Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The three of them left the penthouse into the shared hall—carpet swallowing footfalls.

Don set the pace. Winter followed a few steps back, Trixie bundled in her arms.

They stopped outside Charles's door. Don glanced over his shoulder. "I'll find you in the car park."

Winter dipped her chin once. Trixie tensed, little body loading up for a jailbreak. Before she could spring, Winter's hand moved—no grab, no squeeze—just one smooth stroke along the spine that read as affection and function both.

The cat sagged, thwarted, and let out a muted grrrow that was ninety percent sulk.

Don faced the panel. A soft sweep of blue light washed him from boots to brow. brrrp~

"Identity confirmed," a familiar male digital voice said, polite as ever. "Welcome, Mr. Bright. Master Charles is expecting you."

The door parted. shhhk~

The broadcast spilled out first—Tier Gray graphics looping, a clipped voice recapping timelines. Don stepped into the living area.

Charles stood in a silver robe with a glass of juice, backlit by the wall screen. He half-turned. "Welcome," he said, nodding toward the TV. "I take it you've also seen this?"

Don stopped short of joining him at the screen, hands sliding into his pockets. "Yeah. I just saw it." His mouth twitched. "Wasn't what I was expecting."

"Me neither." Charles smirked and sipped. "Quite frankly, I thought this would be preparation for war. Heck, it still might be. Not like the UPSDF—of all government bodies—would tell the public the truth."

"Does this change anything for you?" Don asked.

Charles turned fully, robe catching a line of light as he faced him. "It definitely takes priority now over all other matters. I still want progress in the city, but my primary focus now will be preparing for recruitment."

'He sounds certain.' Don wasn't. But watching everyone else jump while you stood still had its own cost.

"And yourself?" Charles asked.

"I'll be doing more or less the same," Don said, voice even.

"Did you already have a training regiment in mind?" Charles went on. "Now that the news is public, my father will want anyone in the family training to the fullest. I would recommend you join me, but our facilities focus on aerial work."

"No worries," Don said, already turning a step toward the hall. "I might have something, but I'll need to confirm it. For now, I've got other things to check."

Charles lifted his glass in a small toast. "Tata. And I won't be using my family's facilities all the time, so we should find time to collaborate on more general training."

Don looked back. "That sounds like a plan. I'll stop by later so we can set something concrete."

"Sure," Charles said, smile thinned by thought but real enough.

Don gave him a short nod and stepped out. The door closed behind him.

After leaving, he took the elevator down and crossed into the private car park—cool air, low white lights, rows of expensive metal asleep under it.

Winter stood beside the Mustang. Trixie had claimed the hood like a pink hood ornament, head swiveling to take in the fleet of toys.

As Don approached, Winter spoke without preamble. "You have received new emails from both Mr. Xiao and Miss Claire."

He stopped beside her. "What did they say?"

"Mr. Xiao states he is pleased with your decision," she said. "He requests you visit the campus this afternoon to meet your specialist, who is also keen to start." She paused, eyes flicking once to the cat as it crept closer along the hood. "As for Miss Claire, she says all paperwork has been signed and filed."

Don nodded. "Reply to Miss Claire with my thanks. Tell Mr. Xiao I'll pass through."

Winter's lashes dipped. "Done."

"Great. Let's get going."

He pulled the door. Trixie bunched like she might leap for him, but Winter's hand glided over her spine in an absent pet that somehow reset the muscles under the fur. The cat deflated, gave a small, offended mrrow, and let herself be lifted.

—

Several minutes later, the Mustang threaded into the city's mid-morning current.

Don drove one-handed, the other loose on his knee. The streets were remembering themselves—lanes filling, horns trading lazy complaints, scooters cutting gaps they had no right to fit.

Winter rode quiet with the city reflected in her lenses. In the back, Trixie sprawled in cat shape, chin propped against the ledge, eyes tracking light.

Before long, they peeled off into narrower streets where the noise thinned. Don eased off the pedal as the Deadly Damsels came into view.

The front looked cleaner. Dark glass had been replaced and tinted properly, the signage lit true, the entrance frame now a smooth band of black metal that caught the daylight.

Off to one side, scaffolding hugged the wall; tarps hung in tidy drapes, tools nested in crates with labels, ladders waiting against brick. No workers. Just the setup.

He rolled into the small lot opposite the doors.

A man was slumped by a black bike near the building's edge. Helmet tossed a few feet away. The cut of the leather jacket wrote the club name before the patch did—Hell Riders.

One cheekbone swollen under a scatter of scrapes; temple darkening. His posture wasn't sleep. It was gravity finishing a job someone else started. The bike wore its own marks—fresh scratch across the chrome, a dent near the tank. The engine ticked as it cooled.

Don killed the ignition after taking in the scene. The hum fell away to the lot's thin hush. He then watched the biker for a moment, reading angles—head tilt, shoulder drop, the shallow lift at the ribs.

Trixie pushed up between the front seats, tail flicking once as she stared past his shoulder. Winter's gaze settled on the same spot. Neither spoke.

Don opened his door. slam~ Gravel ground under his soles as he crossed a few steps, construction dust puffing in small ghosts around his heels. Up close, the man's breath was there—thin, present. A smear of blood dried along his lip. Knuckles were split.

No bouncer. No crew. Just a downed Rider and a bike cooling itself.

Winter stepped up beside him, Trixie balanced in her arms. Her gaze swept the downed Rider once. "He doesn't seem to be in any danger," she said evenly, pitched just loud enough to register.

The pink cat stretched against her hold with a bored meow. mrrp~

Winter's eyes flicked to the feline and back. "I don't detect any surveillance nearby, so you are free to speak for now, Miss Trixie."

"Meh," the cat muttered, tail flipping, "I was just gonna ask if he's dead anyway."

Don didn't answer either of them. His ears had already picked up a muffled exchange through the tinted glass—the clipped cadence of Madam Lily, layered under a deeper male tone he didn't recognize. He exhaled once and put the toe of his boot into the Rider's ribs. Not hard. Just enough.

"—gh." The man jolted, a rough groan shaking out of him. His head lolled up. Eyes tracked: Don—blank face. Winter—poised, immaculate. The pink cat staring down like a judge.

Fear eclipsed the confusion. "Am I… dead?" he rasped.

"You will be," Don said, voice flat, "if you don't tell me why the fuck you're passed out in front of my club."

The Rider swallowed; his throat clicked. His hands twitched once toward the bike, then away. "C—came to talk. They… didn't like the answer." He winced, eyes darting to the doors. "They're inside."

"How many?" Don asked.

The man's gaze skittered, sliding off Don's. "Two."

Don held his stare a moment longer, then straightened as he smirked and looked toward the entrance. The cat's tail ticked. Winter shifted half a step, centering the lot in her peripheral like she was framing a shot.