Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The Rolls-Royce driver's words stayed in the air like a bad stench. For a moment, Don, Hector, and Donald could only stare, their disbelief etched into their faces.

Was this guy serious?

Don leaned slightly to the side, resting a hand on the edge of the G-Wagon. His usual calm was intact, but a growing irritation was visible in his features. He could already see where this was going—a pointless argument with a rich idiot who thought the world bent to his whims.
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Hector, on the other hand, wasn't as composed. His brows knit together, and his lips pressed into a thin line before curling into a sneer. Donald, meanwhile, looked caught somewhere between anger and doubt.

His hand rubbed the back of his neck as if trying to massage the hesitation out of his thoughts. He wasn't a fighter, and the Rolls-Royce driver's smug confidence made him falter.

Don noticed the unease in Donald's stance and thought, 'Great, now he's second-guessing himself.'

Before Don could say anything, Hector made his move, stepping forward with his phone already pointed at the driver. "Your parking spot!?" Hector's voice rose above the murmur of the growing crowd. "Are you the fucking owner or somethin'? Or, lemme guess—you're the son with donkey balls for a brain?"

The Rolls-Royce driver's face twisted into an offended scowl, but Hector wasn't done. He gestured toward the cars with an exaggerated wave. "So what if it's your fuckin' spot, man? You rammed into us like you're in Need for Speed! Think! Piensa, cabrón, piensa!"

Hector's words were loud enough to draw more attention. The crowd edged closer, their curious whispers becoming more audible.

Don glanced at the gathering spectators, his jaw tightening. 'It won't be good if things get out of hand here.'

The Rolls-Royce driver's expression darkened further as his eyes scanned Hector like he was something stuck to the bottom of his shoe. "Who the fuck do you think you're talking to?" he asked, his voice rising with indignation.

He pointed a manicured finger at Hector, his gold watch catching the light. "My father's a fucking member of this place, and that's his spot, you fucking immigrant. Who the fuck are you anyway?"

The comment hit like a thunderclap. For a split second, everything seemed to pause. Hector froze, his mouth parting slightly as the words registered. Donald stiffened, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. Even Don, whose face rarely showed much, let his lips press into a hard, thin line.

The murmurs from the crowd shifted, growing louder and more scattered. Don's hearing caught fragments of their conversations.

"Did he just say that?"

"Man, this is getting good."

"Bet the immigrant started it."

Don's gaze swept over the crowd, a dispassionate assessment of their gaudy clothes, expensive jewelry, and empty stares. 'Just a bunch of racist, privileged fucks.'

"Hijo de puta," Hector muttered under his breath, the anger in his voice unmistakable.

Don could see Hector's fingers twitching, like he was holding himself back from throwing his phone—or a punch. Don stepped closer, placing a hand on Hector's shoulder.

"Hey, man," Don said quietly, his voice low. "Don't bother with him. It won't get anywhere. If he doesn't want to pay for the damage, we'll just take it to court."

Don's tone was measured, but there was also a hint of restraint, as though he was tamping down his own urge to escalate.

Hector stood there for a moment, his body tense, the phone at his side shaking slightly from his grip. Finally, he took a deep breath, his chest rising and falling. His lips twitched as though he wanted to say more, but he swallowed whatever insult had been brewing.

He gave Don a sidelong glance, his jaw still tight. "Yeah, you're right, bro," he said, his voice quieter now. "This pinche puerco isn't worth wasting words on."

Hector's hand fell to his side, the phone hanging limply as he turned away from the Rolls-Royce driver, his expression dark.

Don nodded subtly, stepping back as well, his eyes fixed on the driver. The man still looked furious, his chest puffed out as though ready to launch into another tirade. But Don said nothing. His calm, steady stare was enough to make the driver hesitate.

The murmuring crowd seemed disappointed that the confrontation hadn't escalated further, but Don couldn't care less. The last thing he needed was for this idiot's nonsense to turn into a headline—or worse, a legal headache.

The Rolls-Royce driver's face flushed with anger as Don's casual dismissal of him landed like a slap across his ego. Hector's acceptance of Don's words—and the additional insult—only seemed to deepen the wound.

Because of that, the man let out a scoff, his eyes darting toward Hector for a brief second before shifting away dismissively. Hector wasn't worth his time; the man was nothing more than background noise.

His focus settled on Don, whose aloof demeanor stoked something deeper than frustration—a need to put him in his place.

It was then that recognition flickered in his gaze. He squinted slightly, the faint tilt of his head showing his sudden realization. He knew Don.

The Rolls-Royce driver's lips curled into a smug grin as it clicked. Like many who followed the superhuman scene, he'd seen the trending video of Don punching Starboy—hard enough to send the so-called hero flying like a broken kite.

That video had cemented Don as someone to watch in the growing superhuman landscape, even if it wasn't universally celebrated.

But the driver didn't see Don as intimidating or even worth respecting. His upbringing had taught him to measure people by a different metric: power defined by wealth and influence.

To him, Don wasn't a threat. He was just another pawn in the game—an asset, an employee, a glorified celebrity who only mattered when a paycheck was involved.

The driver snickered, his tone oozing condescension. "I thought you looked familiar," he drawled, loud enough for the surrounding crowd to hear. "You're that hero wannabe that sent that useless piece of shit Starboy flying. Ha!"

He let out a laugh, irritating and provocative. "Who the fuck do you think you are? You got some college deal worth, what? A few million? And you think that's impressive?"

The man gestured to himself with exaggerated flair, his gold necklace catching the light. "My shoe collection alone is probably worth more than that. So why don't you and your little group of nobodies calm the fuck down before you embarrass yourselves even more?"

His words stirred the crowd like a gust of wind through dry leaves. Faces turned toward Don, and a ripple of recognition passed through those who'd seen the video. Whispers spread like wildfire, with those in the know eagerly informing others.

"That's him? No way."

"Yeah, the guy who decked Starboy."

"Hey, you're right, didn't think I'd see him here."

The Rolls-Royce driver smirked, clearly feeding off the attention. In his mind, he'd won. Don would have no choice but to retreat in humiliation, his reputation taking a hit in the process.

For a moment, Don was caught off guard—not by the insult itself, but by the sheer audacity of it. 'This guy really thinks he can talk down to me?'

The surprise was fleeting, though. Don's irritation quickly hardened into something colder. His value, his reputation—those weren't up for debate, least of all from a spoiled brat with too much money and not enough sense.

His gaze shifted to Hector, who was still fuming, his fists clenched tightly at his sides. "Hey, man," Hector muttered, stepping closer to Don. "Don't do anything you'll regret."

Don didn't respond. His expression remained impassive as he stepped past Hector, his boots crunching softly against the pavement.

The Rolls-Royce driver's smugness faltered slightly as Don approached, his cold, steady gaze locking onto him like a predator sizing up its prey. The crowd immediately hushed, the murmurs dying down as everyone watched the scene unfold.

Despite his earlier bravado, the driver took a half-step back, his shoulders stiffening. He tried to recover, forcing a smirk onto his face. "Got something to say?" he sneered, his voice carrying a hint of nervousness. "How about you and your groupies apologize, and I'll buy you a new fucking G-Wagon. Huh? Or maybe—"

"Shut the fuck up." Don coldly interrupted, leaving no room to argue.

The words stopped the driver mid-sentence. His smirk vanished, replaced by a flicker of unease. The crowd, now completely silent, leaned in as though collectively holding their breath.

Don didn't move closer. He didn't need to. His presence alone was enough. The Rolls-Royce driver's bravado was crumbling, and everyone could see it.

The question on everyone's mind now was simple. What was Don going to do or say?