Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Don didn't leave his room after that.

The warmth of Samantha's touch lingered only for a few seconds. Then it was gone. Replaced by charts. Scans. Projections.

The walls of his mind weren't just guarded—they were fortified. And tonight, they needed to be. If he was going to survive this game with Charles and come out with more than scraps of reputation, he had to stay ahead of the curve.

Emotion had its place. Just not now.

He spent the next few hours dissecting the plan.

Breaking down contingencies. Running through counter-narratives. Identifying blind spots before they got him killed.

And when that well ran dry—he turned inward.

Don lay flat on his bed, eyes closed, the faint glow of his augmented contact lenses shimmering beneath his lids. The simulation began like all the others—structured chaos, force multipliers, fluid threat assessment.

But eventually, it unraveled.

It always did.

His breath hitched—and suddenly, gasp—he shot upright, clutching at the bedsheets like they were the only things keeping him anchored.

**Haaa—**

The moonlight slicing through his blackout curtains barely touched him, but what it did reveal wasn't pretty.

His upper body glistened in sweat. Shoulders tense. Chest rising and falling faster than it should've. His hand ran through his damp hair as he muttered under his breath.

"Fuck…"

He sat at the edge of the bed. Both hands covered his face, palms dragging across his skin—checking for sweat, yes, but also making sure he was real again.

He wanted to sigh again, but the puke crawling up his throat threatened to punish him for it.

Instead, he reached up, pinched out his contacts, and blinked back to full darkness.

Don then stood, moved to the dresser, and picked up his phone.

04:44 AM.

One unread message.

Charles.

[Come over when you see this.]

No urgency. No pressure. But a message sent at 3:58 AM was never casual. Not in their world.

Don's thumb hovered for a moment. Then he typed back:

[I'll be there in the next 30 minutes.]

Sent.

What followed was routine. Clockwork.

Stretch. Shower. Breathe. Reset.

The water was warm, but he didn't really feel it. Just let it beat against his shoulders while his thoughts circled.

By the time he stepped into the kitchen, the light had adjusted itself to a soft amber. He wore a plain grey t-shirt, slightly loose. Black sweatpants.

Winter was already there—standing at the sink, rinsing the dishes from his meal prep.

Her hands moved like a machine, but not mindlessly. Every motion had an intention.

Don leaned against the kitchen island, chewing efficiently. Protein-heavy. Low sugar. Perfect ratio of burn to sustain. The fork barely made sound against the plate.

Winter spoke without turning.

"I've compiled all the information I could source via public records and black market databases. Based on known behaviors and incident patterns, accuracy is estimated at 88%."

She paused.

"Would you like me to create a manual on how you could effectively deal with each target using the current parameters of your powers?"

Don didn't look up.

"Go ahead."

Winter nodded once, her back still to him.

Being synced to the Citadel's supercomputer had changed her. Not visibly. Not behaviorally. But there was more in her now. Faster processing. Greater data absorption. Strategy crafting.

She didn't need her default system's help anymore to run combat routines. She was the system.

He'd given her a list of his powers in less "system prompt" terms—more practical breakdowns of how they actually worked. With that, Winter could design optimized approaches for just about anything.

He just had to train enough to execute.

And she'd already built the schedule for that too.

There were risks, of course. Keeping this much intel stored in one place—even a near-locked node like Winter's brain—was dangerous. But he didn't have the luxury of slow growth anymore. The gap between him and his enemies wasn't something you closed with patience.

You closed it by thinking faster. By being smarter.

He scraped the last bite off his plate, set the fork down quietly, and looked toward Winter.

"I'm heading over to Charles's."

Winter didn't turn. Just rinsed the last dish and said, "Affirmative. I'll contact you if anything."

Don nodded once. Then turned.

———

A few minutes later, Don sat in Charles's living room—half-lounged, half-postured—like someone trying to relax but not letting himself forget he was in another man's territory.

The folder in his hand was thick with paperwork and statistical breakdowns.

Charles leaned against the armrest of the nearest sofa, holding a wine glass between two fingers like it was more prop than drink. The crimson liquid swirled lazily.

"My lawyers say it's still very possible for us to represent the school in upcoming competitions," Charles began, voice smooth, distant. "Local or national. But…" he sipped, "with our elite program privileges revoked, we'd have to qualify the old-fashioned way. Through the standard student body."

Don looked up from the folder, brow raised. "You say that like it's a problem."

"It is," Charles replied, glancing at him over the rim of the glass. "We're marked as former elite program students. That places us in Category A."

"And?"

Charles sighed, pushing away from the couch arm and walking toward a nearby shelf stacked with awards. "Category A students might not be elite, but they're close. Strong. Hungry. And extremely motivated. Most of them want nothing more than to beat someone like us on record."

Don closed the folder and set it on the coffee table. "When can we qualify?"

Charles glanced at his watch—a sleek piece of tech that looked like it could hack satellites if you tapped it the right way.

"Technically? Today. Starting at 10 a.m."

He looked back at Don, adding with dry amusement, "Which is madness, considering the prep time it requires. Realistically? Next semester."

Don stood up and stretched slightly. "But if I wanted to?"

Charles blinked once. "You'd be cutting it close, but yes. I could have you registered."

He crossed his arms and tapped a finger along his sleeve, a smile curling at the edges. "How confident are you that you can qualify?"

Don turned to him fully. No swagger, no arrogance—just a thin, self-assured smile. "Fairly confident."

Charles's own smile widened. "In that case, let's get you adequately prepared."

Don raised a brow. "What do you mean—"

———

Thirty minutes later

Don stood in Charles's dressing room—though calling it that was underselling it. This wasn't a room. It was an armory that happened to care about aesthetics.

Wall-mounted displays shifted through holograms of various suit schematics. A series of mannequins—each disturbingly close to Charles's actual physique—stood along one side, draped in variations of combat gear that looked like they belonged to different timelines.

In front of the mirror, Don flexed his arms, slowly opening and closing his fists.

He now wore a long-sleeved bodysuit top, layered beneath reinforced black combat pants. His boots—blacked out, steel-tipped, lightweight—gripped the floor with an authority that reminded him more of military-grade than anything super hero like

.

The entire ensemble gave the impression he was about to infiltrate a warzone instead of compete in a school-sponsored proving ground.

And somehow… it suited him.

Charles stood beside him, watching with a sense of detached satisfaction. "You're looking at a composite design based on your desired suit's structure, but enhanced with Obsidian-Weave XT."

Don turned his head slightly. "That the stuff top-tier heroes use?"

Charles nodded. "It's what I use for mine. Yours is slightly denser, though. Should give better resistance against blunt force and elemental impact. Flexibility's less that what I use of course but still intact."

Don rolled his shoulders. The material moved like liquid muscle.

"So you just have a machine that spits out tailored gear like this at will?"

Charles smirked. "It's a bit more sophisticated than that, but essentially… yes."

Don turned back to the mirror, fists clenched now. He held the pose for a moment before giving a single nod.

"It's perfect."

Charles tilted his glass toward him from across the room.

"Then let's get you registered."