Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Gary leaned closer, his face calm but distant. Not blank—just tuned out, like his thoughts were already ten steps ahead. His gaze flicked between the brothers' eyes, tracking the micro-movements. Pupils. Breathing. Sweat.

Then he stopped.

Not abruptly. Just… halted the way a man might when the thrill leaves the room early.

He leaned back with a quiet sigh.

The tools in his hand clicked together as he turned them sideways and lifted them near his face.

"Hm." He rolled his wrist. "On second thought…"

The forceps and picks were passed back without fuss. One of the minions stepped forward and received them with both hands like an offering.

Gary turned slightly, his tone crisp but unhurried.

"Give me the Oscillating Dental Ratchet."

The brothers' eyes twitched.

Not a blink. A tremble. Sudden, visible.

They didn't understand what that was, but they knew it wouldn't be good.

The minions moved instantly.

"Suiii," they chorused, moving in perfect sync as they rifled through the second duffel. Zippers shrptt open. Cloth rustled. One pulled free a strange, ugly thing—hand-cranked, rust-colored, and shaped like something that should've stayed in an asylum basement.

It looked like a reverse corkscrew with a clamp at one end. The handle curved awkwardly, with small ridges on the grip for torque control.

Gary accepted it with a nod, turning it between his fingers. He held it up to the light leaking through a warped ceiling panel, watching the faint sheen slide across its surface.

Don tilted his head slightly.

"What does that do?" he asked.

A reasonable question. One that didn't expect a pleasant answer.

Gary's smile this time was lighter than usual. Almost kind. But it didn't reach his eyes.

He turned to face the brothers instead.

"It's a tool I made," he said. "Used to clasp teeth… and apply gradual rotational force."

His voice didn't change. Still smooth. Still low.

He rubbed his chin with the back of one gloved knuckle.

"Could I bother you to keep their mouths open? If not, we can resort to the cheek spreaders."

Don didn't respond immediately.

He glanced at the brothers again.

Their trembling had worsened.

Eyes darting. Hands twitching against the tendrils. Breathing shallow and sharp through half-blocked nostrils.

It wasn't defiance.

It was panic.

The kind that stripped all pretense.

Unfortunately for them, it wouldn't buy time.

Without a word, the shadows stirred.

What had sealed their mouths moments ago now peeled inward. They could feel it—the cold, textureless sensation of something moving between their lips and teeth.

Then—

CRKCHH—

A pressure burst outward. Their jaws were pried wide in one violent motion, tendrils bursting from within and reforming as they exited—morphing.

Two new tendrils hovered.

Hovered—

Then twisted.

Their tips split, lengthened, and reshaped into chrome-like cheek spreaders—tools Don had seen more than once during mental training. Each one hooked neatly into the edges of their mouths and pulled, holding the jaws wide and isolating the lower facial muscles.

It looked less like interrogation now.

More like a primal dental exam.

"Wonderful," Gary said.

Then: "Let us begin."

The brothers tried to speak.

It came out wet and garbled.

"St—gghhh—pleagghhh—"

The intent was there. The words weren't.

Don narrowed his eyes. He could hear the begging even through the mess of sound.

But Gary didn't slow.

"If you have something to say," he said, "say it after this first part."

A nod from Don.

And the tendrils around the brothers' necks constricted. Not enough to choke. Just enough to stop words from forming clearly. Every breath came rough now. Inhales cut short.

Gary nodded. "Thank you, sir."

He crouched slightly, holding the Oscillating Dental Ratchet up to the side of Roberto's face. The tool clicked once as it latched onto the outer edge of a molar.

Chk~

Then came the twist.

No hurry.

Just pressure. Small circles.

Back and forth. Back again.

Thirty seconds passed.

Then sixty.

Roberto's eyes rolled once, his breath catching.

Gary moved to Sergio.

Same process.

Another molar.

Another slow rotation.

"Give me a single dose of cell retardation serum," Gary said, calmly.

"Suiii," the minions answered.

One stepped to the back.

Opened a sealed box from the base of the bag.

Out came a small vial. Another produced a syringe. They didn't speak. Didn't fumble. The vial was punctured. The syringe filled. The clear liquid shimmered faintly.

It was delivered without a word.

Gary took it like a chef receiving a fine knife.

His eyes studied the gums of each brother.

Then—

Prkk.

The needle sank into Roberto's upper gumline.

Prrk.

Then Sergio's.

Gary didn't waste motion. The injections were done within seconds.

As he worked, he spoke.

Not hurried.

Not for show.

Just explanation.

"The goal here," he said, "is to make them feel like their nerves are unraveling."

He set the syringe down on a cracked corner of the broken desk beside them, resting it on the dust without care.

"The tooth will remain," he continued, "but the pain will linger. They'll be left hyperaware of every shift in their bite."

He turned the ratchet again.

Chk-chnk.

"The real terror," he added, "is that they won't know when the teeth might actually come loose."

