Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Don's frown formed the moment the two officers interrupted.

His mother hadn't seen him in hours. She was still holding onto his arm, still had that anxious warmth in her eyes that only just now seemed to be fading. And these two—whatever-the-hell-they-were—couldn't wait five seconds to start pushing their weight around.

He didn't like it.

He turned to face them, breaking the hold Samantha had on him, slow but deliberate.

"And you are?" he asked, voice flat.

The one with the buzzed hair wasted no time stepping forward. Arms still crossed. Shoulders squared. Attitude already bleeding out through every word. "Are you blind, kid? We're investigators," he said, irritation already loaded into his tone. "We're here to look into the crime your android reported. Now if you could do us a favor and tell us where you've been—and maybe unlock her drives—it'd save us all a lot of time."

Don didn't answer right away.

The man's tone wasn't outrageous. Just… presumptuous. It rubbed the wrong way. The words, on paper, were fine. Reasonable, even. People had been killed, after all. But the delivery—the smug, clipped certainty—irked him. Like Don should be grateful for the intrusion.

He tilted his head slightly. Eyes narrowing. Arms still at his sides.

"I'm sure it would," Don said quietly. "But first of all, I don't need to tell you where I was. And secondly, I don't think I need to give you access to anything."

There was no anger in his voice. No disrespect either. Just irritation. Polished, barely concealed, and made all the more obvious by how calm he sounded.

Samantha immediately placed a hand on his arm again, trying to be the bridge.

"They're just trying to help, sweetie, I—" she started, her voice soft, almost pleading.

She didn't like conflict. Never had. She wasn't spineless—just trained from years of polite society to smooth things over, to patch cracks before they spread.

Don turned to her slightly, voice lowering. "That doesn't give them the right to act like they own the place."

Samantha paused. Her lips pressed together. The words didn't keep coming.

The calmer of the two officers—the one who looked older, probably more experienced—seemed to sense things were slipping. He extended a hand toward his partner, palm down. A subtle gesture to shut up.

But before the older officer could say anything, a quiet voice interrupted from behind.

"You are correct, Don," Winter said, her synthetic tone cutting clean through the tension. "According to Penal Code 48-C, subparagraph three, androids of Generation 6 and above cannot be legally compelled to surrender private data or grant drive access unless their owner is under active investigation for a felony offense with a potential sentencing threshold of fifteen years or higher."

She stepped into view fully, hands folded in front of her, expression as blank and unreadable as ever.

The calm officer's brows furrowed the moment she finished speaking.

He looked down slightly, clearly doing the math in his head. Didn't take long. Whatever weak leverage they thought they had just evaporated.

Don didn't smile. That would've been poor taste. Family just got attacked. Neighbors were probably still giving statements. People were dead.

But the relief still sat there, quiet and satisfying, just behind his eyes.

"Well then," Don said, eyes flicking between the two men. "Looks like I don't have to tell you anything or hand over anything."

He nodded toward the house behind him.

"Help yourselves to the crime scene," he added. "But don't bother my family. Let's go, Mom."

He turned. Took a step.

Samantha hesitated.

Her hand lingered on his arm. Her mouth opened, then closed. A part of her wanted to say something else, smooth it over, keep things civil. She'd spent her whole life believing in rules, in good manners, in giving the police the benefit of the doubt.

But this time…

This time, her son was the one standing next to her.

"…Alright, sweetie," she finally said. "If that's what you want."

They started walking, side by side. Don's steps were even. Controlled. Samantha's a little more hesitant, but she followed without looking back.

At least, until she heard it.

"See?" the impatient officer muttered under his breath, just loud enough. "This is exactly why I hate dealing with households without a proper man in the house. The kids get mouthy, and the women stay soft."

Don stopped.

Didn't turn.

Didn't even flinch.

But he heard it. Every word. It wasn't just insulting—it was calculated. A final jab from a man losing ground.

Behind him, Samantha froze. Her head turned slightly, disbelief flickering across her face. She stared at the man for a second too long.

Don could tell. She was angry.

But the words didn't come. Not right away. When they did, they were quieter than they should've been.

"When you're done," she said, voice tight, "please leave."

That should've been enough.

It wasn't.

Not for Don.

But he didn't react. Not directly. He just nodded softly to her and started walking again, guiding her forward with a hand on her back.

They didn't look back as they stepped toward the front door, the porch light casting a soft glow over the walkway.

Behind them, the buzz-cut officer opened his mouth again—but this time, his partner cut in first.

