Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The drive away from the stadium was a slow, miserable crawl.

Dozens of vehicles packed the narrow streets. Sirens came and went in spurts. Headlights flashed. People yelled. People cried. People honked—a lot.

Impatient drivers leaned on their horns like it would somehow clear the congestion. Families stood outside their cars, scanning the crowd, shouting names. Some wept openly. Others just stared.

Reporters hovered with cameras and comms units, desperate for scraps of tragedy they could spin into tomorrow's headlines.

Inside the G-Wagon, the sound was dulled. Thick luxury insulation kept most of it out. Still present, but distant, like the outside world had been turned down a few notches.

No one inside said much.

Tori sat with her head against the glass, eyes closed. She might've been asleep, but it was hard to tell. Her arms were crossed. Her face unreadable.

Hector, meanwhile, had given up on talking. Now he just kept checking his phone for a signal, holding it up like altitude was the issue.

Don figured now that the adrenaline had faded, Hector was probably worried about his family. Maybe some friends too. The chaos hadn't hit everywhere, but it had hit enough.

As for Donald—he looked… fine. Too fine.

Both hands on the wheel. Posture stiff. Eyes laser-focused on the road, and yet… somehow not there at all.

Every time traffic crept forward a few inches, he wouldn't move until someone behind honked. Then he'd blink, nod, and press the pedal gently. Like a machine restarting.

Don sat back in his seat, arms folded.

He hated the waiting. The inch-by-inch crawl felt like punishment. The exhaustion was settling in, but it wasn't physical. It was heavier than that.

After close to an hour, they finally pushed out of the congestion and into the wider city routes.

By then, the city had shifted.

Emergency broadcasts ran across holo-signs and through most civilian devices, even public screens. Calm-voiced AI guided traffic with chilling accuracy, giving real-time updates on cleared routes.

Roads under lockdown were tagged in red, and for every possible destination, the fastest adjusted path was listed. Entire regions had been rerouted like blood flowing through a new set of veins.

In Don's old world, something like this would've taken hours, maybe days.

But here?

They were used to chaos. This wasn't their first large-scale event. And based on how quickly order was forming, it wouldn't be their last.

The realization sat with him.

This world didn't just tolerate superhuman incidents—it had evolved with them. Systems had been built around them. Infrastructure designed to accommodate the fallout.

Not every part of this place was broken. Some of it was terrifyingly efficient.

The thought lingered as the G-Wagon rolled through city blocks, past neighborhoods lit with blue safety lighting and clean, untouched intersections.

Eventually, they pulled up near a pair of aged high-rise apartment buildings. Old enough to show their years, but not completely falling apart.

Hector and Tori's place.

The area had a strong Hispanic presence—Don noticed it immediately. Men stood out front with rifles or handguns, quietly watching the street. Women stood on the balconies, talking low in spanish or just staring out into the night.

No one waved.

Hector unbuckled first. "I'll reach out tomorrow bro," he muttered, giving Don a quick glance. "If the network decides to show up."

Tori nodded silently, stepping out after him. No long goodbye. No dramatics. Just the soft click of the doors as they shut them behind.

Don and Donald drove on.

Roughly twenty minutes later, they reached the perimeter of the Chanel Hills Community.

It didn't look right.

Police lights reflected off the walls. Barricades had been half-lowered, and two patrol cars were stationed at the front gate. Officers stood around in loose stances, but they were definitely alert.

Donald's hands tightened on the wheel.

Then one of the officers stepped out into the road, raising a hand to stop them.

"Shit," Donald muttered under his breath, slowing down.

He rolled the window down, trying to keep his voice even. "What happened? Was this place attacked too?"

The officer nodded once. "Yes, sir. Are you residents here?"

Donald nodded, reaching for his wallet with a hand that didn't stop shaking.

"I'm going to need to see some I.D.," the officer added, already pulling out a scanner—sleek, pen-shaped.

Don reached into his pocket and retrieved his card. Donald passed his first, the edge of it trembling slightly between his fingers.