Another wobble.

Another involuntary twitch from Sergio.

A sound escaped him this time—half grunt, half gag.

It wasn't over.

Gary returned to Roberto.

Clamp. Twist.

Back again.

Don watched it all without blinking.

This wasn't rage.

This was method.

This was how things got done when diplomacy failed and fear spoke louder than logic.

And for these two?

This was only the beginning.

For the next few minutes, Gary worked in silence.

The Oscillating Dental Ratchet spun in slow turns—every rotation subtle, just enough to shift the anchor point. Clamp. Wiggle. Re-clamp. Repeat.

It wasn't fast.

It wasn't loud.

But it was constant.

Each molar. Every pre-molar.

He didn't skip. He didn't rush.

Chk-ckk. Chnk~

The brothers convulsed in place with each motion—small jerks, half-swallowed moans. Their bodies tried to escape the pain in ways the restraints wouldn't allow. Limbs twitched. Fingers curled. Spines arched and dropped.

The spreaders kept their jaws wide, so they couldn't bite down, couldn't shift away, couldn't do anything but endure.

The sensation?

It was like pressure in reverse.

A deep, creeping ache in the back of the mouth. Dull at first. Then sharp. Then… wrong. Each turn of the ratchet made the nerves flicker with panic—sending signals their brains couldn't quite interpret. Not stabbing. Not slicing. But enough to convince the body it was being undone from the roots.

The kind of pain that felt like it rewired something.

Roberto's shoulders shuddered.

Sergio's fingers scraped against the tendrils.

The blood started light—pink in the spit, dripping slowly. Then it darkened, thickened, until it ran steadily. Down their chins. Onto their tops. Into the ruined tile below.

When Gary finally stopped, it wasn't triumph that filled the room.

It was silence.

And that felt worse.

He lifted the tool slowly. The clamp end now smeared, red pooled in the small crevices. He studied it for a second. Turned it in his hand.

Then handed it back to the nearest minion.

The minion bowed slightly, then stepped back with the same mechanical precision as before.

Gary's voice followed. Calm. Distant.

"Are either of you ready to talk?"

Don, without turning his head, twitched one finger.

The tendrils at the brothers' throats loosened.

They could move their heads now. Breathe a little easier.

Not that either tried to flee.

Instead, they dropped their heads forward.

No words.

Just blood.

It poured from their mouths in slow, thick streams, falling over their lips, down their tops, pooling at their knees.

Drip. Drip. Drip~

The drops hit the ground in uneven rhythms, merging with the mess already spread across the broken tile.

And the pain? It didn't stop. It changed.

For Sergio, it was worse.

He gritted his teeth—instinct. Nothing more.

A mistake.

CHNK~

The sound was almost quiet. Muffled.

But he jerked instantly.

A groan forced its way out, low and strangled.

One molar slipped free, bouncing once off his tongue before falling out and landing in the puddle below.

Then another.

His jaw twitched, his eyes wide, fogged with pain.

Roberto, to his credit, held still.

He kept his mouth open, even as blood pooled at the base of his tongue. He tilted his head, letting it drain.

It wasn't brave.

It was desperate.

He needed his mouth clear enough to speak.

His eyes slid sideways, catching Sergio's in the corner of his vision. A flicker of brotherhood. Of mutual wreckage.

Then—

He swallowed.

A wet, unpleasant glkk of blood and saliva.

Then spoke.

"I'll… tawk. Anning you… wan… just… stahp…"

The words slurred around the gaps in his jaw.

He didn't let his teeth meet.

Couldn't.

Every nerve in his mouth felt like it had been peeled back and left bare. Even the small vibration of breath made his gums twitch.

But he spoke.

Because he had no choice.

This wasn't impressive.

This wasn't strength breaking.

It was the absence of it.

Gary watched him for a second longer.

Then nodded once.

He stepped back, folding his hands behind his back, a small smear of red still on the edge of one glove.

His eyes found Don's.

Don returned the look. A brief exchange.

Then turned his gaze back to Roberto.

He stepped forward, boots crunching softly against broken tile and wet stone.

"Tell us what you know about Barclay and his operations," Don said, voice flat.

Then, colder: "Or I promise you, this will get far worse for you."

Roberto didn't doubt it.

Not after this.

He looked at Don—really looked—and saw no threat in his eyes.

Just certainty.

That was worse.

He hesitated. Not out of defiance. Out of fear that the words themselves would cost him something.

Then he croaked out—

"Wiww you… wet us go if I do…?"

It sounded like a child asking a monster not to eat him if he gave up dessert.

Don answered promptly.

"Of course," he said. "If Barclay could find uses for you, I'm sure we can too. Under certain conditions, of course."

The answer was immediate.

But not comforting.

Roberto didn't believe it.

Not really.

But he wanted to.

Badly.

So he nodded.

A small motion. Weak. Bloody.

Then—

He started to speak.

And the information began to spill.