Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Roberto stared up at the eyes.

Two lights. Dull. Colorless. Set deep into a face that wasn't a face.

They hovered inches from his own, ringed in darkness so complete the rest of the world felt like it had been deleted.

He could close his eyes.

But he didn't.

Something told him that if he blinked—even once—it would be worse.

The figure didn't move. Not a twitch. Just stood there, bent slightly at the waist, like it had all the time in the world. Like it was savoring something.

And in that moment, Don felt it.

Something wrong stirring behind the eyes. Not anger. Not strategy. Something simpler. Cruder.

He wanted to hurt him.

Not because it was necessary. Not because the mission demanded it.

He just… wanted to.

A slow hunger curled at the base of his spine. Hot and strange, not quite bloodlust but close. It felt foreign—but familiar.

Don didn't like that.

He didn't hate it either.

'Is it the suit?' he thought briefly. 'Or just me... finally cracking?'

He shelved the question. There wasn't time to explore that particular rabbit hole.

Instead, he tilted his head slightly.

"Let's make this quick." He hadn't spoken aloud.

But Roberto heard it.

Maybe not with his ears, but something in him understood. He began to shake. Not violently. Not theatric. Just a subtle vibration running through his limbs like his body had started unraveling on its own.

Crk-kkksshhh~

The sofa split. One leg bent inwards. Then the frame cracked, the weight of Roberto's restrained thrashing too much for it. The backrest caved, springs popping, splinters jumping loose.

The sound echoed. Dull but loud enough to draw attention.

From the hallway came a voice.

"Eh?" Sergio's tone was casual, but wary. "Is everything okay, Roberto?"

Roberto froze. Eyes wide. Hope flickered—tiny, pathetic.

He wasn't saved.

The tendrils had loosened for less than a second, as if testing whether he still needed to be taught a lesson.

They decided he did.

Whumph—CRACK!~

Several new strands slammed into him from above, below, the side—one curling fast around his midsection just as the ruined couch gave way.

His body didn't touch the ground.

Instead, it was hurled sideways—slammed spine-first into the moldy wall like a thrown mattress.

THUD~

Dust and old paint scattered on impact. A crack formed behind him, visible in the flickering light from outside.

He didn't scream. Couldn't.

The tendril on his mouth hadn't budged.

Another curled tightly around his throat. Not enough to snap it. But enough to make oxygen a privilege.

He kicked once. Then twice. Weak. The edges of his vision curled.

Outside the door—

"Hey, Roberto!" Sergio's voice rose, annoyed now. "What's the situation in there!? This better not be a prank, bro—you're being too loud…"

He wanted it to be a prank. That much was obvious.

But the tone was starting to break.

Sergio was running now.

The hallway creaked under his steps.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

He reached the door.

Stopped.

Darkness. No lamp. No glow. No Roberto.

Just silence.

"Roberto?" Sergio called again, quieter this time.

Nothing.

He stood there for half a breath.

The kind of pause that measured not time, but risk.

'Something's wrong.' Every part of him said it.

But leaving? That wasn't an option. Not when it was his brother.

Sergio pulled in a sharp breath and reached into his pocket, flicking a lighter open with a soft chk-shk.

A small flame jumped to life. Weak, orange, and flickering in the stale air.

He squinted into the black. With his free hand, he reached down to his belt and drew a blade.

Not your standard tactical steel.

The handle was dark—some kind of bone or hardened resin. The blade itself? Uneven black metal, rough like it had been poured rather than forged. Embedded along the flat were specks—tiny green fragments that shimmered faintly.

Not gemstones.

Dust.

Crystals.

Something unnatural.

Sergio didn't hesitate.

He charged forward, not in a sprint, but a full-bodied burst—like a door-breacher breaking through a hostile front.

CRACK-THUMP~

The door gave instantly, hinges groaning as it slammed open and rebounded off the warped wall. Sergio rolled in low, flame flickering from his lighter as he ducked beneath the lingering dust.

Mid-roll, he sucked in a breath. Deep.

Smell had saved him before.

He'd sniffed out poisons. Ambushes. Hidden bodies. It was his trick. Quiet. Effective. A breath was all it took to piece things together.

But this time—nothing.

No new sweat. No blood. Not even gunpowder.

It was blank.

Like the room didn't have air.

CRASH~

He collided with the desk, knocking it sideways. The thing tipped over, legs snapping as it crashed to the floor with a clutter of cans and debris. He didn't stop to check what fell.

Instead, he rolled again—toward the nearest wall, back slamming against it with a grunt.

He stayed low. Knife raised. Lighter held steady. His eyes darted toward where Roberto had been.

Even with the darkness pressing in, Sergio could make out the shapes.

The couch—ruined.

Frame split. Fabric torn.

Roberto—just beside it.

Unmoving.

His chest tightened.

Not grief. Not yet. Just tension—the kind that braced for confirmation.

'He's not dead,' Sergio told himself. 'He better not be.'

Still, he didn't rush forward.

Too quiet.

Too clean.

He turned, half-expecting something to leap at him. Nothing came.

So he shifted tactics.

His eyes fell on the boarded window just a few feet to his right. He stepped forward, clenched the lighter tight, and drove his fist through the boards.

CRKK-KSHHH~

Wood and brittle glass gave easily, shattering into the room. Cold air slipped in. Moonlight tried.

But failed.

It was like something in the air swallowed the light before it could stretch.

"Shit," he muttered.

Sergio clicked the lighter back on. Chk-ffsssh. Tiny flame. Weak but real.

'We need to get the fuck out of here.'

He didn't know what this was. Didn't care.

But nothing about it screamed "winnable."

Then—

A voice.

Low. Dry. Right behind him.

"Feels hopeless, doesn't it?"

Sergio spun. Knife raised.

The wall. Just the wall.

Plaster cracked. Black mold creeping. No one there.

He turned back fast.

Too fast.

Shhfff—

Don was there.

No footsteps. No movement. Just presence.

The white eyes again. Dim. Watching.

"Looking for me?"

Sergio didn't think.

He lunged.

Or tried to.

The shadows moved first.

Tendrils shot out from under the desk, from the cracks in the wall, from behind Roberto's broken body.

They wrapped around his wrists, his legs, his chest—one slipped around his neck before he could even open his mouth to curse.

WHUMP~

His back slammed into the wall so hard the plaster cracked.

He struggled. Thrashed.

The tendrils only pulled tighter.

One twisted around his knife hand and forced it down.

His feet left the floor by a few inches. His body hung like a pinned poster.

He tried to breathe. The tendril around his throat said no.

Don stood in front of him, mask unmoving. Voice flat.

He didn't ask questions. He didn't taunt. He just watched.

Seconds passed.

Sergio's movements slowed. Muscles twitching less. His eyelids drooped once.

Then—nothing.

Stillness.

Don didn't blink. 'Trying to fake it.'

He waited.

Fifteen seconds in, Sergio's body sagged a little too naturally.

Don stepped forward.

The tendrils tightened again without command.

Sergio twitched.

Caught.

Don scoffed under the mask. "I admire your quick-wittedness."

He leaned in slightly, voice quieter now.

"But if you want to live," he said, "I advise you to abandon all thoughts of resistance when you wake up."

And then—he vanished.

Shhhhfft~

The sound of something exhaling backward into the dark.

Sergio was alone again.

Sort of.

The tendrils didn't leave.

They held. Firm.

And Sergio, half-conscious, stared at the broken couch. At the cracks in the ceiling.

His last thought before everything went fuzzy was simple.

'What the fuck was that?'