Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Meanwhile, back at the Bright residence, specifically Samantha's room…

The room was dark. Not pitch black—more like gently neglected.

A single glow leaked in from the hallway through a gap in the door, slanting across the floor and dying before it reached the bed.

Samantha sat upright against her pillows, knees bent beneath the covers. The air was cool, which she didn't mind—her arms were bare, the sleeves of her nightie pushed up.

A faint breeze moved in through the slightly open window, lifting the curtain just enough to remind her that the world hadn't ended.

She adjusted her glasses and tapped the screen of the tablet resting against her thighs. The soft tap-tap of the on-screen keyboard filled the silence.

She'd made it this far. VPN running. Private mode active. Search tab wiped clean the moment she opened it.

She'd even checked the previous page again—"how to search anonymously without leaving trace"—just to be sure.

Not that she really understood all of it.

Half the tools and terms flew right over her head, and the idea of installing any advanced plugins just felt exhausting.

But this? This she could manage.

Her thumbs hovered over the screen. The question was half-typed.

"Is it okay for a mother to be intimate with her son..."

She stared at it.

Her mouth was pressed into a thin, nervous line.

No one could see her. She reminded herself of that. Not Amanda. Not Fabio. And certainly not Don.

Though the last name brought a flicker of paranoia through her stomach.

She exhaled through her nose and tapped the final word into place. Then, almost sheepishly, she hit search.

Nothing dramatic happened.

Just a quick load. The little bar at the top crawled forward.

Then—results.

She braced for disgust. Mockery. Long-winded think pieces about psychological trauma and sin.

Instead—

A link.

Discussion page. Reddit. r/SuperhumanIncest.

The title alone made her shoulders tense. She hesitated… then tapped it.

The thread that opened didn't look like what she feared. No sleazy layout. No flashing gifs.

Just text.

Plain. Honest.

A post—long, carefully written. From a woman who'd reunited with her son after years apart.

It started innocently enough. Emotional reconnection. Frequent hugging. Sitting too close.

Then it escalated. Slowly.

The post didn't use clinical terms. It wasn't sensational.

Just… descriptive.

Touches that lingered. Groping that turned into more. A kiss that wasn't accidental.

And the son? D-Class superhuman.

Samantha's fingers paused at that part.

She felt her mouth go dry.

She read on.

The writer asked, "Is it wrong? Even if science says it's safe?"

Beneath it—the comments.

The first one was blunt.

"Not really. That's how most of the big-name superhuman families started. Genetically optimized bloodlines. No inbreeding complications among superhumans. Especially not C-Class or higher."

Then—"Morality? That's personal. Me? I'm happy. My son loves me. I feel more wanted than I ever have."

Samantha swallowed hard.

She shifted slightly under the covers, absently adjusting the blanket draped over her legs. The room felt colder now. Or maybe warmer. She wasn't sure.

Another comment:

"We've evolved. People clinging to old ideas are just scared. That's not your problem."

And then—

"I'd rather be called disgusting by strangers and be happy than pretend to be moral and rot in loneliness."

That one sat with her.

She re-read it.

Twice.

Something about it scratched at the inside of her chest.

She tapped to expand more comments. Stories from daughters with fathers. Sons with mothers. Siblings.

Some comments were harsh—disgusted, outraged. But they were buried. Downvoted. Ignored.

She didn't scroll past them quickly. She read them. Measured them.

Then she returned to the thread's core.

To the calm ones. The steady ones.

The ones that didn't panic.

Her tablet made a soft bloop as she clicked another post. Then another.

She didn't realize how much time had passed.

Outside the room, the hallway light flickered once. Then steadied again.

Winter, from her own silent station deeper in the house, didn't speak. She didn't react. She simply sat still… but watched.

Not Samantha—just the data.

Like a gatekeeper watching traffic.

And when Samantha clicked that link, Winter filtered. Cleaned. Shielded.

No judgment. No commentary.

Just silence.

And a quiet adjustment.

Only the answers that wouldn't break her.

Back at the Hospital…

The roof of the pickup parked outside wasn't exactly comfortable, but Don hadn't moved in nearly ten minutes.

He sat with one leg raised, elbow resting casually across his knee, the other foot planted flat on the roof. His posture was easy—too easy. The kind you'd mistake for calm, if not for the faint ripple of shadow still circling his form like restless smoke.

The wind passed now and then. Not cold. Not warm. Just present.

The rest of him stayed still.

His eyes—those low-burning pale lights—remained the only thing clearly visible. Everything else melted into the black.

Above him, far in the distance, the occasional drone blinked by. Tiny artificial fireflies zipping through the sky, scanning, recording, pretending to maintain order.

And here and there, flashes of color.

A glowing cape. Neon boots. Capes that shimmered.

Heroes, he guessed.

Or entertainers.

Hard to tell anymore.

He didn't flinch at their presence. Not even the brighter ones. None of them looked down. No one ever really did.

Don exhaled once, slow. The sound barely disturbed the air.

He wasn't watching the city. Not really.

His thoughts had drifted.

Back to the brothers above, still restrained by tendrils wedged into the crumbling hospital walls. Their vitals were steady. He could feel the pulses. One slow. One twitchy.

They'd wake up soon.

He didn't look forward to it.

Despite everything—despite the hours of brutal footage, the mental conditioning sessions Winter designed to blunt his hesitations—he still didn't enjoy violence.

At least, not like them.

Not like the men in the files. The ones who smiled through war crimes and made jokes between screams.

Don could never quite forget the moment one of the clips had paused on a man's expression.

Not rage. Not hate.

Just delight.

He could still see it, even now.

That grin.

That gentle hum.

And the victim behind him, glassy-eyed and barely breathing.

No.

Don wouldn't become that.

Whatever else he was—whatever titles the system or the public slapped on him—he'd keep something of himself intact.

He wasn't above pain. But he wasn't supposed to enjoy it.

That mattered.

As he sat with the thought, his head suddenly shifted upward—quick, precise, not startled.

Something moved on the road below.

Not footsteps. Not sound. Just a presence.

His body grew faint in response. Not gone—just faded. The shadows thickened instinctively, masking his silhouette like the world itself had blinked again.

Then the car came into view.

A black sedan. Quiet. Lights off.

It rolled to a stop beside the pickup, tires whispering over the cracked asphalt.

Familiar.

Don relaxed.

Gary.

The rear door clicked open first.

Thnk—clack~

Gary stepped out. Jacket buttoned. Hair neatly combed back. Face unreadable as always.

The front doors followed.

Two men emerged, minions.

They didn't look at Don directly. Just turned toward him and saluted in near-perfect sync.

"Suiii."

Don gave them a nod. Nothing more.

Gary, however, didn't break stride. He turned to the closest minion and gestured slightly with two fingers.

"Please retrieve my tools from the rear."