Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

It was 9:47 a.m. in the Bright penthouse.

The floor gleamed like it had been waxed an hour ago—which, to be fair, it probably had. Winter didn't sleep. She didn't rest. She maintained. Like a machine with a dust rag. The place hadn't just been cleaned, it had been preserved—as if dirt feared showing up under her watch.

In the kitchen, Samantha stood with one hip leaning against the island, cradling a bowl of cereal like it might anchor her to the floor.

"I swear, it just ruffles my feathers," she said, spoon gesturing more than feeding. "Instead of listening to the truth, these grown men and women are busy abusing my son. Every time I go online, I see some terrible things."

Across the room, Winter didn't pause scrubbing the already-pristine sink. Her tone was calm, mechanical—but not unkind.

"I advise against being on the internet at this time," she replied. "The incident remains the highest trending regional topic in the province. Several out-of-province forums are also circulating speculation and unofficial reports."

Samantha scooped a bite, chewed slowly, and sighed. The cereal was soggy. The truth worse.

"You don't think they'll actually charge him with multiple murders… right?" she asked. "Has anything new come to light?"

Winter stopped.

She placed the sponge neatly back into its holder before turning to face Samantha, her blue optics blinking once.

"I'm sorry," she said, "with the limited data available, I cannot make an accurate prediction."

That was a lie.

Winter could calculate the trajectory of a political smear campaign better than any analyst in the country. She'd already accounted for judicial bias, media narrative drift, lobby group influence, public outrage scaling, and a dozen corrupt judicial variables ranging from bribed regulators to pressure from corporate interest boards. The formula wasn't simple. But it was precise.

Still, she lied.

Because Samantha didn't need math.

Samantha sighed again, deflated. "Sorry. I guess you're tired of me asking that."

"I don't get tired," Winter said plainly.

Before Samantha could reply, footsteps padded against the hallway.

Summer stepped into the kitchen wearing a cropped vest and those tight, sporty shorts that looked like gymwear got into a fight with sleepwear and forgot who won. Her arms stretched high overhead as she yawned mid-step.

"Mornin~" she mumbled.

Samantha straightened, quick to smother the worry on her face with a gentle smile. "Good morning, sweetie. How'd you sleep?"

Summer's reply didn't come with words—at least not immediately. Instead, she walked over to the fridge, pulled out the milk, and took a long drink straight from the carton.

**Glug-glug**

She lowered it with a satisfied sigh. "Like a baby," she said. "The mattress is perfect. The room's ambient. Tech sync is on point. I can play 8D music through the ceiling, the whole speaker setup is legit. The wall projector? Has IOV plugins—I watched a 3D action flick last night that-."

She paused. Samantha was still smiling, though a bit... stiffly.

Summer squinted. "You don't know what I'm saying, do you?"

Samantha blinked. "I'm just glad you've settled in okay."

Summer rolled her eyes and propped a hand on her hip. "How do you work at a software company and not know basic tech?"

Samantha chuckled awkwardly. "It doesn't work like that, sweetie. My role's more on the corporate end of things."

"So… boring paperwork?"

Samantha frowned faintly. "It's not boring, it's—"

She stopped. Tilted her head.

Stared just a bit longer than usual.

"Did your breasts grow again, sweetie?"

Summer glanced down at her chest like it had just betrayed her.

"I don't know," she said flatly. Then, deadpan: "I kinda stopped paying attention when I had a bigger chest than my homeroom teacher in middle school."

She sighed like she'd aged five years. "At this rate, I'm gonna have a bad back by thirty."

"You're exaggerating," Samantha said with a faint chuckle. "Do you want us to go shopping for new bras? A bad bra can really ruin your—"

**SCREEEECH—SKRRRRT**

Amanda came sliding in from the hallway, socks squeaking across the floor. She wore a black cropped vest, red panties, and rainbow-colored socks that somehow matched nothing and everything at once.

Her eyes were wide.

"You guys need to come see this!!"

The kitchen froze.

Milk carton halfway to Summer's lips.

Samantha's spoon hovering over soggy cereal.

Winter—still holding a dish towel—just blinked once.

Amanda stood at the doorway, breathing lightly, like she'd just seen a ghost.

Or worse…

Something interesting.

Amanda didn't wait for a response.

She'd barely finished her sentence before vanishing around the corner with socks squeaking and hair whipping behind her like a warning sign.

Samantha and Summer exchanged a single glance—equal parts confusion and dread—before setting their bowls and milk aside and trailing after her.

