Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The hallway was darker than Don remembered.

Not that it mattered. His footsteps knew the way. Soft thuds against the carpet, one after another until he reached the familiar door—still slightly ajar from earlier.

He nudged it open and stepped inside.

The bed sat neatly made, a few manuals still stacked on the desk beside a glass of water long gone lukewarm. A small lamp glowed faintly in the corner, casting long shadows that didn't bother him.

He didn't go for the bed right away.

Instead, he sat on the edge, elbows resting on his knees, fingers loosely. His body was tired—there was no denying that—but his mind wasn't ready to shut down. It spun too fast, cycling through the day's scenes like a film on loop.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

The screen lit up immediately.

[No local network detected. Maintain satellite connection?]

He tapped "Yes" without hesitation.

The connection stabilized in seconds.

Two names flashed at the top: Elle. Gary.

He opened Elle's first.

The message was short—too short for comfort. Just a line of text and an attachment.

———

We found Sister Rose and destroyed her body, but the thing inside her head escaped. I'm Sorry.

———

He tapped the image.

It filled the screen immediately. Grainy, low-light, but detailed enough. Rose's corpse lay twisted in the dirt, her head split open from crown to chin. The body was naked, blood-streaked, eyes frozen mid-horror.

Don's gaze held on it for a moment.

No reaction. No wince. Just a faint flicker of surprise that passed as quickly as it came.

He typed back:

———

-Don't worry about it. We'll get her—or it—eventually.

-Are you alright though?

-What exactly happened?

———

He hit send, then backed out to Gary's thread.

The first message was clean and formal:

———

Good evening, sir. We've successfully received the prisoner you sent. Quite the unique specimen. She's still sedated and in a holding cell. Do you have further instructions?

———

Don responded immediately.

———

Just keep her fed.

———

Another message was waiting.

———

Due to the chaos from the Green Thorns, several detainees escaped local incarceration—including Hell Riders gang leaders and a few enforcers. How do you wish to proceed?

———

Don exhaled sharply through his nose. His thumbs were already moving.

———

Try and track down the leaders.

———

There was one more update.

———

The young madam and Miss Trixie were successful in their operation. I've compiled a report on the location and what we learned—it may prove useful, especially given the city's attention will likely shift to this threat.

———

A blinking attachment sat at the bottom.

Don didn't open it yet.

He leaned back slightly, phone resting on his thigh.

Summer's voice floated back to him—not the bratty, sarcastic jabs, but the quieter moment. "It already looks like you're gonna be ten times busier soon."

She wasn't wrong.

He'd wanted a quiet night. Just a movie. Some comfort. A couch.

Instead?

Corpses, escapees, missions, and shifting threats.

He sighed. Longer this time. 'Will it get easier with time?'

He didn't answer that thought. Didn't try to. It didn't matter.

The phone lit up again.

He opened the report.

Eyes narrowed.

Focus returned.

The night wasn't over.

———

The following morning…

Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt. Bzzzzt.

Don's alarm broke through the thin veil of morning tranquility, dragging him from the shallow end of sleep. Not that he'd gotten much of it.

His mind had only slowed around 3 in the morning—too late for a full recharge, too early for any real rest.

He didn't move.

Just lay there for a while, eyes half-lidded and unfocused, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The blanket was warm, the pillow still held the faintest scent of detergent, and the dull ache behind his eyes told him everything he needed to know.

He wasn't ready for today.

"One more hour won't hurt," he muttered under his breath, voice low and gravelled.

He sank back beneath the sheets, body turning slightly as he let his head fall sideways into the pillow.

It lasted exactly fourteen minutes.

**Pop**

A soft sound—not too loud, but distinct—buzzed from his phone. He groaned, arm flopping out from under the blanket like a dying fish to reach for the device.

His thumb slid across the screen lazily.

Network Restored.

A dull prompt displayed immediately. He barely had time to acknowledge it before the next notification slid across the screen.

-----

Agency Update: Mandatory Meeting.

Today – 2PM – HQ Campus

Attendance required: All active members, field & office. Special Program members included.

-----

Don exhaled hard.

"So much for a not-so-busy day."

He sat up slowly, spine clicking with faint crk crk crk sounds as he stretched his arms forward. His joints weren't stiff from age. They were stiff from overuse.

Jogging was off the table.

He settled for meditation—cross-legged, eyes closed, hands on his knees. Just breathing. Ten minutes of stillness and internal reset. Then, stretches. Quiet, focused. Movements done more out of habit than necessity.

The shower followed. Quick. Nothing too complicated. Just water and soap and the faint steam that fogged up the mirror.

When he finally emerged, dressed in sweatpants and a plain black shirt, the house was already stirring.

Downstairs, the light from the living room bled faintly into the hall.

As he approached, he caught movement.

Winter.

She was already mid-cleaning cycle—gliding between furniture with a cloth in one hand and a compact vacuum disk following behind her like a loyal pet. Her body was immaculate. No signs of strain or damage from yesterday's chaos. You'd never guess she'd nearly shorted out fighting a lady with snakes for hair and her furry companion.

She paused when she noticed him.

"Good morning, Master Don," she said, tone cool and pristine. "Did you happen to host a recreational gathering while I was under sled repair?"

He blinked. "What?"

Winter gestured toward the couch with a faint tilt of her head. "I've detected signs of beverage consumption and prolonged chair indentation consistent with human relaxation rituals: lounging, viewing, or post-combat sulking."

