Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The moment the redhead posed her question, some of the others gave her strange looks—equal parts concern and disbelief, like she'd poked a sleeping dog with a stick made of bacon.

Arias swept the group with a lazy glance. But that glance triggered something else again.

His aura gaze.

It wasn't intentional. It never really was. But for those who recognized him—and even those who didn't know every detail but had heard enough—the effect hit like a dropped elevator.

Breaths caught. Spines stiffened.

For some of the dancers, their legs nearly gave out.

It was instinctual. Anyone who'd spent enough time around the dark corners of the superhuman world knew when something dangerous walked into the room.

They could feel it. A prickling in the nerves. That subtle electric buzz that said "don't move."

Ash wasn't excluded. For all her bravado, her heart thudded louder, and a tightness settled in her chest.

She didn't know Don, not personally. But she knew of him. She knew the numbers. Hundreds dead in a night. Then rebranded a city hero.

It didn't matter that the details were vague or possibly exaggerated. The weight of it lingered like smoke on a jacket.

Don didn't hold their stares long. Just enough.

Then he turned and gave the club a once-over.

The empty corners. The outdated speakers. A flickering lightbulb above the bar.

He exhaled softly.

"It needs some work," he said, half to himself, "but the size alone will suffice."

Winter nodded from his side, utterly unfazed by the frozen collection of staff and gang members. She had already analyzed them—none presented a threat, so her mind had moved on.

"The potential yield is present. I recommend a full renovation. I will begin compiling statistics on popular venues of this nature—both legal and black-market-adjacent—and draft marketing strategies based on their top performance vectors."

She blinked slowly.

"But in order to refine projections, I will require a profile on current staff and affiliated personnel. Would it be acceptable to interview them?"

She looked toward Don without emotion.

He turned to glance at the group. Most were still too paralyzed to speak.

Then Ash inhaled deeply and stepped forward. Her boots echoed faintly on the worn floor.

"What… do you want to here?" she asked.

Her voice didn't crack, but the heat was gone from it. Controlled. Soft.

The crowd seemed more stunned by her sudden compliance than Don's presence.

He answered without hesitation.

"Isn't it obvious? I'm the new owner."

That sentence sent another ripple through the crowd.

The dancers shifted. A few staff members blinked rapidly.

One of the Hell Riders twitched.

Then—

"Ohhh, so you're the new boss, huh?" chirped the redhead, still perched at the edge of the stage. She grinned and waved. "Well, my name's Ginger—get it? 'Cause my ha—"

Before she could finish, a nearby girl slapped a hand over her mouth and smiled nervously. "Shhh, sweetie."

Don gave them a faint smile. It lasted a second. Then he looked back toward Ash.

"Well? Is the market representative here?"

Ash nodded so fast it was almost robotic.

"Yeah—yes. She's upstairs. Talking to the old owner about the paperwork. I'll go get her."

She turned before finishing the sentence and disappeared toward the stairs.

Silence lingered for a second.

Then came the exodus.

One Hell Rider stood. "Man, I gotta take a piss."

Another stood beside him. "Damn, forgot I need to take my bike in for servicing."

A third scratched the back of his head and muttered, "Shit… court date. Forgot all about it."

The girls followed suit, each scrambling for excuses.

One muttered, "Can someone give me a ride? My mom's in the hospital…"

From her spot, Ginger blinked and tilted her head. "No she's not, Jamie. We saw her this morning, silly."

The girl next to her gave her a look like she'd just swallowed a mouthful of soap.

Ginger's expression changed—surprised, then quickly concerned. "Oh no… did something happen?"

Before the stunned girl could respond, Don cut through the noise.

"My helper here would like to interview you all, if that's not a problem."

His tone wasn't forceful. No threats. No raised voice. Just polite interest.

But refusal wasn't an option.

"Sure thing, boss," one of the Hell Riders said, flashing a smile that had way too many teeth.

"Happy to help," a barmaid added, nodding rapidly.

"Oh yeah, totally! Anything you need," another girl said, trying to sound chipper but failing to keep her voice from cracking.

Ginger beamed. "I love interviews! I used to do podcasting back in high school—'course I got expelled before we ever launched."

The others didn't even try to stop her this time.

Winter stepped forward, already compiling a list of questions.

