Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The moment Don's voice cut through the backstage darkness, panic rippled outward like an electric shock.

A few of the injured dancers, recognizing the cold echo, froze in mid-motion, their breath pausing sharply. One dropped a tray of bloodied rags; another instinctively backed against a prop shelf, knocking loose fake skulls that rattled across the floor—clack clack clack—before falling silent.

Those unfamiliar with the sound merely stared wide-eyed into the shadows, confusion tangled with fresh dread.

At the center of it all stood Irene. Her breathing slowed, the muscles in her neck tightening as she tried to hold back a tremor. She swallowed once, her throat dry, and forced herself to speak.

"Use whatever you can for now," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. She clutched tighter at the dirty towel wrapped around her injured arm, the blood beginning to seep through the cloth. "I'll... I'll see what I can do once I'm back."

She didn't meet the questioning glances thrown her way, nor did she offer comfort to the few who clearly remembered Don's first "visit." Truthfully, Irene wasn't certain she'd return at all.

But there was no sense causing further panic. With that thought, she turned and hurried from the backstage chaos, leaving the others to their confusion and pressing wounds.

The hallway leading to her office was dimly lit, shadows clinging stubbornly to the cracked walls. Irene stopped abruptly in front of her door. Her heart thudded in her chest as her eyes traced the familiar grooves in the wood, but it was the darkness beyond that kept her from reaching immediately for the handle.

Inside, she knew, it was just him. Or something like him.

She hesitated, thoughts a mess—what did he want from her now? Was this mess about to get worse? And, though she loathed the weakness of it, a small part of her wondered if he would help if asked.

Don's voice broke through her thoughts again, deep and flat from behind the door. "I dislike waiting for no reason."

Her body reacted instantly—a swift gulp, fingers fumbling as she twisted the handle. The door swung open with a soft creak. Irene stepped inside cautiously, preparing to turn and close it herself.

SLAM!~

The door slammed shut behind her, as if pushed by invisible hands in the dark. Irene jerked forward, flinching, her snakes reacting in kind—each scaled body bristling and rising, tongues flicking nervously.

Her stomach twisted, feeling hollow, as her eyes searched the shadows ahead. Nothing but darkness… and then his eyes appeared—cold, white orbs floating in the blackness.

Irene's breath hitched. There was no reasoning with him, no pleading. Not like the others. That reality was enough to rob her of any courage she might've mustered. She quickly lowered her head, a silent, instinctive gesture of respect or submission. Her voice came out uneven and hesitant.

"Welcome… sir."

Don didn't move. Didn't acknowledge the greeting. Instead, his voice emerged, impassive and demanding. "Tell me what happened. In summary."

Irene shifted, wincing slightly as the towel slipped across her injury. She adjusted it, tightening her grip before answering. "I was hosting a performance," she began, trying to keep her voice steady, "to raise funds for the community. The first two attackers came suddenly. They tried to set the building on fire but retreated after we fought back."

She paused, her eyes briefly shifting to a cracked mirror on the wall, barely reflecting fragments of her pale, weary face. "We lost a few people, but it wasn't until the second group came, armed and in protective gear, that things became truly bad."

She stopped again, eyes narrowing in thought. Her words slowed, unsure how much detail Don wanted. "I don't know who the first two attackers were or why they attacked, but I'm sure the armed ones were sent by Barclay."

Don's voice came back swiftly, still emotionless. "What makes you think they weren't all sent by Barclay?"

Irene hesitated, recalling the scene vividly—the desperate look in the attacker's eyes, his final words rasped through the fear of petrification. "Because, as I was turning one of them into stone, he said they were sent to kill us... and also the attackers who came before them."

The room stayed silent for a moment, Don's eyes unmoving in the gloom. Irene felt a chill spread down her spine as she waited for whatever came next.

Irene's words settled into the darkness of the office, hanging heavily between them. Beneath his mask, Don's brow creased deeply. He had no reason to doubt her sincerity.

If Irene was telling the truth—and she had no reason to lie—it meant Barclay planned to bury both loose ends at once: Irene's group and the Gonzalez brothers. Perhaps that's why his secretary fled?

Don cut the thought short. It felt correct, but without evidence, it was just a guess.

His musings were interrupted by Irene's voice, trembling but firm. "Sir…if you give me the means, I'll gladly end Barclay—even if it costs me my own life. I'll take as many of his lackeys as I can."

The rage in her voice was evident, but so was her struggle to remain respectful. Don couldn't see it beneath her lowered eyes, but it took every bit of courage she had left to ask. She fully believed any misstep could mean instant death, yet life hardly seemed better. In one night, she'd lost far too much.

Don scoffed audibly. Inside, he was somewhat impressed—she was willing to sacrifice herself purely out of vengeance. Outwardly, he showed none of that. Why would Predator care?

"If you need the means given to you," he said coldly, "then you're not the right person for the job."

The words weren't cruel, just blunt. Yet they stung all the same. Irene felt the heat rush to her cheeks, shame and despair washing over her. 'Was this why Barclay targeted me?' she wondered. 'Because I'm worthless?'

Her head dropped even further, fighting back tears. She knew she'd earned death more times than she could count, yet somehow this felt worse—unfair, hopeless, and utterly draining. She didn't even notice Don's movement until his voice echoed quietly near her ear.

"Raise your head."

The command was simple but sharp. Irene's head snapped up immediately, eyes wide, and there he stood—inches away. The darkness around him seemed deeper now, his eyes two cold moons hovering ominously.

Her snakes recoiled instinctively, their movements slow and cautious, the soft sound of their anxious tongues flicking through the air. Irene tried to form words, but nothing came.

Don spoke again, his voice neutral but firm. "I'll arrange funds to be sent soon. Use them however you see fit."

Irene blinked rapidly, disbelief etched across her face. She must have heard wrong—his voice implied rejection, yet his words contradicted that.

She hesitated, then spoke softly, voice strained with confusion. "But…you just said you wouldn't give me the means?"

Don's response was immediate and unyielding. "I'm not giving you the means for revenge. I'm providing the resources available to regular people. Isn't that what you all are?"

His words froze her in place, a chill running through her. Her eyes flooded instantly, tears pooling as she tried to speak. Quickly, she wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, smearing away tears.

When she lowered it again, blinking the moisture away, Don was gone—vanished without a sound, leaving only silence and the empty darkness.