Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The city was dead.

Not just asleep—dead.

Even the air felt reluctant. No cars passed. No distant chatter. No dull thump of music from half-lit apartments clinging to life.

On the outskirts, where the glow of civilization dulled into construction zones and forgotten roads, the quiet pressed heavier.

A few lights were visible from active worksites in the distance—weak halos perched on tall poles, barely holding back the dark.

And then there was the hospital.

It didn't belong to time anymore. Red brick façade weathered to scabs. Windows either smashed or boarded, like even the glass had tried to escape.

The front gate was bent inward, barbed wire curling above like rusted teeth. What might've been garden paths were now cracks in a field of weeds.

Trees leaned too far, their roots exposed, like they'd been trying to walk away for decades and just gave up.

Within the car park—cracked concrete riddled with shallow puddles and moss—sat a black pickup truck. New. Polished. Chrome rims that caught no light. It looked like a threat left on display. Not a getaway car. A message.

But no one stumbled across it.

Except him.

Predator emerged three spaces away. He didn't walk. Didn't climb a fence. One second, there was nothing. The next—white eyes hanging in the dark like a god had blinked wrong.

There were no footsteps. No rustle. Just silence reformed around him.

From a distance, the suit was invisible—shadow woven tight across the form beneath it. Only the faint glint of gold, caught in his eyes' low glow, gave shape to the void he occupied.

He looked at the truck first.

Didn't approach. Didn't speak.

Then raised his head—toward the building.

'Found them.'

As he had this thought, a voice clicked in almost immediately—static and smooth, like water running over wires.

"Have you arrived at the second location, sir?" Gary asked, voice low, nearly swallowed by the mask's interior.

Don didn't blink. "I have. Two figures. Top floor."

Another click.

Winter's voice now. Precise. A little too interested.

"From the data we gathered, I predict their strength to be no greater than top D-Class. High physical stats. You likely outclass in raw strength."

Don's hand lifted slightly.

The shadow threads coiling around his forearm twitched. Like they'd heard something funny.

Winter continued. "Former Venezuelan special forces. Later transferred to a now-defunct superhuman unit. If allowed to coordinate, they may complicate things."

Don flexed his fingers.

The darkness curled tighter, almost eagerly.

He couldn't describe it. Being wrapped in this constant veil—it made things feel quieter. Like the world itself lowered its volume for him. And beneath that silence: pressure. Not external. Internal. Like gravity remembered him differently now.

Gary cut in again. "Do you believe you can engage without drawing outside attention? Barclay may grow more cautious."

Don didn't answer right away.

Not because he was unsure.

Because he was debating whether Gary was worried—or measuring.

Either way, it didn't matter.

"I have a feeling," he said flatly, "they won't be difficult."

He tapped the side of his head once.

Click~

The line went dead.

His hand dropped slowly, eyes rising again to the broken frame of the hospital. The upper floors loomed—one window barely visible through the clouds.

No light inside. Just the kind of darkness that didn't leave room for anything else.

His eyes narrowed. For a second, they seemed to shimmer—white glow pulsing once in the sockets of that skull-like mask.

Then—

Shfffft~

He was gone.

Not vanished in the Hollywood way. No flash. No swirl.

He sank. As if the ground remembered how to breathe him in.

And the darkness sealed shut behind him.

Inside the hospital, the rot had claimed everything.

The stairs groaned under their own weight. Walls bled mildew. The air stank of wet stone and rat piss… among other things, heavy and still, like even time had stopped showing up to work.

On the top floor, in what had once been the director's office, the damage was... complete.

The windows were boarded but not evenly—light from the construction site barely leaked in crooked lines through warped gaps.

The wallpaper peeled in vertical strips, curling like dead leaves. The ceiling fan hung half-detached, motionless. Mold bloomed across the edges of the room, black in the corners, green near the leaking pipes.

Old furniture remained, though barely. A crooked desk—legs uneven, surface warped from water.

An amber-glassed lamp buzzed gently on top, casting a tired orange light that made everything look worse.

The couch, still somehow intact, was upholstered in what might've once been burgundy—now dulled to the color of dried blood and years of sweat.

Cobwebs claimed the corners. Rats scuttled brazenly across the floor, weaving between rusted cans and cracked tiles.

Cockroaches crawled up the desk legs, across the walls, and—at the moment—over one of the two figure's arm.

He didn't care.

