Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The floor Charles and Don found themselves on was eerily quiet, a stark contrast to the chaos unfolding above. Dim, warm lighting bathed the polished hallways, casting elongated shadows over the expensive carpeting.

This was the same private level where Don had confronted Daniel earlier, and as his gaze swept over the familiar surroundings, he didn't detect any immediate threats.

Still, something about the silence felt… off.

Charles took a few steps ahead before stopping at the intersection where the hallway split into two directions. With a casual glance down both corridors, he turned slightly toward Don and spoke in a measured tone.

"Maybe we should split up—check the rooms on either hall?"

The way he said it wasn't forceful, nor was it entirely suggestive. Charles had a pattern to his speech, a way of giving orders without making them seem like orders. If Don disagreed, Charles would effortlessly backpedal, allowing Don to take the lead while subtly keeping control of the situation.

It was a clever maneuver.

Don recognized the tactic for what it was, but he had no reason to disagree. It was the most logical approach. Fighting to assert dominance over something so trivial would just be stupid.

He gave a short nod. "You're right. I'll take this side. We'll alert each other if anything."

Charles smiled faintly, as if satisfied with the response, before nodding back and heading down his designated hallway.

As Don moved through the corridor, the muffled steps of Charles remained just within earshot. Neither of them made any effort to walk lightly. There was no need for stealth. Not yet.

**Click**

The first door Don checked was empty. Just an untouched private lounge, dimly lit with a stocked minibar and luxury seating. He moved on.

**Click**

The second room—similarly unoccupied. He scanned the space briefly before stepping out and shutting the door.

**Click**

The third room held nothing of interest either. So far, nothing suggested that anyone had fled here to hide, nor were there any signs of an attack.

Then he reached the door he'd left Natasha in earlier.

Don paused for a moment, leaning in slightly, focusing his enhanced hearing toward the other side.

No movement. No sounds of struggle.

But there was something else—breathing. Shallow, controlled, coming from the side of the door, like someone was deliberately pressing themselves against the wall. Waiting.

'Hostile? Or just scared?'

Either way, Don wasn't about to hesitate. His hand moved to the handle, twisting it open as he pushed forward.

"Is anyone her—"

"Ahhh!" Before he could even finish his sentence, Natasha sprang from behind the door, a desperate cry escaping her lips as she lunged toward him—brandishing what could only be described as the least intimidating weapon imaginable.

A butter knife.

Don barely even needed to react. His hand shot up with precision, catching her wrist effortlessly before the dull blade could so much as graze his jacket. There was no strength behind the attack, no skill or intent to kill—just frantic, misguided panic.

Her fingers trembled in his grip, and within seconds, the knife slipped from her grasp, clattering against the carpeted floor with a dull thud.

"Agh—!" Natasha yelped as she recoiled, wincing from the force of his grip.

Don immediately loosened his hold, recognizing that she wasn't a threat. The fear in her wide, tear-filled eyes told him everything. She had no idea what was happening outside. She was simply lashing out at the first person who opened that door.

Natasha stumbled backward, breath hitching as she pressed herself against the nearest wall. Her voice came out in a frantic plea. "P-please don't hurt me—!"

Don exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple. "Relax. I'm not here to hurt you."

She didn't look convinced. Her entire body was shaking, her chest rising and falling with shallow, uneven breaths.

Don glanced around the room briefly. It was untouched from how he left it—plenty of water bottles, some leftover food, and a couch that could easily double as a bed. Given the circumstances, she was safer in here than out in the halls.

His eyes flickered back to her, still cowering against the wall.

"If you don't want to get killed," he said, voice even, "just stay in here and wait for help."

There was no sugarcoating it. The top floor wasn't necessarily any safer, and dragging her into the unknown would only be a liability. At least here, she had supplies.

Whether or not she actually listened wasn't his concern.

Natasha gave a weak nod, her gaze trembling as she looked at Don. He didn't spare her another glance, already turning to leave. The door clicked shut behind him, muffling whatever shallow breaths she was struggling to take.

Don moved swiftly, checking the remaining rooms with quick efficiency. Each one was empty, offering no sign of immediate threats or survivors. Satisfied, he made his way back toward the entrance of the floor.

Charles was already waiting, standing near the stairway with his arms loosely crossed. His silver eyes flickered toward Don as he approached.

"Any luck?"

