Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Don remained crouched on the rooftop, blending seamlessly with the darkness. Using his enhanced vision, he picked out every detail of the garage entrance where two men stood guard.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

'If Gary's really testing me, running back for instructions won't impress anyone,' Don thought, his fingers flexing as he prepared himself. "Beastshift," he whispered.

**Whoosh**

A tingling sensation washed over his body, making him feel weightless. His vision sharpened dramatically, the darkness peeling away to reveal crystal clear details of the compound.

Heat signatures also bloomed in his field of view, painting thermal portraits of everything within 500 meters. The two guards burned bright orange against the cool blue background of the night.

Rather than rushing in, Don vanished from the roof and melted into the shadows near the garage. He then watched and waited, studying the movements of the two with predatory patience.

The two men continued their casual conversation, completely unaware of his presence.

"Here man," the first man said, passing the cigarette to his companion before shifting his weight from foot to foot. "I need to take a piss."

The second guard accepted the cigarette, taking a long drag. "Alright, but hurry up. Ash made it clear to avoid splitting up."

"What? Does she expect us to hold hands as we take bathroom breaks too?" The first man scoffed as he walked toward the side of the garage.

His friend let out a rough laugh. "Just hurry up man."

The first man waved dismissively and rounded the corner. He walked a few steps then stopped near the wall, his fingers fumbling with his zipper.

Suddenly, a slight movement caught his eye - the pitch-black wall in front of him seemed to ripple like water.

"What the fu-" he started to say.

**SCHLICK**

However, a massive obsidian spike erupted from the wall.

It punched through his skull with devastating force, spraying bone fragments and gray matter in a grotesque arc. The wet crunch of shattering bone echoed faintly in the night air, followed by a soft **thud** as his body went limp.

Back at the garage entrance, his friend took another drag of the cigarette, glancing toward the corner. "Hey don't tell me you're taking a shit there Bob?"

Silence answered him.

The cigarette trembled slightly between his fingers as he called out again, his voice tight with subtle fear. "Bob?"

The man shifted his weight uncomfortably, taking out his phone and clutching it tightly in one hand, the faint glow from the screen casting eerie shadows on his face. "Bob?" he called again, his voice wavering slightly this time as flashed his phone's torch at the dark corner.

Still no answer. Then, to add to his growing unease, his phone let out a soft **beep** as the battery flashed low and went off.

"Damn it, Bob." His tone was harsher now, as if the irritation could mask the creeping unease.

He glanced toward the corner where Bob had disappeared, the steel walls now looking cold and uninviting under the dim overhead lights nearby. The shadows there seemed unnaturally thick, almost alive.

With a frustrated grunt, the guard shoved his phone into his pocket. "Alright, I'm comin'," he muttered, taking a hesitant step forward.

But just as he was about to round the corner, his boot caught on something slick and he stumbled, quickly pinwheeling his arms for balance. But the moment he looked down, it was too late. A dark glossy tendril coiled around his ankle like a living rope and yanked hard.

"Uff!" He hit the ground with a muffled **thud, the wind knocked out of him. Panic quickly set in as more tendrils erupted forward, twisting around his limbs and pinning him to the cold concrete floor.

His mouth opened to scream, but another tendril snaked up, covering it in an instant.

The man's muffled cries echoed briefly, barely rising above a whisper, before silence fell again as the shadows writhed around him, shifting and pulsing as though savoring his fear.

He thrashed, trying to break free, but it was pointless.

"Looking for Bob?" Suddenly, a voice came from nowhere and everywhere all at once—a low, menacing whisper that seemed to emanate from the shadows themselves, at least to the now terrified man.

He froze immediately, his eyes widening and darting around in all directions, looking for the source of the voice.

His breath came in short, terrified gasps against the oppressive weight of the tendril over his mouth.

Then, from the darkness just beside him, a figure began to take form.

Don emerged, as if stepping out of the steel itself, his dark form glinting faintly from the dim light nearby. His mask's skeletal visage loomed over the man, the empty glowing sockets of the skull staring down with menacing intent.

"Bob's not available right now," Don continued, crouching down beside the immobilized man. The tendrils adjusted slightly, loosening their grip on the guard's mouth just enough to let him speak. "But you're going to answer some questions?"

The man's eyes were wide with abject terror, fixed on Don's black and gold skeletal visage as if the very sight of it would freeze his heart.

He wanted to scream for help, to call out to someone—anyone—but the unrelenting certainty in Don's glowing, hollow gaze told him it would be futile. Even if someone came, they wouldn't arrive fast enough to save him.

Don's voice was quiet, almost conversational, but it carried a weight that crushed any hope of escape. "I know you're scared. You should be." His head tilted slightly, the movement unnervingly slow. "Because the moment you don't answer my question, is the moment you'll die like your friend."

The man's breath hitched, his trembling lips parting to respond, but no words came out. 'Bob's dead?'

The realization struck him hard, causing his heart to start hammering in his chest and his stomach to twist into a hollow knot. His breathing turned shallow and erratic as adrenaline flooded his veins.

Don ignored the man's panicked state, his tone devoid of sympathy as he asked, "Where is your leader?"

The question lingered in the cold air, but the man could only shake his head in trembling denial. Tears began to fall down his face as he stammered, "P-please, I don't know! Listen, I got a ki—"

He never finished.

Without hesitation, Don willed a shadowy spike to erupt from the ground beneath the man's head. **SCHLICK!** It punctured through his skull with brutal force. Bone fragments and blood sprayed outward, just like with Bob, decorating the steel wall and surrounding concrete with a grotesque splatter.

The man's head jerked upward briefly, his eyes rolling back before his limp body sagged against the shadows holding him.

For a moment, Don remained crouched, his gaze fixed on the lifeless form before him. A small pool of blood began to spread across the cold concrete floor, its deep red sheen catching the dim light from the front of the garage.

Don didn't doubt the man's words; the truth in his plea had been clear. But truth wasn't enough. The information he needed wasn't there, and that made the man useless.

Standing smoothly, Don glanced down at the body, the expression fixed on his mask cold and detached.

His focus was pulled away as the earbud crackled to life again. Gary's voice came through, just as calm and professional. "Sir, I've succeeded in hacking into the electricals. Would you like me to turn off the lights in the compound?"

Don didn't respond immediately, his glowing gaze shifting toward the garage entrance in front of him.

Meanwhile, the inside the garage, the interior was unremarkable at first glance, a typical workshop with grease-stained floors and the faint smell of oil hanging in the air. Tools hung neatly on one wall, and a few workbenches were scattered across the space, cluttered with parts and equipment.

But what drew attention were the shelves lining the far side. They were stacked with bricks wrapped in plastic, their off-white hue suggesting the presence of drugs.

At the center of the garage, a group of four men were present. All bore rough, unshaven faces, scarred knuckles, and tattoos peeking out from beneath their grease-streaked uniforms.

Three of them were seated on the floor, a deck of cards laid out between them, while the fourth leaned casually against the wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

One of the men on the floor, a lanky figure with a patchy beard, slammed down a pair of cards and grinned. "That's a winning hand, boys!" he gloated, spreading his arms wide as if to bask in his victory.

"Bullshit," the shortest of the three groaned, throwing his own cards to the ground. "You got lucky again." He shoved himself up with an irritated grunt. "Fuck this. I'm just tired of waiting around. When's the fucker giving us problems gonna show up already?"

The last man, a chubby figure with a shaved head, let out a low chuckle as he gathered up the discarded cards. "Careful what you say, brother. You might jinx—"

**Click**

Before the man could finish, the lights abruptly cut out, plunging the garage into complete darkness.