Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

As Don and Madam Lily passed the cluster of staff and Hell Riders still gathered near the stage, she stole a glance to her right.

Winter stood motionless atop the stage, arms relaxed at her sides, eyes dull and unreadable. Madam Lily's gaze lingered for half a second longer than intended, something analytical passing through her thoughts.

But Don didn't look. He just kept walking, eyes forward, glassy silence radiating off him like heat from sunbaked concrete.

Winter blinked once.

Then she spoke.

"It seems as though our time here is over," she said, her voice perfectly even. "So I will not be able to continue with the interviews."

A collective, silent wave of relief rolled through the room. Shoulders dropped. Eyes flicked toward exits. Even a few small exhales broke through clenched teeth.

Except one.

"Aww… shucks," Ginger said from her spot, her hand still raised like a child forgotten by the teacher.

Winter didn't acknowledge her.

Instead, she continued.

"Physically, that is."

Several backs straightened again. Hopes, it turned out, had been premature.

Winter raised one hand.

With the other, she reached up and gripped the base of her index finger.

**Click**

The finger detached without resistance. No blood. No wires. Just a clean seam like a toy part, flat at the base. Still, a few people twitched.

Even Don, nearing the exit, could feel the change in atmosphere behind him. He didn't look. But he knew the room had paused.

Winter stepped back from the edge of the stage and crouched. She placed the severed finger upright on the stage floor. It balanced easily, pointing skyward. Then, just near the nail, where a fingerprint would sit, the skin began to shift.

Not peel. Not unfold.

It opened—a tight circular wound roughly 8 millimeters across. Smooth edges, impossibly precise.

From it, a soft bzzm of light projected upward, flickering slightly before stabilizing into a full-sized image.

Winter. Again. Same expression. Same blankness.

The projection was slightly grainy, its posture unnaturally stiff even by her standards. But it turned its head slowly to scan the crowd. The gaze moved like it was trying to simulate awareness, and failing by design.

Winter gestured to it with her free hand.

"This is a projection avatar," she explained. "It is directly linked to me. Any questions it asks will be relayed in real time. The responses, likewise. There is no need to rush. Take your time deciding your lineup."

She stepped down from the stage with the same robotic grace she'd entered with, the hem of her attire swaying slightly as her feet met the floor.

Don and Madam Lily had just reached the front door.

Lily, ever the hostess, slowed her pace and turned to Don.

"Safe travels, sir…" she said quietly.

It wasn't flirtation. It wasn't forced. It was the kind of tone you used when the person leaving was in charge of your future.

Don didn't respond. Not vocally.

He lifted one hand with a lazy wave, fingers barely separating. He didn't look at her.

Madam Lily felt the shift again—that creeping sense that her efforts might already be circling the drain. Charm meant little if you weren't seen. She masked it well, but her jaw tightened slightly.

Then Winter reached her.

Madam Lily instinctively straightened.

She expected Winter to walk past. But the android stopped just shy of the threshold, her head turning toward Lily with that same unblinking stare.

"Since you are classed as a member of staff," she said, "I advise you to also take part in the interviews."

Lily didn't answer.

Winter continued, voice still mechanical but polite. Almost.

"For the sake of privacy, I think it would be best to use your former office for this. Just place my finger on a desk, if present, and have people come in one by one."

Her head tilted.

"Could you manage this?"

The proximity made things clearer. Up close, there was no doubt. Winter wasn't enhanced. She was artificial. No pores. No temperature. The scent of plastic polish lingered faintly beneath her clothing.

Expensive. Advanced.

But still a machine.

Madam Lily's lip twitched ever so slightly. Not enough to show disrespect—just enough to register the internal bitterness. To be spoken to like this. By this.

Still, the words weren't wrong.

There was no telling how long she'd be allowed to keep her role. If this place was truly changing hands, then nothing about her position was safe. Not her influence. Not her immunity.

But… if she handled this well—if the interviews went smoothly—maybe it would reflect positively. Maybe she could demonstrate control. Value.

'If they see you as the one they listen to… it has to count for something.'

Her expression didn't shift. She simply nodded once.

"Of course."

Winter turned without another word.

**Click** **click**

Her steps echoed down the entrance hall and then out onto the street beyond. No ceremony. No farewell.

Madam Lily didn't move for a few seconds.