"Heh..." he snorted, swatting the bug lazily without opening his eyes. "This city, man. Fuckin' hell."

Sergio, the figure that sat on the edge of the desk, had a chipped knife stabbed into the wood beside him. He took a long drag from a bent cigarette and blew out the smoke with clear irritation.

"This is why I hate this place," he muttered. "Every time we gotta do business here, we sleep in some pinche mierda like this."

Roberto, the one on the couch, chuckled again, brushing off another cockroach now crawling across his stomach.

"Relax, bro," he said, tone light, almost as if he was enjoying himself. "You know Barclay pays like a goddamn gold mine. It's worth laying low in this basura until transport's arranged."

Sergio scoffed but cracked a smile. "I guess you're right."

He stood up with a grunt, dusting ash off his jeans, then tugged the cigarette from his lips.

"Shit, I'm pressed. Gonna go take a piss and grab a beer from the car."

Roberto's head lolled toward him, one eye opening. "No booze, cabrón. If Barclay thinks we were drinking on the job? Adiós, dinero."

Sergio stopped near the doorway, frowning.

"Serio? It's just one. What am I, a fuckin' little girl?"

"No, you're a professional mercenary," Roberto grumbled, turning onto his side and flicking another roach off the cushion. "So act like it. Until payday. Then go fuck a donkey for all I care."

Sergio flinched.

"That was one fuckin' time," he snapped. "Elena spiked my drink, okay? Hijueputa. Whatever. Soon as I get paid, I'm gettin' shitfaced."

"Fine," Roberto muttered. "If you die, more money for me."

Sergio flipped him off with a grin and walked out, the old door creaking behind him.

Crrrreeek—clunk~

Roberto was alone.

He stretched out with a groan, one hand behind his head. The rats didn't bother him anymore. The couch stank like mildew and old sweat, but it was soft.

His eyes half-closed again.

"Mierda... we better not blow the money this time," he muttered to the room. "The cartels don't pay shit... Maybe we could move product on our own, huh?"

He said it like a joke.

But then someone answered.

"It's good to dream."

The voice didn't belong to Sergio.

It didn't belong to anyone Roberto had ever met.

Low. Grim. Dry as dust and twice as cold. And it came not from the door... but the shadows in the room. From the corners where the light didn't quite reach. From the very walls themselves.

Roberto's eyes snapped open.

His body went rigid, heart slamming into panic before he could even process the sound.

"¿Qué...?" he started to say—but something moved.

Fast.

Shhffff~

Shadows surged under the couch, over it, through the air like smoke that had remembered it had teeth.

Something wrapped around his mouth.

Something else locked tight around his throat.

More snaked over his wrists and ankles, yanking them flat. The couch shuddered under the force, metal springs groaning.

Roberto writhed. He tried to scream. He bucked his hips, twisted his legs. It felt like he was strapped to steel—cold and unyielding, but flexible, like a living straightjacket.

"Mmf!—hnn!!"

No good.

His mouth wouldn't open. He couldn't even bite down. Whatever covered it was soft like cloth but unbreakable, like chewing a tire. His eyes darted wildly, searching the room for any sign of—

There.

Out the corner of his eye, something began to form.

Wisps. Faint. Barely there.

But they moved like they knew the room. Like they were part of it.

A figure walked toward the desk.

Roberto strained his neck, trying to get a better view—but it was all shapes and smoke, folding into itself. No detail. No face. Just...

Presence.

Then—

Click~

The lamp shut off.

Everything vanished.

Pitch black.

And in the dark, silence returned. The kind that didn't wait for you to fill it.

Roberto's breath caught.

His heart was a drum now—racing, loud in his chest, echoing through his skull.

'Where is he?'

He looked right.

Nothing.

Left.

Nothing.

Then—

A pair of white eyes opened next to him.

Glowing. Silent.

Looking straight down at his face.

A/N: Welp, life is really fucking with me. As if having a wonky pc wasn't enough, it now can't connect to wifi and my Scrivener (what I use to type) can't launch anymore. I now have to use mobile which is a pain in the ass. Atleast I didn't lose all the data, just had to rewrite the whole fucking chapter I was supposed to post yesterday. Honestly, too pissed off to even think about this shit right now. I'll try my best to keep posting but if I go radio silent just assume I've given up until I save and get a new pc or borrow one because typing on phone takes me ages and i make twice the mistakes. fuck.