"Was anyone hurt?" he asked.

The officer looked at both of them as he scanned the cards with a soft **beep-beep** from the device.

"The guards posted at the front gate were killed," he answered flatly. "But only one house was targeted. No civilian casualties."

Don didn't react, but Donald's face fell. Slightly relieved… slightly confused.

"You're good to go in," the officer added, handing the cards back.

Donald muttered a quick thanks, retrieved both I.D.s, and passed Don his card before driving forward.

The drive to their street took under a minute.

Quiet. Suburban. Too quiet. Then, they turned the corner.

Three police vehicles were parked directly in front of Don's house. Lights still on. Officers outside. Yellow tape across the front lawn.

Donald slowed down.

His voice came low.

"The attack was on your house?"

Don wasn't surprised to see the police cars in front of his house. He had already made contact with the ones responsible. Already spoken to the thing that did this.

The sight of flashing blue lights and idle cops was just the natural aftermath. They weren't here to stop anything. Just to clean up. To ask questions.

In response to Donald's quiet mutter, Don let out a soft, regretful sigh. "They must've tried coming after you and me. Maybe even our family… because of what happened at the church."

It was a lie. A good one, though.

Fitted perfectly into the night's chaos so far. Tied the threads together in a way that required no further questions.

He wasn't about to drag Donald into the truth.

Not when it wasn't necessary.

Donald accepted it without hesitation. His expression hardened, the conclusion settling comfortably in a mind already overwhelmed by too much.

He brought the vehicle to a full stop just past the driveway.

Up ahead, Don saw his mother.

Samantha.

She stood with a few of the neighbors at the end of the street, talking to officers.

Her hair was pulled back hastily. Her long robe fluttered slightly in the breeze, and though her back was to him, he could see her posture wasn't composed. It was tense. Worried.

He opened the car door and stepped out.

"I'll catch up with you tomorrow, man," Don said as he closed the door behind him. "I need to check on my family."

Donald gave a nod from the driver's seat.

No questions. Just understanding.

Don turned and started toward his house.

The porch lights were still on, casting a low glow across the driveway and walk. The crime scene tape wasn't wrapped around the house, but it might as well have been. The energy was the same—an invaded space.

On the porch stood Winter, perfectly upright, her synthetic face as serene and still as ever.

She wasn't alone.

Two men stood near her, both dressed in casual suits—the kind of attire reserved for local investigators who didn't want to wear the uniform but still needed to look official enough.

One of them—tall, maybe early forties, with a soft voice and a too-understanding look in his eyes—spoke gently. "Do you know anyone who would want to hurt you or your family, miss?"

The other one—mid-thirties, buzzed hair, impatient tone, his arms crossed like he had somewhere better to be—cut in almost immediately.

"It could save us the trouble if you gave us access to your data drives. Or at least describe the suspects properly. The report was too vague."

Winter's head tilted just slightly.

Her voice was neutral. "I gave the absolute minimum necessary for a report of that nature."

She blinked slowly. "Any access to my data will require admin permission, which no one present has."

Her eyes flicked toward the street.

"Correction. I retract my former statement. The admin is now on the premises."

Both officers turned to follow her gaze.

Samantha at this time followed as well.

The moment her eyes landed on Don, they lit up.

Without a second thought, she hurried toward him, arms already lifting.

"Oh, Donnie—there you are!"

Don turned to face her and offered a tired smile, opening his arms as she wrapped hers tightly around him.

She held on longer than usual, her chin resting against his shoulder. "Oh, sweetie, I was so worried."

She pulled back just slightly, enough to look him over.

His cuts and bruises were already fading—some gone entirely—but the exhaustion clung to him in a way that healing couldn't fix.

She didn't comment on it. Didn't want to smother him.

Instead, she just reached up and wiped a smudge of dirt off his cheek with her thumb. "Are you okay, sweetie? What happened to you?"

Don opened his mouth—

"We'd like to know too," the impatient officer said, stepping down from the porch.