Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The skies above Santos City remained unnaturally dark. Heavy clouds blanketed the skyline like a curtain refusing to rise.

Don's Mustang prowled down the nearly deserted street toward the strip club. The neighborhood hadn't improved from the last time he saw it—if anything, it looked worse in daylight.

Buildings leaned into each other like tired old men, windows patched with tape and makeshift plywood. Paint peeled off in long strips. A few cracked windows had faces pressed against them, shadows watching as the Mustang crept by.

Inside the car, Winter's gaze tracked the buildings with mechanical precision. Her head turned slowly, her expression unchanging.

"We are being watched," she said flatly. "There is a 63% chance of attempted robbery or car damage within the next hour if parked. However, should your identity be confirmed, the odds drop to zero—unless the attackers are desperate and suicidal."

She blinked once.

"Some may attempt an approach once the vehicle is left unattended."

Don kept one hand on the wheel, eyes forward.

"I'll risk it."

Winter's eyes shifted as new data streamed in.

"Apologies. I have just accessed formal crime reports associated with this street. Interestingly, Deadly Damsels has no recorded incidents within the last three fiscal years. That statistic is likely falsified, considering the club operated primarily as a front."

Her brow creased slightly, though it was more out of processing load than emotion.

"I will investigate how they manipulated city crime data to maintain this illusion. It may yield useful methods for future concealment efforts."

Don didn't answer. He was used to Winter's stream-of-consciousness analysis by now. With her linked to multiple low-security networks and constantly compiling data, she processed the world like an obsessed librarian with too much free time.

As they pulled up in front of the building, Don noted how different it felt now.

It hadn't changed structurally. Same old battered sign, same rusted rails out front. But the energy was different.

Empty. Dead.

Not quiet in a peaceful way, but in a forgotten way.

A few motorcycles still lined the curb. There were hot rods too—modded, loud-looking, parked like their owners didn't expect tickets anytime soon.

On one bike sat the Hell Rider who'd announced the black market rep earlier. He was slouched on the seat, cigarette between his fingers, wearing headphones and bobbing his head slightly to whatever trash passed for music these days.

Don's engine wasn't loud enough to catch his attention immediately.

But the car's shape did.

The man looked sideways, caught the familiar silhouette of muscle car, and sat up straight like he'd just remembered where he was.

He pulled the headphones off in a rush, frowning deeply as he slid off the motorcycle and stomped over.

"Hey, buddy! You can't park there!" he shouted. The tone wasn't exactly hostile—but it wasn't polite either.

In the passenger seat, Winter glanced at Don.

"Perhaps we should have called ahead."

Don cut the engine and shrugged.

"No. I didn't want them expecting me. Let's just hope the market rep's already here—I don't plan on wasting time."

Winter's pupils shrank slightly as she processed new timestamps.

"I am 94% certain the representative has arrived. All paperwork was scheduled to be ready by 6pm today. Prior to that, inspection of property and aligned assets would have been required. Given the timeline, it is likely the representative is inside."

"Good," Don muttered.

He pushed the door open and stepped out.

Click. His boots hit the pavement.

The Hell Rider was already halfway across the lot, puffing smoke and waving an irritated hand.

"Hey! Fucker! What the fuck did I just s—!"

He froze.

Mid-step.

Mid-sentence.

Don had taken off his aviators.

Recognition spread across the biker's face like spilled oil—fast and ugly.

The cigarette slipped from the Hell Rider's lips. It hit the pavement with a dull pff and lay there smoldering, forgotten.

His mouth hung half open, eyes wide. He didn't speak. He couldn't.

There were plenty of people in Santos who didn't follow the news, didn't care who was trending. But even they had seen the name "Don" float past their feeds—accompanied by phrases like massacre, miracle, and mystery.

For a week, his face had been everywhere. Some praised him, others called him a monster, but everyone remembered the image. A young man, no more than twenty five, covered in blood and ash, standing in the remains of human beings.

This Hell Rider had seen that face before. On posts. On profiles.

Now it was ten feet from him.

He stared harder, trying to convince himself it wasn't real. That maybe it was a coincidence. A similar haircut. A cousin. Something.

Then he made the mistake of meeting Don's eyes.

It wasn't a glare. It wasn't even an angry look.

But the second their gazes locked, the world shifted.

The man felt it. A crawling weight pressing into his chest. As if the shadows behind Don's eyes reached out and wrapped around his heart.

His breath hitched. His limbs froze. It felt like watching a silent explosion, knowing the blast hadn't reached him yet but would, inevitably.

Don scoffed softly, shutting the Mustang's door with a solid thunk.

Winter exited on her side, adjusting her attire with no urgency at all.

Don stepped onto the sidewalk, boots thudding against the concrete. The biker stumbled back and dropped onto the pavement, his legs giving out.

"Shit…" he croaked under his breath, eyes never leaving Don.

He opened his mouth again, tried to form a sentence. Nothing came out.

Don didn't say a word. He walked past, not even bothering to slow down. Winter followed, hands tucked behind her back like an attendant at a royal funeral.

As their footsteps faded toward the club entrance, the biker managed to suck in a breath. Then another.

And then he bolted.

"Fuck!!" he muttered, scrambling to his feet. "The gang's screwed. Fuck this. I'll find work in another city…"

He climbed onto his motorcycle with shaking hands, kicked it into gear, and revved it hard—too hard. The engine coughed but caught, tires screeching as he peeled out of the lot.

**VROOOOM—**

Inside the club, the sound drew attention.

On the ground floor, most of the staff had gathered near the main stage. A few perched on its edge, others on nearby chairs. The mood was somewhere between lethargic and mildly annoyed.

Some were on their phones. Some filing nails. Others whispered about the old woman upstairs or argued over music on the main speakers.

Ash sat on a sofa near the bar, arms spread along the backrest, boots crossed at the ankle.

The sudden roar from outside made her flinch.

She turned her head toward the door and groaned.

"What's that fucker doing now…"

Beside her, a large man stirred. He was built like a collapsed wall—wide, thick arms, a gut that wasn't just fat but dense with old muscle. Bald. Scarred. The kind of guy whose hands had done things bars don't allow.

"Want me to check it out, boss?" he asked in a slow, dull drawl.

Ash opened her mouth to answer—

**CREEEEEK—**

The front doors swung open.

In walked Don. Winter followed silently, her steps light.

For a second, no one reacted.

Then, a voice rang out.

"Are you lost, honey? We ain't open today."

The voice belonged to a redheaded dancer sitting on the edge of the stage. Her hair was tied into messy pigtails, freckles dotting her nose, a small gap between her front teeth visible as she blew a bubble of pink gum.

She wore a white crop top, blue jeans that flared at the bottom, and an expression that screamed disinterest.

The gum popped. Snap.

The others turned to look. Some slowly, others immediately.

And like outside, some froze.

Eyes widened.

Others narrowed.

Recognition was creeping in—hesitant but persistent.

The same redhead squinted slightly, studying his face like she was trying to remember a dream.

"Say…" she muttered. "You look mighty familiar…"