Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The shockwave from the elevator blast hadn't even fully settled before panic took hold of the floor. The calm, elitist atmosphere vanished, replaced by frantic shouting and the clatter of heels against marble.

Men and women in designer suits and cocktail dresses scrambled for cover, some diving behind plush seating while others huddled near the glass viewing deck, as if the transparent barrier could somehow shield them from the chaos.

Donald crouched next to Hector, his phone gripped tightly in his hand, eyes darting across the screen. He muttered, "Shit!" before looking up at Don. "There's no signal in here. Like, at all."

That made Don frown. Without hesitation, he slipped his own phone from his pocket and checked. Nothing. Not even a flicker of service. Tori and Hector followed suit, each finding the same result: dead zones across the board.

For Don, this wasn't just inconvenient. It was troubling. 'I can't even access the satellite link through Gary Assist. That means the network isn't just down—it's being blocked.' His grip tightened around the phone. 'Shit.'

He didn't know what was happening, but experience had already taught him one harsh truth: coincidences were rare when it came to conflict in the superhuman world. And with the streak of events plaguing him lately, it was hard not to wonder if this, too, was somehow connected to him.

Those thoughts were fortified when the sharp crack of horrified screams echoed from the far end of the floor.

Heads turned instinctively toward the sound. Don and the others, along with the scattered elites crouched nearby, stared toward the twin staircases that spiraled down from the floor. What they saw made Don's stomach twist.

A group of patrons—men and women dressed in the same glamorous attire as everyone else—were being beaten down without mercy.

The weapons? Large green bats, gnarled and covered in thorny vines, each swing leaving bloody red bruises, wounds and tearing fabric. One man in a tailored navy suit fell to his knees, arms raised defensively as a bat cracked down on his forearm with a sickening **thud**, the jagged thorns ripping through skin. He cried out and collapsed, clutching his bleeding arm.

Another woman, her sequined gown glittering under the fractured light, tried to back away. She didn't get far. A silent attacker stepped forward, swinging the bat low. The impact against her shin was followed by a sharp **snap**, and her scream pierced the air as she crumpled, clutching her bloody leg.

The strangest—or perhaps most terrifying—part wasn't the brutality. It was the attackers themselves.

They looked like guests. Same tailored clothes, same expensive jewelry. But their faces were devoid of emotion, like puppets being marched to war. Hollow eyes, stiff postures, movements efficient but mechanical.

Donald's breath hitched. He recognized that look. That blank, soulless gaze. It was a memory he'd tried to bury deep, but it clawed its way back now with merciless clarity.

"Don…" Donald's voice trembled as he gripped Don's arm. "I think those are—"

"Yeah, I know," Don interrupted, eyes narrowing. 'The Church. Sister Rose.' The same expressionless husks who'd tried to kill him and Donald not so long ago.

No more hesitation. Don stood up, his gaze fixed on the advancing attackers. "You guys stay low and out of sight," he ordered, voice calm. "When I say move, you run and follow me."

Donald gulped and gave a shaky nod. Tori's brows furrowed with concern. "Will you be alright?" she asked quietly.

Before Don could answer, Hector pushed himself up as well, brushing dust from his pants. "Déjame ayudar, bro," he said, determination lighting up his features. "You might be in the elite hero program, but I'm not just some random civilian. Soy un héroe en training, too. I'm not about to hide and let you take on… whatever the fuck this is."

Don blinked, caught off guard by Hector's unexpected resolve. He'd always pegged the guy as all talk, but there was genuine grit in his stance now. Donald, emboldened by Hector's defiance, stood next. "Me too. I'm not hiding while you put your life on the line."

Without speaking, Tori rose, arms crossed and expression set. Her intentions were clear enough.

Don didn't argue. There wasn't time for debate, and quite frankly, they were old enough to make their own choices. If they wanted in, he wasn't going to play babysitter.

He nodded once, eyes sliding back to the advancing mob. "Alright," he muttered under his breath, fists clenching at his sides. "Beastshift."

The moment Don muttered the word, a rush of energy surged through him, sharp and electrifying. It had been days since he last activated Beastshift, and the sudden release sent a powerful sensation coursing through his veins.

His body felt lighter, more responsive, as his senses sharpened to an unnatural degree.

His eyes locked onto the four men ahead—**Boom!**

The moment he launched forward, a shockwave pushed outward from where he had stood. Debris skidded across the polished floor, causing some of the injured bystanders to flinch or shield their faces from the gust of displaced air.

In an instant, Don closed the distance, appearing right in front of the first man before anyone even had time to react.

Then—**thud!**

Don drove his fist into the man's gut. A dull, reverberating impact echoed as the force of the blow lifted the man slightly off the ground. His body went limp almost immediately, legs buckling beneath him as he crumpled where he stood.

The remaining three didn't so much as blink. Their faces remained void of emotion, their eerie focus locked onto Don as they moved in tandem, raising their weapons—long, vine-covered bats with jagged, thorn-like protrusions.

They swung in near-perfect coordination, their speed unnatural, their strikes aimed precisely at Don's head and torso.

Don narrowly avoided the first strike, shifting to the side as the bat whipped past his face. Another came down toward his shoulder, forcing him to pivot backward, feeling the rush of air from the swing.

The last opponent tried to sweep his legs, but Don reacted instinctively, leaping up just as the bat swiped beneath him.

Before his feet even touched the ground again, he lashed out with a powerful kick. **Crack!**

His foot connected with one of the attackers' chests, sending the man flying backward. The force sent him rolling down the nearby staircase, his limbs flailing as he tumbled out of sight.

The other two barely acknowledged their fallen ally. They readjusted instantly, stepping forward in perfect unison, gripping their weapons tightly as they prepared to strike again.

That's when Don heard movement behind him.

He didn't even need to turn around—he could sense them. Hector and the others had finally stepped forward, ready to fight.

But before they could do anything, a sudden and violent gust of wind tore through the floor.

**Whoosh!**

The sheer force of it nearly knocked Don off balance, forcing him to plant his feet firmly against the polished ground.

The two attackers weren't as lucky—one was slammed against the nearby wall, while the other lost his footing, tumbling down the steps before catching himself on the railing. Even then, his eerie, expressionless face remained unchanged, as if pain and disorientation meant nothing.

Don exhaled sharply, bracing himself as the source of the wind made his entrance.

From the far corridor, a figure emerged—shirtless, his frame illuminated by the dim stadium lighting. Large, metallic silver wings extended fully from his back, their edges sharp, their surface gleaming as they flexed.

Charles Monclaire.

Cuts and scrapes lined his skin, but his expression remained calm, collected. As if all of this was just another evening for him.

He met Don's gaze with a knowing smirk.

"Need a hand?"