Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Don emerged from the alley floor like smoke slipping through cracks in pavement.

The shadows peeled back slowly, revealing his form as it rose upright beside the black car. The minions were still loitering near it, shoulders hunched, breath quiet. The moment they noticed him—**shfft**—they snapped to attention.

"Suuu," they whispered in eerie unison, hands raised in crisp salutes.

Don didn't flinch.

"Keep watching their movements," he said, his voice calm but not tired. "Have Gary notify me if they try anything."

They nodded again. Another round of "Suu. Suu. Suu." One by one like cogs clicking into place.

He watched them for a second. Then just nodded back, and without fanfare, his body collapsed into the shadows beneath him—**fwoosh**—gone like a bad thought.

The minions saluted one last time—"Suuu"—and then looked at each other in silence. Finally, one wordlessly pulled open the car door and climbed in. The others followed.

Inside the vehicle, everything was sleek, leathered, dark—no less ominous than the man they served.

The driver twisted the key.

**Krr-k-krrrkk**

Nothing.

He twisted again.

**KRR-KKKKKRRRRKK***

Still nothing.

A frustrated minion in the back hissed, "Suu!" and slapped the one in the passenger seat on the shoulder. A chain reaction followed—more angry suus, pointed fingers, jabs to the ribs, a brief slap-fight that somehow stayed perfectly silent apart from the exasperated "suu" soundtrack.

Meanwhile—

A minute later, Don reappeared.

The shadows dropped him directly beside his bed in the new home, the darkness of his suit retreating into the small tattoo along his wrist like ink draining from a wound.

He exhaled sharply.

'This is a risky move.' He didn't say it aloud. Didn't need to. The room felt it.

Don stood still, the weight of what he'd just done stretching out inside his head. The threat, the order, the execution—clean, effective, terrifying.

But not perfect.

Perfection would've left no doubt. And doubt… was poison.

In his world now, even innocence wasn't enough. You could be cleared of everything, and they'd still leave the press release vague enough to keep the suspicion alive. A stain without a name, but yours by implication.

Everyone wanted a villain.

Don just chose to be one on purpose.

He stood in the dim light of his room, eyes barely moving. He didn't need to sit. He didn't need to rest. The body adapted. But the mind?

The mind lingered.

This was his second shot. The version of himself he was now—not the naive rookie, not the manipulated tool. He was meant to be a contender, not just a pawn who survived long enough to be useful.

But Charles... Charles made that harder.

Don didn't hate him. Didn't resent the support. But every victory that came with Charles' fingerprints on it felt borrowed. Like an IOU stapled to his chest. And IOUs didn't make you a player. They made you dependent.

He needed something of his own. Built from scratch. Something undeniable.

He stood there for a full minute before the knock came.

**Tnk-tnk**

A pause.

Then—

"It's me, sweetie," Samantha's voice filtered through the door. "I… brought you some food."

Don closed his eyes for a second and sighed. Quiet. Familiar.

This was the new routine. Meals behind doors. Not because they feared him. They didn't. Not yet. Not really.

But he was less available now. Less present. Always reading. Training. Plotting. Even when there was nothing immediate to solve, he hunted for pieces—anything to strengthen the board under his feet.

This wasn't about hunger. It was about routine.

And control.

He walked across the floor, steps soft on the matte tile, the low lighting reacting subtly to his movement—bronze shifting faintly to amber.

He reached the door. Exhaled again. Hand on the handle.

Just grab the plate. Say goodnight. Go back to the planning. That was the ritual. That was how this went now.

Don opened the door, expecting routine.

Instead, he found Samantha.

She stood quietly in the soft hall lighting, wrapped in a black and purple nightie that shimmered just enough to make the fabric look poured on.

The neckline dipped slightly—subtle, elegant, more sultry than she probably intended, with her cleavage right in the face of anyone standing close to her.

Her hips filled the lower hem with the kind of lazy perfection that only came from not caring how good you looked.

She adjusted her glasses with one hand, eyes rising to meet his with a warm, tired smile. The other hand held a foil-wrapped plate. Her fingers were trembling just slightly.

"Hi, sweetie."

Don didn't hesitate. He accepted the meal with a faint nod.

"How do you like the place?" His tone was easy. As always. No weight behind it. No sharp edges. Just calm.

This was how he spoke to them all. Amanda. Summer. Everyone. Like the world wasn't turning knives behind his back. Like there wasn't a corpse cooling in a strip club office because he'd decided enough was enough.

To them, he was a rock.

But to her?

To Samantha, he was still her boy.

Her sweet, stubborn boy. The one who kept his pain locked up tight like it might explode if aired. The one being slowly chewed by public perception and forced smiles. She saw it. She hated it.

And tonight, it was too much.

Before he could turn and give the usual "thanks, goodnight," she spoke.

"...Honey, please talk to me?"

Don paused, hand still on the doorframe.

He turned back, his voice casual. Controlled.

"About what? This whole mess?" He glanced toward the hallway, then back to her. "Talking won't make it go away."

Samantha looked down. Her fingers pressed lightly against her chest as if trying to push her words out from somewhere safer.

"I know it won't, sweetie," she said softly. "But it might make you feel better. I don't like how this whole thing is keeping you away. I—"

He stepped forward before she could finish.

Just one step. But it closed the distance between them completely.

Samantha gasped softly as he pulled her into him—one arm around her waist, strong but gentle. Her breath caught in her throat. The warmth of his body hit her like a wave, and her heart punched upward into her ribs.

His other hand moved up—slow, intentional—and into her hair. Fingers threaded softly into the strands near the back of her scalp, stroking with the kind of gentleness that made her spine tingle.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispered.

His voice rumbled low in his chest, and she felt it more than heard it. The vibration carried through his grip, through her ribs, down her legs.

"I know this isn't easy," he continued, "and that you're just worried about me. But try to understand… I'm worried about you."

Samantha's heart skipped. Her hand rose instinctively, curling near his shoulder.

"If things were a little different," Don said, "this could've ended way worse. But all I tried to do was right. Right by me. Right for our family."

He pulled back just enough to look at her, eyes steady.

"But people… people can be cutthroat, Mom. If I'm not strong enough, not only will I lose. I won't be able to protect anyone. Not even you."

He exhaled through his nose, brushing her temple lightly with his thumb.

"And right now, until this is over... that's all I care about. So please. Be patient with me. Trust me. I will make this right."

He stepped back slowly. Hand raised again—not to push her away, but to hold her just a moment longer.

He kissed her forehead—soft, lingering—and brought his hand down to cradle her cheek, thumb resting just below her eye.

"Trust me on this," he repeated. Quieter this time.

Samantha closed her eyes.

She didn't say anything for a long moment. Then—

"Alright, sweetie."

She leaned into his touch, and for a moment, the hallway didn't exist. Just warmth. Just the space between them.

And the unspoken promise carried with it.