Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Several minutes slid past in silence, broken only by the scratch of pens on clipboards and the low murmur of officers packing gear. Irene's voice, once insistent and raw, had shriveled to a rasp.

She leaned against the edge of the collapsed ticket booth, one hand pressed to the slick wood, her snakes coiling listlessly around her shoulders.

Both flesh and serpent were drained of warmth—their scales now streaked a dull crimson, like blood settling in old wounds. Her skin had the sickly pallor of someone midway between life and collapse.

Inspector Elaine barely glanced her way. The woman's back was turned as she sorted case files with two crime scene investigators by the broken lobby light. One investigator tucked a bloodstained evidence bag into a duffel; the other methodically snapped photographs of the ruined plush seats.

Irene's throat worked once, twice, but no sound escaped. Her eyes stayed fixed on a half-shattered poster of a macabre ballerina, its edges curled and singed.

Click. Clack. The inspector closed her tablet with a soft snap. She gave a quick nod to the investigators. "Alright, fellas—packit up." Her tone was almost casual, as if she were dismissing a broken down car rather than bodies scattered across floors.

Irene straightened, the effort visible in the tremor of her arms. She unwrapped one of her snakes from around her neck and let it slide to the ground, its tail dragging through a pool of dried gore.

She lifted her chin, bloodshot eyes bright even in fatigue. For a moment it looked as though she might gather the last of her feeble fury. The inspector spared her a single glance—just enough to register the quiet despair in Irene's stance.

Elaine sighed, turning at last toward her. She didn't meet Irene's gaze. Instead, her eyes drifted over the cracked floor, past the broken ropes that once corralled patrons. "We've done all we can here, Irene. I'll send people over to pick up the bodies, but like I said—the morgues are currently full, so if these individuals have families that could—"

"Go fuck yourself." Irene's whisper was brittle, almost drowned by the hum of a flickering overhead lamp. She pushed herself off the stage, her boots scraping on the debris-strewn floor as she stalked toward the stage.

Elaine's jaw tightened for the slimmest heartbeat—guilt flickering in her eyes. Then she turned back to her officers. "Move it along," she said, voice flat.

With that, the investigators grabbed their bags, and one by one the officers filed out through the shattered entrance.

Irene reached the tattered curtain at center stage. Her footsteps were heavy, slow. She paused, ran a trembling hand over a ragged hole in the fabric, and slipped behind it.

The last officer's silhouette vanished through the lobby. The door creaked closed. Silence settled over the Theater of Nightmares like a shroud. The only living thing left was the faint drip—drip… drip…—of blood from somewhere above the seats.

High on the beam, Don watched the final patrol light fade from the entrance. He shifted his weight against the cold metal railing. His mask's hollow gaze drifted over the theater one last time.

He thought of the city's records—"vibrant community, diverse populace." What a joke. Even the police and doctors had joined the farce.

He lifted a hand—shadows coiled up his arm, as if drawn by his intent. He then leaned forward, watching the curtain stir where Irene must be.

Then, as silently as he'd appeared—shfffft—he vanished into the dark.

Nothing remained but the faint flutter of the curtain and that echoing drip… drip… drip.

The glow from the stage light barely reached the tangle of scaffolding and props tucked behind the curtain.

Here, a grim triage had formed among the wreckage of painted set pieces and toppled flats. Grotesque figures hobbled through the half-darkness, pressing crude bandages to gaping wounds or cradling shattered limbs.

Near a rack of tattered costumes, three women huddled. One's face looked as though molten wax had slid down its right side, leaving her features rippled and distorted; she'd powdered the smooth skin with pale glitter and pinned a cracked mirror shard above her eyebrow like a crown.

Beside her, another woman's neck was studded with bulbous, oozing lumps; she'd wound strings of sequins around each growth, trying to catch the light that never quite reached them. The third wore a cracked, scaly hide—her original flesh had split in a hundred tiny fissures, and she'd inlaid glittering beads into each crack, as if to turn her blight into art.

At their feet, another woman sat slumped, tears tracing dark paths through the white paint on her cheeks. A single ballerina slipper peeked from beneath the hem of her tutu; the other leg was nearly severed at the knee, bound only by frayed ligaments and stained bandages. The melted-face woman rubbed her shoulder with one trembling hand. Ssshh… she murmured. "Madam Medusa, Chrissy needs a hospital."

A man staggered past, fingers clamped to a bullet wound in his chest. He panted, eyes wild. "We all need a hospital… argh." He collapsed against a broken prop pillar, knocking loose a coil of rope that pinged against metal.

Shouts rose from the makeshift infirmary: someone demanded water, another screamed for more dressings, and somewhere a person gurgled curses through split lips.

One deformed figure leaned over a comrade's ruined shoulder, applying pressure to a jagged exit wound. The air smelled of iron and sweat, of broken hope.

Irene moved among them, her steps measured. She brushed a hand against the splintered edge of a scenery wagon, steadying herself against the unforgiving wood. Her own hand throbbed where a piece of flying debris had cut her—she closed her fist around it, white-knuckled, the pain registering weaker than the weight in her chest.

She studied Chrissy's bandaged stump, then looked up at the three women. Even through her fatigue, she could see how they leaned toward one another, desperate to lend comfort.

Her snake-coiled shoulders drooped. 'Why isn't there more we can do?' she thought. 'Why does this keep happening?' She swallowed against the ache in her injured hand.

Suddenly, the few work lights sputtered and died. Darkness swallowed the backstage area, save for the harsh beam from the main stage and the thin shafts of light slipping through holes in the curtain. A frustrated voice cracked through the gloom: "Dammit."

Irene froze. Her snakes coiled tighter, curling up her head like living barometers. She remembered another time—another blackout just before the walls began to bleed. Her stomach sank. 'No, not now.'

She strained to hear over the chorus of ragged breathing and distant cries. Movement flickered at the edge of her vision as figures shifted in the half-light. Then a voice slid through the shadows—low, familiar, echoing as if the walls themselves had spoken:

"Office."

Silence snapped into focus. Irene's heart pounded in her ears.