Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The rain hammered against the windshield of the car as Don navigated the winding roads away from the tunnel exit.

Droplets moved diagonally, distorted by the wipers that lazily swiped across the glass. He wasn't in a hurry—not to get home, anyway. Too much cluttered his thoughts, and going back to a house full of people wasn't appealing.

It was just past noon, and his mind drifted to the training he'd been doing these past few days. He might as well get the afternoon session out of the way, he decided.

Turning onto an old, uneven road that barely qualified as pavement, he headed toward the abandoned steel mill.

The drive was uneventful, save for the monotonous sound of the rain and the occasional jolt from a pothole. Fifteen minutes later, he reached the compound's entrance—a rusted gate barely held together by a loose chain.

He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel, staring at it.

His eyes faintly glowed as he reached out with his mind, nudging the chain aside and swinging the gate open just enough for his car to pass through. The effort came without strain, a small victory in itself. 'I'm getting better at control, at least,' he thought. 'No tingling sensation this time.'

Driving through, the gravel road gave way to a patchwork of crumbling asphalt and muddy potholes. The car rocked slightly as it navigated the uneven terrain, splashing through shallow pools of murky water.

Ahead, the hulking skeleton of the steel mill rose against the gray sky, its outline blurred by the downpour.

Don parked near a cluster of rusted machinery and scrap piles, stepping out into the cold rain without hesitation. He shoved his hands into his jean pockets as he walked toward one of the larger structures. The peeling metal walls leaned precariously, some sections flapping noisily in the wind.

The entrance was sealed with a padlock, though it looked more ceremonial than functional. Don gripped the lock, the metal giving a faint **groan** before snapping in his hand. Tossing it aside, he pushed the heavy door open, the hinges protesting with a long, drawn-out **creak**.

Inside, the air was heavy with the stench of rust and old oil. Pools of rainwater had gathered on the uneven floor, reflecting the dim light filtering through the perforated roof. The room was vast, littered with derelict machines.

A massive hydraulic press sat near the far wall, its pistons frozen mid-motion, the paint flaking off in strips. Nearby, a conveyor belt stretched toward a rusted assembly line, its rollers clogged with grime and shards of broken metal.

Overhead, a crane hung precariously, its hook swaying slightly in the draft.

Don's boots splashed in the puddles as he moved toward the center of the room, taking it all in. Water dripped from countless holes in the roof, forming an erratic sound that echoed through the interior.

He stopped in the middle, standing still as his gaze roamed over everything.

'Let's start with Precision Control.' His attention locked onto a workbench piled with discarded machine parts. Moving toward it, he picked up a handful of screws, bolts, and lengths of wire. Letting them drop to the floor with a muted **clink**, he then stepped back, exhaling slowly.

He extended a hand, and the objects shuddered, lifting unevenly into the air. He focused, his glowing eyes narrowing as he separated the pieces, holding each in place with invisible threads of force.

The screws rotated in mid-air, their rusted threads grinding faintly as they turned. He guided one toward the remnants of an old machine, threading it into a fitting with deliberate care. Then another, and another.

At first, it seemed simple—one piece at a time. But as he added more tasks, his control faltered. The wires he'd begun weaving into patterns unraveled, and a bolt slipped from his grasp, falling to the ground.

"Damn it," he muttered, his jaw tightening.

He steadied himself, gripping his wrist with his other hand as if grounding his focus physically might help. The object floated again just before it could hit the ground, his concentration narrowing.

This time, he tried to maintain a steady sequence—thread, weave, lift. But the strain crept in. A dull ache could be felt at the base of his skull, and his movements became jerky.

As this happened, one of the wires snapped, **twang**, recoiling violently before clattering to the floor. Don clenched his teeth, his frustration growing.

'Focus. Don't rush it.' He drew a slow breath, forcing his mind to relax. The objects floated once more, this time with steadier movements. The wires began to twist into a braid, the screws threading smoothly. But, it wasn't perfect—another bolt dropped, and his hold on the wires wavered—but he persisted.

