Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Five minutes had passed and Don now stood near the bedroom door, one hand resting against the knob, the other hanging casually at his side.

His breath was even. Neutral and composed. Whatever lingering tension had been in the room earlier was now buried beneath the usual armor of nonchalance.

But then—

**Ding**

A glowing prompt flickered into view, neat and self-congratulatory:

———

Side Quest Complete

Reward: +100 Aura

Total Aura: 1734

———

He blinked once, barely able to acknowledge it before the message faded.

Behind him, Samantha stood by the bathroom doorway, still half-turned away. Her cheeks hadn't fully cooled. The flush clung stubbornly to her skin, painting her in a tone of warmth.

Don glanced at her from the corner of his eye, keeping his tone casual. "By the way," he said, "I'll be heading out in about an hour. Got a meeting at SHQ."

Samantha's lips parted slightly. She then paused for a moment before replying—"S-sure thing, honey," she stammered, voice breathy and soft. "I'll just take a shower and, uhm… check my emails."

She didn't look at him.

Her hand had tightened faintly on the doorframe, as if bracing herself. Her gaze stayed fixed on the wooden paneling ahead, refusing to drift. Don didn't push it.

She was struggling—but not badly. Not painfully. Just flustered in the way people got when emotions outpaced logic. He knew the look. And he couldn't blame her.

He offered a soft shrug, his voice still calm. "Alright. The network's back, by the way s I'll let you know if anything comes up."

Samantha nodded weakly. "Alright, sweetie." But still, she didn't turn.

Don took the hint and opened the door with a muted click, stepping out and pulling it shut behind him.

Back inside the room, Samantha stood unmoving for a few seconds more. Her hand lifted, fingers lightly pressing against her chest.

She sighed. "Goodness… my heart won't stop pounding…"

The whisper barely left her lips before she closed her eyes for a second, then let her hand fall. A soft smile touched her face—quiet, almost sheepish.

'But I think it really helped him' she thought. 'He's bolder, at least… and good with his hands—no—no…'

She shook her head quickly, before turning on her heel as the blush returned full force. The bathroom door shut behind her with a gentle thnk.

—

Back in Don's room, the air was cooler. Because of the meeting, he had decided a change of attire was in order.

He stood near the mirror, adjusting the collar of the white long-sleeved shirt he now wore. The top buttons remained undone, not for style but out of habit. His brown chinos were smooth, pressed. The white sneakers—clean enough to pass as effort.

He stared at his reflection, one hand running back through his hair to settle the last rebellious strands.

"Wow," he muttered, unimpressed. "I look like a guy who thinks life is all sunshine and rainbows."

His expression didn't change, but he turned away, grabbing a navy blue short-zipped sweater from the chair and threw it on. His aviators were next—set to clear-lens mode. He looked again.

"…Now I look like I go to a private college," he murmured.

This however was acceptable so no more fiddling was done.

With nothing left to do in his room, he turned to leave—but then buzz. His phone vibrated in his pocket.

Don picked it up with one hand, thumb flicking across the screen. He found he had three new messages from Gary.

———

Good morning sir. As per your request, I've deployed a few minions to look for signs of the escaped Hell Riders' members. I should have an update by day's end.

———

Don read on.

———

On another note, I think it would be a good idea for us to utilize the current chaos and media distraction to import more worker droids. Possibly bring in a few specialists as well.

———

He raised a brow slightly. 'Specialists?' The word didn't need much decoding. It was vague enough to be flexible, yet clear enough to be ominous.

He kept scrolling.

———

The young madam seems to be in fine spirits this morning but has expressed concern over the attempt on your family. She may request permission to interrogate the prisoner soon. If you want the prisoner to remain sane and functional, I recommend denying that request.

———

Don narrowed his eyes. Not because it surprised him. But because the phrasing wasn't a warning—it was a forecast.

He tapped out a reply quickly:

———

Do what you have to and keep me updated if anything else. I've got a meeting at SHQ I need to attend. Might go south. Be on standby starting 2pm.

