Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Roughly an hour later… a knock came soft. Barely a tap.

Don's eyes snapped open like a trap being sprung. His breath hitched— automatic. That lingering, almost feral readiness buzzed in his blood, even before he was fully conscious.

He sat up, elbows resting briefly on his knees. His back ached faintly from the awkward angle he'd slept in—half slouched, half cocooned in the blanket that had twisted around him during sleep.

The room sat dim, streaks of low early afternoon light bleeding in through the edge of the curtains. His dresser, cluttered with the usual—a stray notebook, his remote, a half-finished glass of water—felt still. Dead.

No more knocking followed. Just the faint shuffle of feet outside his door, like whoever had knocked wasn't really here to wake him.

His fingers flexed once, slow, as if testing for damage. Then he sighed. Quiet. Resigned.

Without a word, he shifted forward and planted his feet on the floor. The air in the room felt heavier than it should've been. Or maybe that was just in his head.

He tilted his neck side to side—crk-crk—a slow, audible roll of bone and muscle. Then, a thought.

His gaze sharpened.

With a small breath, he activated Beastshift—his vision overlaying in flickers of heat and outline.

Samantha.

Her figure registered in clear silhouette just beyond the door. Same posture as always—upright, composed. Not like Summer's slouched, tilted stance. No, this was Samantha—rigid but warm. The lines of her form traced in faint gradients of orange and red, a soft glow on the periphery.

Don didn't bother moving.

"Mom?" he called out, voice even, measured.

He thumbed off Beastshift as he spoke.

Almost immediately, her voice filtered through, smooth and sweet like a quiet blanket. "Yes, sweetie, it's me. I was just checking in to see if you're awake. Miss Claire is here and wanted to speak to you if possible, but it's not urgent if you still want rest."

He rubbed the side of his face with one hand, palm dragging over the slight roughness of unshaven skin. His fingers lingered for a second, pressing into his temple, as if willing the fatigue to dissipate.

"I'm up," he answered, rising as he spoke. His voice came quieter than expected, like he was trying to convince himself. "I woke up a little while ago. I'll be out in a few minutes."

Samantha's tone lightened, a touch of relief seeping through. "Okay, honey. Do you want anything to eat? I can start preparing something."

He paused, glancing briefly at the half-empty glass on his dresser. The thought of food didn't stir hunger, but he knew better than to dismiss the offer.

"Sure. Anything light will be okay."

There was a softness to her reply—almost a smile wrapped in words. "Okay, sweetie. Take your time."

Her footsteps receded, quiet, steady. Faint.

Don stood fully, his body stretching with a reluctant groan. His knees cracked, a small pop from the left one, and he took a second to roll his shoulder—slow, like resetting a joint.

The closet door creaked slightly as he opened it. Inside, the organization was minimal at best—shirts folded in loose stacks, sweatpants hung over a single bar, a few jackets shoved into the corner.

He pulled a plain white shirt from the pile, along with navy blue sweatpants. White socks next. The clothes felt thin in his hands, soft from overuse. They weren't meant for battle or field work. Just… existing.

He slipped them on, movements unhurried. The shirt settled over him like a sigh, the sweatpants loose around the waist. The socks clung snug.

When he stepped out into the hallway, the air outside felt cooler. Or maybe it was just the shift in space. But that wasn't what caught his immediate attention.

Winter stood there.

Right outside his door. Like she had always been there.

Don stopped. His gaze met hers.

She didn't flinch.

Her voice came low, smooth, as if waiting for him to finish his thought. "I have completed the task. A replacement will be delivered here roughly by evening. Until then, I can inform you of any messages or calls directed toward you."

Don blinked once. That was the only change.

Winter continued, precise and unbothered.

"Speaking of, you have two messages from Miss Claire, who is currently in the vicinity. One from Gary. Three from Charles. Two from Donald. Five from Hector. One from Tori. You also have an email from Agent Hathaway, Benjamin from the Agency, and Dean Sanchez. Would you like to review these messages?"

Don exhaled quietly, the sound slipping between his lips like a sigh that didn't want to be acknowledged.

A faint, barely-there deflation crept across his features. It was quick—gone in a blink—but Winter saw it. She always saw it.

What she couldn't see was the system prompt hovering in his mind's eye.

———

Relationships Updated.

Idol Path Unlocked (due to you and Charles clearing your names as killers).

Note: Some people still believe you are a killer. Idol Path abilities are less effective (-23%) against those who hold this belief.

———

Don didn't blink.

He wasn't surprised. Not really. The system did whatever it wanted—dropping rewards and penalties like breadcrumbs, never enough to fully satisfy, always just enough to keep him running.

He stared at the numbers, the percentages, the reminder that the universe was stacked against him in ways that didn't even make sense most days.

