Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The knock was barely above a whisper, but the voice that followed was unmistakable. And the moment it asked, "Donnie, is everything okay?" Summer's head snapped toward the door so fast her hair swished across her cheek.

Her heart stuttered in her chest, and before she could even think to move, she heard the soft click of Don's remote.

His hand, resting easy on the dresser, held the small black device like it was just another extension of his laziness. The door unlocked with a quiet, almost smug defiance.

"Don?" she hissed, eyes wide, a silent, furious question blazing in her gaze.

But he didn't look at her. His attention stayed on the door, mouth pressed into a thin line. The door opened.

Amanda shuffled in, hair a chaotic mess, the left side of her vest hiked up as she scratched absently at her belly. Her bare feet made small, careless taps on the floor, the sound a sleepy counterpoint to the faint rustle of fabric as she reached lower to rub her thigh, her fingers tracing a lazy path over the thin fabric of her cotton panties.

"Morning, you two," she mumbled, voice thick with sleep, the words stretching like taffy. Her blue eyes drifted between Don and Summer, not quite focusing on either, as if her brain hadn't caught up to her body yet. "Already fighting so early?"

Summer stiffened, her arms crossing tight over her chest, but Amanda didn't notice the unease in her movements. She scratched again, squinting as if the air was too bright, then gave Don a slow once-over like she was checking for bruises.

Before either of them could say a word, another voice floated in, soft and smooth, but clearer.

"What's going on?"

Samantha's silhouette approached from down the hallway, her nightie catching the faint light in a way that made it sway almost hypnotically with each step. She stopped just shy of the doorframe, her hands planting firmly on her hips.

Her eyes went from Don to Summer, a slow, assessing glance that said she'd already decided who was at fault.

"Summer," Samantha started, her tone cool and firm, "your brother is hurt and recovering. Now isn't the time to bother him and fight."

Summer's mouth fell open, a quiet, shocked little intake of breath slipping out before she could stop it.

"Me!?"

She pointed at Don like she was about to accuse him of war crimes, voice rising as if she couldn't believe what she was hearing. "But he started it!"

Don, ever the instigator, gave her a lazy grin, eyes half-lidded like a cat in a sunbeam. "I'm not the one who invited you in here to pester me."

Summer's eyes narrowed, and she nearly choked on her own disbelief.

"Pester?!" she shot back, voice pitching up. "You ungrateful jacka—"

"Alright, that's enough, you two," Samantha cut in, voice sharpening just enough to halt the escalation. She sighed, the sound soft but carrying a weary kind of authority. "It's too early to bicker like kids. Summer, leave Don to rest. Don, stop teasing your sister."

Summer's arms crossed tighter, her chest puffing out in indignation, her whole body tilting forward like she was ready to argue again. But the look on Samantha's face clipped her protest short.

She huffed, a short, sharp hmph, and swung her legs off the bed with exaggerated purpose. Her hair flipped over her shoulder as she stood, the finality in her movements clear.

"Whatever, see if I care," she muttered under her breath, barely loud enough to register, though the smugness in her tone was impossible to miss.

Don just smirked, pulling the blanket up to his chin, sinking deeper into the bed like he could disappear into it entirely.

"Oh, she likes it," he said, voice low. "Why else would she keep coming back?"

Summer's face twisted into a scowl. She stormed toward the door with stomping steps, her glare slicing the air as she shot one last dagger of a look at Don.

"Jerk," she muttered, voice edged with irritation, just loud enough for Amanda and Samantha to hear as she disappeared down the hallway.

Samantha let out a long, slow breath, her posture loosening as the weight of the exchange seemed to slide off her shoulders. She glanced at Amanda, who was still standing there, arms loose at her sides, lips curled into an amused half-smile.

"Well, that was fun," Amanda said, stretching slightly before rubbing her belly one more time, a casual yawn escaping as she added, "Welp, rest easy, Donnie. I'm going back to sleep too. Wake me up at lunch, Sam."

Samantha was about to respond when the door to Don's room clicked shut with a soft thunk, cutting her off. She blinked at the door, then turned her head toward the hallway just in time to see Amanda's door close as well.