The room, once filled with idle chatter and stale routine, now became full of forced politeness and suppressed panic.

———

Back at the Bright Penthouse, the chaos of city life seemed like a bad sitcom someone had forgotten to turn off. In Samantha's room, however, things were—surprisingly—calm

.

The scent of lavender linen spray mingled with the faint undertone of expensive fabric. A handful of pristine boxes sat on the bed, each one clearly worth more than a month's rent for most people.

Garment bags lay unzipped, spilling glimpses of satin, suede, and silk. Samantha moved between them and her open wardrobe, sorting through her new additions with efficiency.

Her hands moved with care—blouses folded just right, hangers aligned evenly, color-coordinated placements as though this were a boutique and not a closet she'd stocked herself.

From the hallway came the energetic shuffle of footsteps.

Then, without missing a beat, Fabio appeared in the doorway like he owned the place.

His outfit walked the line between fashion-forward and circus-tier fabulous—bedazzled black slacks with wide flaring hems, a silky deep purple button-up tucked tight, gold chain bouncing with each movement, round gold-framed glasses perched over eyes that had seen too much drama and not enough therapy.

He carried a large garment box like it contained sacred scrolls.

"I'm telling you, honey," he began mid-thought, "Los Santos is turning into the goddamn trenches." He entered with flair, placing the box delicately on the bed as if it might shatter. "If you ask me, you should stop putting up with all this. Now that you've got Donnie looking after you? Girl, you've got options."

Samantha didn't pause her folding. She let out a long, knowing sigh.

"Believe me, Fabio, I'd love nothing more than to be somewhere safer."

She slid a navy-blue dress onto a padded hanger. "Every week it's something. I'm constantly worried about him. He tells me not to, and I don't want to smother him, but…" She trailed off, her fingers curling slightly into the fabric she held. "Did you see what happened in those tunnels?"

Fabio turned to her, a hand on his hip.

"I refused to watch that nightmare. The way people were talking about it? No thank you. But listen…" He leaned in, lowering his voice just enough to sound conspiratorial. "You should be more worried about anyone who tries crossing that kid. Seriously—badass."

Samantha gave a faint smile and shook her head. Her posture relaxed slightly.

She reached for a garment bag, unzipped it, and blinked at the contents. Her face turned a shade pinker.

Inside was a daring lingerie set—deep emerald green, delicately sheer in all the wrong places. The bra had sharp cutouts trimmed with black lace, while the panties left very little to the imagination, and the garter belt looked more like a leash of temptation than an accessory.

She blinked again.

"Fabio," she said, turning and lifting it toward him with a flushed face. "What is this?"

Fabio casually perched on the edge of her bed, crossing his legs like a lounging cat.

"What else? A little something spicy for the new man you're obviously seeing."

Her eyes went wide. She opened her mouth—

"Ah ah!" Fabio raised his hand to stop her. "Don't lie to me, Sammy. I know that voice you've been using lately. You can say it's just 'cause Donnie's back, but mmm-mm. I know that tone. That's 'new man' tone."

Samantha was a terrible liar even when she had time to prepare. Right now, she just cleared her throat and muttered, "That's nonsense, Fabio. I'm not seeing anyone."

He rolled his eyes with theatrical flair.

"Sure. And I'm the pope."

He waved a hand dismissively. "Just keep it, okay? You know, just in case. I made that piece from scratch. Hours of sweat and blood, stitched with my broken dreams and five-dollar energy drinks."

He threw a hand over his forehead as if the trauma still haunted him.

Samantha sighed. "Fine, I'll keep it. You're so dramatic."

Fabio snapped his fingers. "Drama gets you what you want, darling. Write that down."

"That's terrible advice," she said, chuckling as she resumed her organizing.

"Please," he replied. "It's modern marriage. Terrible advice is all the rage."

He flopped back on the bed, shoes off the covers—he had standards. "Did you hear about Katie? Third husband. Third, girl. Rumor is they're swingers now. Full-on dungeon vibes. She's even hosting parties."

Samantha turned to him, one brow raised.

"Really?"

He gave her a look as if insulted.

"My tea is always hot, sweetheart."

"Oh, and Martha—"

And like that, they slipped into their natural rhythm. Gossip and scandal—comfort food for the soul.