Don scratched his neck as he stepped into the living room. "Movie night."

"I see," she replied neutrally. "Would you like breakfast?"

"Yeah. The usual."

"Understood." She turned and glided toward the kitchen, leaving no further comment.

Don grabbed the remote from the armrest, clicked on the TV.

**Click**

The screen flared to life with color and static, immediately tuned to a live broadcast.

"…still waiting on emergency response teams as fires continue to burn across several residential zones—"

The voice was urgent. Footage rolled: overhead drone shots of Green Thorns attack sites. Fires. Civilians scattering. Street cams catching flashes of violence, blurred faces, glowing green.

Don stood still, beer can from the night before still sitting on the table beside him. He was surprised to see that this was still ongoing.

Analysts chimed in mid-broadcast.

"…no official claim from the group's leadership, with Nightshade in prison, refusing to cooperate. It's still unclear whether these attacks are coordinated or purely reactionary. Never in the history of Santos City has the city experienced such a vicious attack from an otherwise comically rated villain organization…"

Another clip showed what looked like one of the Hell Riders gang members, due to his jacket—possibly one of the escapees Gary had mentioned—fleeing into the back of a stolen armored truck.

Don's jaw tightened just slightly.

**Bzzzzt**

His phone vibrated again. This time, not a notification. A call.

He glanced down.

Charles.

Don stared at the screen, thumb hovering just above the accept button.

Of all people.

"...Great," he muttered. "This better be something good."

Don stared at the caller ID for another moment before finally accepting the call. The screen blinked once, then the familiar voice came through—crisp and composed, even through the line's mild compression.

"Good morning, Don," Charles said. "Apologies for the early call, but I take it you received the message from the Agency too?"

Don adjusted his grip on the phone and leaned back into the couch, exhaling through his nose. "No worries. I got it. Can't say I know what it's about, though. Still new to the program."

Charles's tone shifted, the usual polished cadence edged with something quieter—concern, maybe.

"Well, my source tells me one of the topics being discussed today could prove… problematic. At least, to us."

That pulled Don upright.

"How?"

"I think it's better if we discuss it in person," Charles replied. "That's the second reason I called. There's something you need to see. I'd prefer we not go into details over the phone."

Don tilted his head slightly. Whether Charles was genuinely being cautious or just didn't trust Don's digital security, he couldn't be sure. Either way, curiosity had already sunk its claws in.

Considering how many lives they'd claimed during the The Crown Coliseum Casino incident—there was no doubt it was connected.

His own knowledge gaps in this world were still massive. And when it came to navigating the politics of the Agency and Elite Hero Program, trusting Charles—at least in moments like this—wasn't the worst risk.

"I understand," Don said. "Where do we meet?"

"I'll send a helicopter to pick you up within the next two hours," Charles replied smoothly. "It's best you prepare for the meeting in advance. We'll likely spend quite a bit of time reviewing what I've found."

The longer Charles spoke, the more Don felt the itch of unease crawl up his spine—but he didn't show it. On the surface, he was all ease.

"Sure thing. Let me know when they're two minutes out."

There was a brief pause on the other end. Just enough to tell Don that Charles was wondering about the "two minutes" comment. Whether it was about paranoia or preference, Don didn't offer an explanation.

"…Alright," Charles said at last. "Until then."

The call cut. Just like that.

Don stared at the phone for a second, then let out a quiet sigh and shook his head. "Right…"

He pushed himself up and walked into the kitchen.

Winter was already there, moving with efficient grace between the counter and the stove. Utensils and ingredients lined up in symmetrical rows. The sizzling of oil, the occasional clink of a pan.

She didn't turn, but her voice carried clearly.

"Do you have another request, Master Don?"

"Yeah, actually," Don said as he leaned against the counter. "After you're done with mine, could you prep something else?"

"Understood."

Forty-five minutes later, Don sat cross-legged on the kitchen counter, finishing the last bite of his usual breakfast for that week—egg whites, protein loaf, something green that vaguely resembled kale.

Sunlight leaked in through the blinds, soft and warm.

Across from him, Winter stood beside a large serving tray now fully prepared. It held a near-perfectly presented breakfast: fresh toast, softly scrambled eggs, sliced fruit, a yogurt parfait topped with granola, and a side of mixed nuts. There was even a glass of fresh orange juice, condensation beading along its surface.

Winter placed the last utensil down with precise care.

"The meal is ready to be served," she said. "May I ask who its recipient will be?"

Don set his bowl in the sink and hopped down from the counter.

"It's for mom."

There was a pause. Then Winter added, "Oh. I see. You're planning a morning of rigorous bonding activity."

Don stopped mid-step.

He turned slowly, staring at Winter. "…What?"

Winter's expression didn't change. "The nutrient profile of the meal you consumed is known to promote increased testosterone and optimize sperm count."

Don blinked.

She added, "Though I recommend avoiding inbreeding. However, with proper genetic enhancement, the risk factors—"

"Okay—stop," Don interrupted, waving her off with one hand and glancing toward the kitchen entrance, paranoid someone might walk in.

"That's not what this is."

"There is no point in denying the obvious."

Don sighed, already picking up the tray. "Thanks for the breakfast."

Winter nodded, unfazed. "Of course."

He turned toward the hall, tray in hand, just shaking his head. 'Rigorous activities she says…'