension. Benjamin, who had been observing Mason with curiosity throughout the conversation, leaned forward slightly.

"You've got a point, Mason," he said in a tone that was serious yet playful. "Never trust a place that's too beautiful. The subtlest dangers are always well hidden."

Mason smiled, clearly more relaxed.

"Exactly! Finally, someone understands what I'm saying!"

Damián shook his head, still smiling. For the first time that day, he felt at ease, recalling Mason's words from earlier: *It's good to be home.* He felt he could relax, even if only for a brief moment.

Benjamin was now engaged in an animated conversation with Elizabeth and Malcolm, the gleam in his eyes betraying his excitement.

"It's a stunning region," he said, his eyes alight with anticipation. "I want something close to my son. Being near him isn't just a desire—it's a necessity."

Malcolm nodded, smiling with understanding.

"It will be a pleasure to have you nearby, Benjamin. The Galway Valley is a special place. I believe you'll find the peace you're searching for—and the sense of belonging we all need."

Benjamin spent a few more minutes sharing stories about his travels and the impact he hoped to make by returning to his roots. After a while, he bid everyone goodnight and retired to the guest room. The house, once filled with voices, sank into the serene silence of the night. Only the sound of the wind brushing against the windows and the distant rustle of leaves broke the stillness.

Adam, who had been part of the conversation, excused himself discreetly to take an urgent phone call. Taylor, ever vigilant, offered to assist him with an emergency plan involving a sunken oil tanker, and the two stepped away. This left only Damián and Andrews in the main hall, an opportunity Andrews seemed to have waited for patiently.

Andrews stood silent for a moment, observing Damián with an inscrutable gaze. Finally, he took a deep breath, as if gathering the courage to voice what had been weighing on him.

"I searched for my brother," he began, his voice low but laden with emotion, "day and night, endlessly. And you, holding the remedy to fix all of this… refuse to share that peace with me?"

Damián remained motionless, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on his brother. There was no urgency in his eyes, only a cold patience, as if he was prepared to listen without interruption.

Andrews took a step closer, the intensity in his voice rising with each word.

"I lost half my heart for you," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "And you claim you did it out of love? Every time I looked at the door to your room, waiting for you to return, I died of longing. Why such cruelty and coldness?"

The words hung heavily in the air between them, but Andrews wasn't finished. He clenched his fists at his sides, his golden eyes locked onto Damián's.

"Why aren't you on your knees, begging for forgiveness? You act like a god… cruel and selfish… who believes he has the right to disrupt lives, alter destinies, and hover untouchable above good and evil."

Damián raised his eyebrows slightly, spreading his arms in an ironic gesture, not entirely devoid of emotion. He took a step back, letting a faint, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips—one loaded with meaning.

"You think you understand all of this," he began, his voice calm but with an unmistakable edge. "Here's the truth… I died. I skipped the hypocritical funeral and buried myself without anyone's help."

Damián's words landed like a final blow, leaving Andrews momentarily speechless. Without looking back, Damián turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing down the empty corridor, leaving Andrews alone with his anger and frustration.

Yet, like a quiet shadow, Mason appeared from a nearby corner, his seemingly harmless presence breaking the tension. He approached Andrews with a friendly smile, though there was a sharp glint in his eyes.

"Damián is strong," Mason said, his tone casual but his words precise. "But sometimes, being strong is just his way of hiding how much he cares. And maybe… just maybe… he's waiting for someone to see past that."

Andrews turned slowly to face him, his expression still marked by the earlier confrontation.

"And you are…?" he asked, his voice heavy with distrust.

Mason extended a hand, the same friendly smile still on his face.

"Mason. Your brother's special friend," he said, with a slight emphasis on the word "special." He waited a moment before continuing, his voice adopting a more sincere tone. "And as Damián's friend, I promise I'll do everything in my power to help you both find… some balance. You can count on me, Andrews."

Andrews tilted his head slightly, studying Mason carefully. There was something disarming about this omega, something that seemed trivial, yet near him, people always ended up smiling.

"All right, Mason," he finally replied, his tone inscrutable. "I'll remember that."

Mason gave a small nod, satisfied with himself. He knew he had left an impression, an opening for something greater. And as Andrews continued to reflect on Damián's words and actions, Mason slipped away with the same subtlety as he had arrived, leaving only the unspoken promise that, in this intricate game, he would always find a way to position himself on the board.