Left alone, Samantha placed a hand on her hip, shaking her head with a resigned sigh.

She lingered there a moment, gaze drifting down the hallway, then turned and walked away.

Inside Don's room, the quiet settled in like a warm blanket. Don let his eyes drift shut, sinking deeper into the mattress as he let sleep take him once more.

———

Meanwhile…

The Citadel's control center resonated with quiet hums and digital clicks, a steady undercurrent of cold efficiency that seemed to pulse through the walls themselves.

Gary stood at the heart of it—unmoving, rigid, as though the stiff posture were a requirement written into the room's architecture. His left hand rested neatly behind his back, while his right tapped across a holographic keyboard.

The keys lit up briefly under his fingers, lines of data trailing across the nearest screen before vanishing into the stream.

The largest monitor displayed the now-closed auction page in dark reds and glossy blacks—"Auction for Deadly Damsels: Over." The text blinked lazily, waiting for a reason to refresh.

Gary's eyes didn't waver. He kept his gaze locked, watching the loading bar crawl across the screen—Loading Contract, Title Deeds, and Staff Profiles of Purchase. Please Wait.

He shifted his weight slightly, the polished shoes under his feet making a subtle scuff against the cold floor. The sound barely registered.

Then—**POOF**

A burst of pink smoke erupted from the empty chair across the room. The haze twisted once, then faded almost as quickly as it had appeared, leaving behind Trixie—seated cross-legged, as if she'd been there all along.

She looked fresh from bed—black vest-turned-crop top hanging loose over her chest, purple straps slipping off one shoulder, and tight black booty shorts clinging low on her hips. Her hair fell messily over one eye, the strands half-curled, half-flattened in a way that screamed sleep.

Arms stretched overhead, she yawned loud enough to make the quiet hum of machines feel almost embarrassed.

"Mn~... Mornin', Gary," she muttered, her voice dragging slow, like it had been soaked in syrup. She peered at the monitors, eyes half-lidded, head tilted just enough to suggest mild curiosity—or maybe just boredom.

Her tail flicked lazily behind her, swaying over the chair's arm like a metronome.

Gary's hands paused, his posture unmoved.

"I haven't had the pleasure of sleep yet," he replied, voice as level as the data streams he managed. His fingers resumed their quiet dance on the keys. "I became engrossed in multiple tasks. While I participated in this auction,"—his gaze flicked briefly to the Deadly Damsels page—"I also pursued several others to secure information that may prove beneficial to Sir Don."

Trixie's interest sparked—barely.

She rocked forward, planting her hands on the armrests, then stood fully upright on the chair. The seat squeaked faintly under the shift in weight.

At her full height, she nearly matched Gary's, though the comparison fell apart immediately. Her pose was all hips and attitude, one hand resting on her waist while the other gestured vaguely toward the screens.

Her tail looped behind her, a lazy, slow-motion spiral that suggested she wasn't fully invested—just playing at curiosity because it was something to do.

"You humans really are something else," she muttered, voice light, though her eyes stayed half-lidded. "I wish I could just… buy info on my enemies. Would save me a lot of trouble."

Gary didn't so much as blink.

"I don't believe you have any enemies, Madam Trixie."

Trixie's head snapped toward him, her mouth twisting slightly, as if the very idea of him not knowing this was offensive.

"Of course I do!" she shot back, her tail flicking sharper now. "There's TokTik users, taxes, censorship, dinosaurs, birth control, uhm—"

Before she could spiral fully into her nonsense, a flicker caught on one of the screens.

The monitor flashed—once, twice—before the text jittered, the words shifting too fast to catch, like static caught in a loop.

Gary's fingers hovered over the keyboard. He clicked a few keys, one at a time—tap-tap-tap—and the words stilled, reordering themselves into a simple sentence.

In need of replacement telecommunications device. Previous one damaged.

Trixie's gaze drifted lazily over the words, blinking once.

"Is that Don?" she asked, half-genuine curiosity, half-amusement.

"It may as well be," Gary replied, his tone flat but edged with a faint trace of dry acknowledgment.

Trixie grinned slowly, the corners of her mouth tugging up like a cat spotting a mouse in the distance.