———

Message sent.

He locked the phone and tucked it back into his pocket.

With the message sent, Don turned away from the direction of the door and went to sit down at his desk, fingers tapping lightly against the edge before he decided to open the secure interface of Gary Assist via his aviators.

Gary Assist lit up the screen, its interface already primed—efficient. Like it always had something ready before you even knew you needed it.

"Look into the agency's top brass," Don muttered. "I want a list. Prioritize potential meeting attendees."

The system didn't reply with sound. Just immediate movement. Files, names, photos. Data pulled from public records, social interactions, donations, media appearances. Gary Assist didn't just search—it analyzed.

A second window slid open. A probability matrix populated in real time, percentages ticking and shifting as it worked. Don leaned in.

———

Director Graham: 87% chance of leading the strongest internal faction.

Mr. Barclay: 76% chance of heading the rival group.

———

Underneath each were activity logs—events attended, press statements, notable absences. The patterns weren't just informative. They were telling.

Don's eyes narrowed slightly.

'So that's how it is.'

This disaster— plant like parasites, collapsed infrastructure, civilian panic—it was hell for the public. But for the agency? It seemed like a stage. A chance to stake claims while no one was looking.

On paper, it was just internal conflict. Management. Policy debates. But Don could recognize the scent of a power grab. It was the same everywhere. Just better dressed.

He scrolled down to start digging into lesser-known names—but his ear twitched.

Faint … familiar.

A helicopter.

He paused.

'That has to be it.'

Don stood up, already walking toward the door. Another thought passed, dry and instinctive. 'Where the hell is he planning on landing that thing?'

As he stepped out of his room, the sound grew louder—clear but not invasive. It wasn't a news chopper or emergency crew. It was more controlled. The kind of sound that made people look up and wonder who had the money.

Just as he reached the top of the stairs, Summer emerged from her room, rubbing sleep out of her eyes with one hand, her other still clutching the edge of her oversized hoodie.

"Hey guys—there's a helicopter outs—"

"It's for me," Don cut in, already moving past her.

She blinked at him. "Going where? My city alert just said we're all supposed to stay indoors today for mandatory parasite testing." She wrinkled her nose. "Like, ew. Did you know about this? Hey—wait—I'm talking to—"

"First time hearing that," Don answered distantly, descending the stairs two at a time.

Summer's voice followed, grumbling and confused. "Rude."

Downstairs, Winter was already waiting by the entrance, posture straight, arms at her sides. She didn't blink as Don approached.

"There's an unidentified R62 Stan—"

"I'm aware," Don cut her off too. "I'll be out most of the day. Alert me if anything happens. And keep an eye out for any unfamiliar visitors."

Winter gave a single nod. "Affirmative."

Don didn't linger.

He stepped onto the porch just as the helicopter completed its descent.

It wasn't massive—more of a neat , predatory mid-sized unit, all chrome edges and matte silver plating. Its design had the same stylistic cues as Charles's "Silvering"—angular shell, modular landing struts, and an underbelly coated in dark anti-glare composite.

The rotors kicked up the loose leaves in the yard. **Whrrr-WHHRRR.**

It hovered briefly before settling onto the street with a quiet chk-thunk, the landing gear absorbing the impact like it was bored of touching down.

Don walked calmly toward it, his hair fluttering faintly in the downdraft.

Across the street, a few neighbors had stepped out onto their porches, lured by the noise and novelty. Among them was Cassie from next door—robe open just enough to say it wasn't accidental.

Her gaze followed Don's approach. Not subtly.

Her eyes tracked his steps—lingering a beat too long on his rear as he neared the open hatch. She didn't bother hiding the smirk appearing at the edge of her lips either.

Don didn't glance her way.

The chopper's door open with a smooth pfffshht, the cabin dimly lit inside. Cool air spilled out, carrying a faint metallic scent that always came with high-end tech.

Don climbed in without a word and the door slid shut behind him.