Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Barclay's frown deepened. A dark line cut across his face as Charles's words lingered in the air like smoke that refused to fade.

Charles, by contrast, remained composed—his smile subtle, unreadable. It wasn't smug. It was relaxed. Measured. The kind of smile you wore when you'd already counted every reaction ten steps ahead.

Eyes all around the chamber turned toward Barclay.

Waiting.

But he didn't get the chance to speak.

Director Graham's voice cut clean through the room.

"That won't be necessary, Charles," he said firmly.

The weight of the statement was immediate. A quiet shift in posture, glances exchanged across the rows. The Director hadn't raised his voice—but no one doubted who was in charge.

Graham turned his head slightly, giving Barclay a side glance that felt more like a slap.

"Some of us," he continued, "seem to be a bit too emotional right now." The jab landed hard.

Several heads turned toward Barclay—no longer out of curiosity, but scrutiny. A few mouths tightened. One or two looked down, like they'd rather not be caught watching.

Barclay's scowl deepened further, jaw clenched tight. But he didn't speak.

Not because he didn't want to. But because anything he said now would only confirm what Graham had just implied—that he was acting from ego, not sense.

Graham faced forward again, his tone steady.

"We will work closely with the FBI to truly understand what we're dealing with. These parasites, this behavior… we don't know enough yet. But based on what I've seen and what I trust—" his eyes flicked briefly to Don and Charles, "—I don't believe our two young members here acted out of malice."

He exhaled slowly. "But I know the public won't accept that alone."

A pause.

"So until we have solid proof, I—as the Director—will take responsibility for the loss of civilian lives."

That silenced the last of the doubters.

"I will bear the weight of that outcome," Graham said plainly. "That is how confident I am that these two did no wrong."

The room didn't breathe.

Then Graham turned back toward Barclay, one brow raising slightly.

"Are you that confident in your motion, Harold?" he asked. "Or was it just theatrics?"

Barclay looked like he might combust.

His shoulders stiffened. His lips parted—then closed again. His eyes darted briefly toward the chamber's faces, only to find none fixed on him with support. Suspicion, maybe. Discomfort. But not support.

He swallowed something hard.

And somehow, managed to say, "I retract my earlier comments. Perhaps… I was too harsh."

It wasn't an apology. It was a surrender. A stiff, reluctant crawl back to safety—barely dignified and entirely hollow.

But in this room? It was humiliating.

Charles didn't speak. He didn't need to.

The smile remained.

Don glanced at both men—one unraveling, the other collecting silent wins. He didn't miss the irony. Barclay had thrown the first stone and found himself bleeding. And Graham? Graham wasn't just preserving order. He was dismantling his rival.

All with plausible dignity.

Director Graham didn't waste the momentum.

"Then it shall be done this way," he said, folding his hands together. "Until a thorough investigation is complete, I will assume full responsibility for the public response."

He paused.

"To preserve trust in this agency and avoid further disruption, I will also be taking leave for a brief period, effective immediately."

A few whispers returned—low, surprised.

"In my absence," Graham said, "Dr. Gadget will act as Director. His experience, composure, and neutrality make him best suited to manage operations during this period."

Dr. Gadget gave a curt nod, hands folded before him like he'd expected this announcement.

Graham let the weight of his words settle before asking, "Does anyone object to this course of action?"

Silence.

The room remained still. No raised hands. No sounds of dissent. Even those aligned with Barclay stayed quiet.

Checkmate.

Barclay had been attacked on two fronts—and now there was nothing left for him to throw.

"With that," Director Graham said, "we'll bring this meeting to a close."

He stood slowly, posture still straight despite the fatigue edging into his voice.

"As all formal members of this department," he continued, tone sharpening, "I trust I don't need to warn anyone against discussing motions of the assembly hall elsewhere?"

No one moved.

No one spoke.

The silence was affirmation enough.

Graham smiled. Cool. Measured. "Good."

He looked across the room, his gaze lingering just long enough on each section to be remembered.

"Then the meeting is adjourned. Thank you all for attending."

A soft shuffle of chairs followed.

Don didn't move right away.

His eyes stayed on Graham for a moment longer.

'He's good,' Don thought. 'Really good.'

Not just in position—but in execution. Graham had navigated the whole mess carefully. He'd delivered a quiet execution on Barclay, spared the dignity of those who'd backed him, and taken full ownership in a way that made resistance feel shameful.

He spoke with respect, even when issuing commands. He didn't shout. He didn't threaten.

He made everyone feel like listening to him was the smartest decision they could make.

It was hard not to respect someone like that. Even harder to hate them.

If it was all just performance? Then it was one hell of an act.

People were rising from their seats now. Some slower than others.

Starboy, a few rows ahead, didn't bother hiding his displeasure. His glare was heavy. Tight-jawed. Clearly not thrilled with the result.

Don didn't return the look. Just noted it.

He'd expected worse.

Some part of him had prepared for a harder fall, a longer interrogation. But the storm had passed quickly. Contained. More words than blows.

It almost felt too smooth.

Charles pulled him out of his thoughts.

"That went better than expected," he said as they stood.

Don shrugged. "I suppose so."

They walked out together.

—

Several minutes later, the two of them sat in the helicopter again. The city shrank beneath them—rooftops, roads, and rivers folding into patchwork gray.

The whir of the blades was steady. Comfortably loud. A good buffer for quiet thinking.

Charles sat looking out his window, arms relaxed. He looked calm—but not disconnected.

"To be quite honest," Charles said, his voice carrying easily despite the noise, "I didn't expect you to stand by me in there."

Don glanced over but didn't interrupt.

"Granted," Charles continued, "it wasn't as volatile as I imagined. But even then… few would risk it. So—thank you for that."

He sounded genuine.

Don nodded. "No need to thank me," he replied. "It's what partners do, right?"

Charles smiled. It was small, but not fake. Almost moved, in that quiet, carefully hidden way he had.

"I suppose it is," he said.

He leaned back into his seat, one hand shifting slightly like he was about to speak again.

**Bing**

His phone buzzed from inside his jacket.

He didn't tense. Just reached for it casually, eyes drifting down as he pulled it out.

**Bing**

**Bing**

**Bing**

Don's phone vibrated next.

Three notifications.

One from Gary. Two from Summer. One more trailing in from Hector.

His brows pulled together.

Why the sudden cluster?

He unlocked the screen, thumb hovering as the screen loaded.

He hadn't even opened a single message before Charles spoke.

His tone grim and clipped.

"We have a problem."