They reached the living room just as Amanda dropped onto the couch, grabbing the remote and smacking the power button with a little too much effort.

**Click—buzz**

The massive screen flared to life with a BOOMING theme tune and flashing red graphics: BREAKING NEWS.

Two anchors were mid-conversation—one male, square-jawed and clean-shaven, the other female with a business-chic bob and eyes that looked far too awake for this hour. Behind them, Don's face loomed.

A still image, clean-cut but cold. The same photo the media always used. They probably didn't have many.

"—yes, Denice," the male anchor was saying, "this is incredibly surprising, but our sources have confirmed that Don Bright will be competing for qualification to represent SHU this semester."

The woman shook her head, visibly annoyed. "I honestly can't believe it, Mark. It's already controversial enough that they didn't postpone qualifications despite the citywide safety alerts. Testing for lingering contamination from the Green Thorn incident is still ongoing in several zones."

The man—Mark, apparently—nodded somberly. "Well, the SHU spokesperson did put out a statement. They claim they wanted to delay, but other schools across the province—and even nationally—refused to push back their own schedules just to accommodate one school."

"Which," Denice added pointedly, "isn't even in the top hundred institutions in the country."

Samantha blinked at the screen, her fingers curling against her waist. "Is this real? When did this happen?"

Summer crossed her arms beneath her chest, her brow furrowed. "He could've said something."

Then, turning sharply, she zeroed in on Winter, who stood just behind the couch.

"You probably knew about this the moment it hit the net," Summer said, tone sharp. "Why didn't you say anything?"

Winter, completely unfazed, tilted her head.

"It poses no threat or cause for concern," she replied. "Therefore, I did not feel the need to mention it."

Samantha frowned, stepping closer to the TV. "Well, I'm very concerned," she muttered. "He should've said something, at least."

Winter responded with that same even tone. "I cannot speak for his decisions. But based on current data, the probability of his successful qualification is… extremely high. The skill gap between Don and the general student body is—statistically—vast."

Amanda's eyes lit up. "Are you sure?"

———

Meanwhile—at SHU.

The campus felt like a ghost town.

Most students weren't even allowed on-site unless they were registered to compete. With ongoing investigations and citywide precautions, schools across the region were mostly shuttered or running skeleton crews.

But the stadium?

Lively.

Not packed, not loud. But charged. Bitter.

The qualification trials were being held in the same massive arena that once housed the evaluations. Only now, the bleachers were empty. The field was dotted with under a hundred students, all of them Category A, all of them very aware of who else was showing up today.

Don Bright.

Even without official rosters being published, it didn't take long for word to spread. And the word wasn't kind.

Most students here had nothing personal against him. Not directly. But he was a lightning rod for backlash—guilt by reputation, guilt by public doubt.

Enough parents had already pulled their kids from SHU because of his presence. Some of the A-category students here today were only still enrolled because their families couldn't afford to lose a shot at sponsorship.

And now, that same controversy magnet was stepping into their spotlight.

The stadium's VIP booth was the only part of the structure with any real crowd. A few school board members sat in tailored suits and quiet contempt. They weren't talking about scores or student performance.

They were arguing.

"—this is a PR disaster waiting to happen," one of the older men said, tugging his cufflink. "Every second we allow this to continue, we validate the narrative that SHU protects criminals."

"His trial hasn't even begun yet," Dean Sanchez said from his seat at the center of the row, voice tight with restraint. "He has not been convicted of anything."

A woman to his far right, older, sharper-looking, scowled over her glasses. "You think that's going to stop the public from crucifying us? We've already lost five sponsors since the incident. Our donations are down twelve percent. Parents are withdrawing students by the day."

Another man, broad-shouldered and red-eyed from too much caffeine or too little patience, leaned forward.

"This is a mistake. Letting that murderer compete?"

His voice carried a finality that stilled the air.

Until another voice echoed through the room—smooth, amused, like silk dipped in venom.

"Murderers, are we?"

Heads turned.

Charles Monclaire stood in the doorway of the VIP booth, immaculate as ever. Not rushed. Not rattled. His posture perfect, his tone surgical.

He stepped inside, hands folded behind his back like a nobleman inspecting the peasantry.

"Please," he said, glancing at the man who'd spoken, "tell me more about what qualifies someone as a murderer these days. I find your moral metrics… fascinating."

The room went quiet.

Dean Sanchez allowed himself a single, quiet breath.

Charles smiled—just enough to let the tension fester.