Don stood motionless, his eyes locked on the suspended pieces of metal and wire hovering before him. Each one wobbled faintly in the air, their positions slightly askew as his focus began to falter.

His breaths came slow and steady, but the strain was mounting, creeping into the edges of his mind like a tightening vice.

The final screw twisted into place with a faint grind, the motion uneven as his telekinetic grip wavered. He adjusted quickly, gritting his teeth as he nudged it back on track. As for the wires, they were braided and interwoven with care, their ends just about to slot into the framework.

"Almost there," he muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible over the distant sound of rain pouring on the roof.

But his hold was slipping. The faint ache at the base of his skull spread outward, intensifying with every second. A bead of sweat rolled down the side of his face, clinging to his jawline before falling to the floor with a muted **drip**.

His fingers twitched at his sides, mimicking the delicate movements he was forcing onto the objects. His vision blurred slightly, the edges of the room fading as his focus tunneled. The pain flared quickly, like a hot needle pressing into his temple. He sucked in a cold breath, his teeth grinding audibly.

'Just one more—.'

As Don was just about to complete the exercise, the wire slipped from his mental grasp, snapping against the rusted metal surface of the machine. Simultaneously, the screws jolted out of place, tumbling to the floor with a clattering **ping-ping-ping**.

"Shit," Don cursed, his hand shooting to his head as he staggered back a step. His breaths came hurried, his chest rising and falling as he fought the dizziness that threatened to pull him under.

A warm trickle slid down his upper lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand, his fingertips coming away stained red. The metallic scent confirmed what he already knew—his nose was bleeding.

'I'm pushing too hard,' he thought grimly, his other hand pressing against his temple. He stumbled toward the nearest workbench, leaning against its rusted edge as his legs threatened to give out.

His fingers drummed against the surface absently as he caught his breath.

After a few moments, the ache began to dull, receding just enough for him to straighten. He wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve, glancing down at the mess on the floor.

"Again," he muttered, his voice sounding a little frustrated.

He stepped back to the center of the room, his boots splashing in a shallow puddle as he moved. He then raised the objects once more, slower this time, his movements more careful.

His glowing eyes narrowed as he forced the pieces into alignment, threading the screws and twisting the wires with care.

For a while, it seemed like progress. The framework took shape, and his confidence grew. But the strain returned, quicker this time. The ache in his head flared back up, more prominent than before, and his hold on the objects wavered.

The first screw dropped, followed by a second. The wire he'd been carefully weaving snapped again, recoiling violently and scattering the nearby debris.

"Dammit!" Don yelled out, his voice echoing in the room.

His breathing was ragged, his jaw clenched tight as he glared at the scattered pieces. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe deeply, to calm the anger and irritation brewing in his chest. But the frustration was with each failed attempt, threatening to drown his focus.

But, he tried again.

And again.

However, each attempt ended the same. A bolt slipped. A wire snapped. The framework unraveled.

Finally, his patience gave out.

"Fucking hell!!" The objects shot outward with a burst of telekinetic force, clattering against walls and machinery with a series of loud **crashes**. Even the larger pieces of scrap metal around him shifted slightly, the air humming faintly with residual energy.

Don stood in the middle of the mess, his shoulders rising and falling as he fought to steady his breathing. His nose bled freely now, the red streaks staining his upper lip. His expression changed into a scowl as he clicked his tongue in irritation.

"Pathetic," he muttered, his voice low and bitter.

He raised a hand to his face, wiping the blood away with his sleeve before spitting onto the wet floor. His gaze swept over the scattered debris, his fists clenching at his sides.

'One more time.'

Without another word, he stepped forward and crouched, picking up the nearest screw. His hands were steady as he collected the pieces, his expression hardening with grim determination to complete the task.

When he stood, the objects floated once more, trembling faintly as he focused.

And he started again.