"Hey—what the hell was that?" the older man snapped, his tone sharper now. "Are you trying to get chewed out by the captain over some report?"

The buzz-cut man scoffed. "What, you gonna tell on me now?"

"I'll do more than that if you keep talking like a damn amateur in front of civilians."

Muffled complaints, soft bickering, and the low rumble of professional failure faded into the background as Don walked side by side with Samantha, Winter following in silent stride.

The night air felt cooler than before—probably wasn't—but now that the adrenaline had tapered off, everything had a different weight.

Samantha glanced over, concern tightening her brows.

"Does it hurt anywhere?" she asked softly. "Your face looks like it—well, you've got marks, sweetie."

Don exhaled through his nose. "It's mild," he said.

That was a lie. Not because he was downplaying pain—he didn't feel anything. Not really. His bruises were already fading, his nerves quiet, and his body… now used to worse. But telling her that would only raise more questions.

The front door opened with a soft click and closed behind them with a heavier thunk.

Inside, the hallway was warm. Familiar. Quiet, except for the low sound of a tv-broadcast playing in the living room.

Don only made it a few steps in before he saw Summer.

She sat near the base of the stairs, slouched against the wall, one leg folded underneath her. Her phone hovered in front of her, floating slightly before dropping into her hand again—then back up. Then down.

Her expression was set in that irritated look that meant someone online was about to have a very bad day.

Then she noticed him.

Her head lifted, and the frustration on her face cracked just a little.

"…Donnie?" she muttered. The name barely left her lips before another voice cut in from the side.

Amanda, leaning on the doorway that connected the hallway to the living room, peered around the edge.

"Well, look who didn't get killed," she said, her tone dry. "Glad to see you in one piece. What the hell happened?"

Don stepped forward slowly, and they met him halfway.

Amanda's hug came first—tight, thorough, and unbothered by appearances. She held onto him like she'd been doing it his whole life, her arms wrapping around him without hesitation.

Summer didn't move at first. She stood in place, arms crossed, her expression unreadable.

Don turned slightly, opened his arms.

Only then did she move.

She stepped into the embrace, somewhat reluctant, like she hadn't quite decided if it was needed… but once she was there, she stayed longer than expected. Her arms wrapped around him gently, resting against his ribs.

Don gave a soft, weary smile as he stood between them. For a brief second, nothing else mattered. Not the bruises, not the news, not the lingering scent of blood and smoke in his clothes. Just this—warmth, contact, connection.

Family.

He hadn't expected it to mean anything. But it did. More than he cared to admit.

Winter, now at the hallway entrance, watched them silently before walking past toward the kitchen.

The next hour passed without issue.

They gathered in the living room—Amanda curled up on the edge of the couch, Summer laying across the floor with a cushion tucked under her arms. Don took the center seat, posture loose, head tilted back slightly as he spoke.

The tv played continuous updates in the background. Footage of the stadium. A shaky video showing smoke rising above a crowd. Snippets of talking heads spouting early theories. Nothing new.

Don gave a general breakdown of what happened. He left out most of the details, of course. No mention of the puppets. No names. Nothing that couldn't pass for standard chaos. But it was still enough to get wide eyes out of them.

Conversation drifted eventually. Amanda asked about Sparky. Summer checked his diagnostics twice just to be sure.

Winter, without needing to be asked, answered from the kitchen.

"Structural damage minimal. One motor joint requires recalibration. I've already ordered the necessary part. He is currently in standby mode."

That was enough to put Summer at ease, though she didn't say it out loud.

Eventually, the food came out—simple, warm, and honestly better than what most restaurants passed off these days.

Don ate slowly, the exhaustion creeping up again with each bite. It wasn't physical anymore. Just… mental fog. The kind that came after things exploded, settled, then left you alone with the mess.

Once finished, he set his plate aside and stood.

"I'm gonna go clean up."

Summer glanced up from the couch. Amanda gave a lazy wave from behind her drink.

Don stepped toward the stairs, his foot landing quietly on the first step with a soft creak.

"Hey," Summer's voice called from behind him.

He paused, turning slightly to look back over his shoulder. "What's up?"

She hesitated. Her hand gripped the edge of the couch, knuckles pressing into the cushion.

"…Just," she muttered, voice low. "Remember what we agreed on?"

Her gaze met his—not sharp, not awkward. Just… reminding him.

Don gave a small nod. No smile this time. Just a steady look and a quiet reply.

"I remember."