'At least we're not dead,' he thought, though it didn't feel like much of a win.

The prompt blinked once, then faded.

Winter's voice cut in, smooth and without emotion. "Would you like me to display any of the messages?"

Don blinked slowly, the weight of the moment sinking back into his shoulders.

"In a bit," he said, voice quiet.

His gaze drifted down the hallway, empty and waiting.

"I need to see Miss Claire first."

Winter's head tilted slightly, an imperceptible nod—acknowledgment without approval.

Don proceeded to walk into the living area, Winter a silent presence just behind him, her steps nearly soundless.

The room felt still in a way that suggested it wasn't meant to be.

On the large-screen TV mounted above the media console, the news rolled quietly. The volume wasn't high, but it didn't need to be—words drifted through the air like background noise, clear enough to register but not so loud they demanded full attention.

The footage on-screen was shaky, grainy, dust-clouded chaos. A few frames flashed: Don and Charles mid-fight, the camera catching half-formed shapes of movement before smoke and debris swallowed them whole.

The occasional shape—a fist, a wing, a sliver of torn fabric—appeared in the haze, but nothing stayed clear for long.

Another feed cut in: Division-D team running through tunnels, the screen glitching slightly as faces blurred and walls—slick with what the censors had tried to hide—flickered under pixelated blackout bars.

Then the feed shifted again.

A suburban street, damp from earlier rain, the sky still grey and hanging low. A woman stood at the center of the frame, gesturing wildly as she spoke.

Her hair was dyed a bright, clashing mix of pink and purple, roots dark and showing. She wore a cardigan too small for her frame and a shirt with some vaguely political slogan across the chest, partially obscured by a scarf that looked like it had been chewed on by a cat.

Her earrings were large, tacky, and shaped like peace signs. The lower-third read: "Miss Channing, Former Parishioner of Father John's Church."

The interviewer leaned in, voice pitched like they were about to ask the meaning of life. "Miss Channing, as someone who used to attend the church Father John preached at, and even participate in overtime activities, how do you feel hearing what transpired last night?"

Miss Channing sobbed. Theatrically. Loud, wet sounds that didn't quite match the dry eyes she kept wiping at. Her hands flailed as she spoke, fingers wiggling in the air as if she were painting invisible words.

"I still can't believe it," she wailed. "He was always so—"

"Definitely not attending church anytime soon," Amanda cut in, voice flat as she tilted her beer back and took a long, lazy sip.

She was slouched deep into the couch, one arm draped over the back like it belonged there, the other lazily holding the cold beer bottle near her lap.

Her vest from the morning clung to her like it had been worn three days in a row, and now she'd thrown on a pair of jean shorts that looked like they'd been yanked on in a hurry. The button was undone, zipper halfway down—careless, effortless. It looked like a mess. On her, it looked stylish.

Beside her, Claire sat—poised in a way that seemed to defy the very furniture. Black jumpsuit, tailored, hugging her frame like it had been sewn on. High neckline, subtle cutout at the waist, a hint of silver jewelry barely peeking out from under the collar.

Her legs were crossed at the ankle, one foot balanced lightly in the air, the other planted firmly. She held a tablet in one hand, stylus tapping every few seconds in a quiet tik-tik-tik, her attention split evenly between the screen and the TV.

The two of them sitting there felt wrong—yin and yang jammed onto a single couch.

Don stepped forward, his voice low but clear. "You say that like you didn't already plan on avoiding it."

Amanda twisted slightly, glancing back over the couch's edge with a grin that didn't care if it was welcome. "There's the hero of Santos City," she teased, her tone light, as if it was just another Tuesday.

Don scoffed, the sound dry and short. "I feel more like a victim."

Amanda's laugh came out rough, easy, before she took another drink.

Claire barely moved. Just lifted her head from the tablet, turning it slightly in her hand as if the data on it might change with the angle. She spared him a glance—sideways, through the edge of her lashes.

Her tone was smooth, clipped, polite. "Good morning."

Don dipped his head slightly. "Good morning."

Claire's eyes didn't linger long. She tilted the tablet again, tapping the screen twice, but her words followed—almost as an afterthought. "For someone the news claims nearly died, you look awfully well."

Don's smile was small, an edge barely tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"You know how the media is. They like to exaggerate."

Claire gave a subtle nod, like she was agreeing for formality's sake rather than genuine belief. Then, as if the niceties had expired, her gaze sharpened. The air around her seemed to contract.

"Do you mind if we talk privately?"

The request wasn't a request.

Don's posture shifted slightly, his gaze flicking briefly to Amanda—who just raised an eyebrow like she was waiting to see how this soap opera unfolded—then back to Claire.