Then her eyes drifted back toward the stage.

The holographic Winter stood there, unblinking, still scanning the room as if memorizing every face. One of the Hell Riders scratched his neck nervously. A dancer adjusted her skirt and avoided looking at it directly.

Lily's lips pressed together into a line.

'Show them control,' she reminded herself. 'Show them order. That's the only card left.'

Then, with a slow exhale, she turned and walked back into the room.

———

Meanwhile, Harold Barclay's late afternoon wasn't improving.

He sat in the back of one of his many Escalades, the leather seats pristine, the air inside set to a temperature that had no right to be so specific. Outside, the winding roads up the hillside blurred past, framed by the occasional flash of overbuilt fences and unnecessary hedges.

In his hands was a tablet—thin, matte black, already smudged with fingerprints. His fingers moved quickly over the screen, minimizing one graph, frowning at another.

Stock activity. Real estate trendlines. A news widget buzzing about an anti-corporate protest that had clogged downtown earlier that week. He closed it with a flick.

He pulled up an email chain. His eyes narrowed.

**Tap** **Tap** **Swipe**

Another report. More alerts. An offshore account showing higher draw than expected. Something wasn't matching up. His thumb hovered as he stared at the screen, then tapped again.

Then his phone rang.

Not his main. Not his business line. The burner.

He muttered under his breath, "What now…"

The tablet dropped onto his lap as he reached into his jacket—roughly, like the device had wronged him—and pulled out a scratched-up flip phone.

Snap. It opened.

"What?" he snapped into the receiver.

The voice on the other end was low, shaky. Male.

"Boss, it's me. We just finished raiding this chick's apartment. It's cleared out. No trace, no devices, nothing."

Barclay scoffed, his tongue clicking against the roof of his mouth.

"Of course she did," he muttered, eyes rolling. He stared out the tinted window, jaw tight. "Contact the Gonzalez boys. I had them set up surveillance in that sector—protect and monitor. I'm sure they picked up something. Hurry."

"Alright, boss," the voice replied. "I'll do that, then maybe do a bit more digging—uh, but I gotta be at police central tomorrow. The boss—uh, I mean the commissioner—he thinks there's dirty cops in our department."

Barclay froze.

Then his frown deepened into something much uglier.

"You fool," he snapped. "You didn't think to mention that first?"

His tone had spiked. The air in the car seemed to cool.

"What if you're being monitored? What if they link you being there to me?"

The voice on the other end grew shakier.

"N-no, trust me, boss. I was super careful. I'm using a burner and calling from—"

"I don't care!" Barclay barked, cutting him off. "Just… leave that place now. Try not to draw attention to yourself. Leave this to the Gonzalez boys. For fuck's sake."

**Click**

The phone snapped shut.

He tossed it onto the seat beside him and reached for the tablet again—only to lurch forward hard as the Escalade braked suddenly.

His shoulder slammed against the back of the passenger seat. The tablet clattered to the floor with a thud, and a half-full glass of whiskey in the cup holder tipped over, splashing amber liquid across the console.

"What the hell!?" Barclay shouted, glaring daggers at the back of the driver's head.

"Sorry, Mr. Barclay," the driver replied calmly. "There's… something ahead."

Barclay leaned forward, squinting through the windshield.

A massive tree—cut clean at the base—lay across the road, branches stripped bare and trunk defaced with red paint. Dead animals, carefully positioned, hung off the bark like some kind of grotesque ornamentation.

And at the center, nailed to the trunk… A white sign. Hand-painted. Crude.

ENVIRONMENT KILLER!!!

Barclay exhaled, jaw clenched.

Behind them, the other vehicles in his convoy were already responding. The guards stepped out, rifles at low ready, sweeping the area.

He didn't move. Just watched.

'Protest stunt.' He'd seen worse.

"Tell them to clear it out first," he said flatly. "Then look around for whoever left this mess. Probably those damned activists again."

"Yes, sir," the driver answered, already reaching for the comms switch.

Barclay leaned back into his seat, muttering to himself about property damage laws.

Then his phone rang again.

Not the burner.

His primary.

He wiped his hand on his coat sleeve and answered with a fresh growl.

"What?"

A voice spoke. Whatever it said, it was brief.

But it changed everything.

Barclay's scowl didn't shift.

It deepened.

His voice dropped a register.

"…What!!?"