Don came to a stop near him, shaking his head slightly. "I found one woman. Told her to stay put until help arrives. She's as safe as she can be here."

Charles nodded along, shifting his weight as he turned slightly toward the stairs. "I only found a gentleman and his partner cowering naked behind a sofa. Told them the same."

He was about to say more, but before he could finish his sentence, Don's head snapped toward the stairway, his expression hardening into a frown.

Charles immediately noticed the change in his demeanor. His brows furrowed slightly. "What's wrong?"

Don didn't look at him, keeping his attention on the stairwell. "I hear multiple footsteps coming up the stairs."

Charles turned his gaze toward the stairway as well, his stance shifting as he prepared for whatever was about to emerge.

The stairwell, like most in the stadium, was grand—wide enough to accommodate large crowds, with polished floors and walled sides adorned with subtle lighting. The curve of the staircase obscured their view of whoever was approaching, but the sound of synchronized steps was getting louder.

Charles frowned. "Do you think they're civilians?"

Don moved to stand beside him, his muscles tensing slightly. He shook his head. "I doubt it."

They didn't have to wait long to confirm Don's suspicions.

The moment the figures rounded the bend in the staircase, Don's frown deepened.

A group of men and women emerged—each dressed like they belonged at the event, wearing expensive suits and cocktail dresses. But their expressions were vacant, completely devoid of human emotion.

And then there were the weapons.

One clutched the broken leg of a table, gripping it like a makeshift club. Another held a jagged shard of glass from what was likely a shattered champagne bottle. The most concerning was the lead man—a tall, broad-shouldered figure in a navy-blue suit. In his right hand, he held a pistol.

The others wielded the same twisted green-thorned bats that Don had already seen upstairs.

But what was most unusual was the way the group hesitated.

Until now, the Green Thorns had acted with mindless, animalistic aggression, attacking without a hint of restraint. Yet this group… this group stopped.

For a brief moment, their empty stares locked onto Don and Charles, and they stood there, unmoving.

Then, unexpectedly, the man in the navy-blue suit spoke. "You dare stand in the way of Nature?"

His voice was rigid, almost robotic in tone, yet there was something in it—some strange fervor that sent a slight ripple of unease through the air.

And then he started rambling.

"These wretched parasites lounging in luxury above us—they deserve death," he declared, his eyes slightly twitching. "For every drink they sip, for every suit they wear, another tree is butchered. The earth suffers beneath their gluttony, and we are its justice."

One of the women beside him let out a low, unsettling murmur. "Mother Nature demands retribution…"

Charles scoffed lightly, the sound almost amused despite the tension. He flexed his wings slightly—not enough to unfurl them fully in the limited space, but enough to be a subtle show of force.

"And you think this attack will change that?" Charles asked, his voice measured.

The lead man's lips curled into something that was supposed to be a smile but was too rigid, too forced to be natural.

"This… is but the start." Without hesitation, he lifted the pistol in his hand and pulled the trigger.

**BANG!**

The gunshot rang out, the sound sharp and deafening in the enclosed space. But Charles had already moved.

His wings snapped upward in an instant, the silver feathers gleaming as they intercepted the bullet. The round struck, ricocheting off harmlessly.

At the same time, Don burst forward.

The sudden force of his movement sent a shockwave through the hallway, rattling the floor beneath him. Those closest to him lost their footing for just a second—just enough time for him to close the distance.

The lead man barely had time to react before Don's fist slammed into his raised arms in a feeble attempt to block.

**CRACK**

Both arms snapped under the sheer force of the impact.

A strangled sound barely had time to escape the man's throat before his entire body was sent flying backward. He crashed into the people behind him, the momentum sending them tumbling down the stairs in a mess of limbs and broken weapons.

A few of them managed to dodge to the side at the last second, narrowly avoiding being dragged down with the others. Those that remained were still poised to fight.

Don barely took a step forward before his instincts flared.

Something was coming.

He turned his head slightly, just enough to glance back at Charles.

But before he could fully shift his gaze—

**SHRRKK!**

A sharp gust of wind sliced through the air beside him, almost too fast to track.

Four silver feathers shot past him, whistling like blades before striking true.

**THWMP**

The remaining attackers collapsed in place as the feathers struck them right through the head—bodies hitting the ground simultaneously, their weapons falling limply from their hands.

Four clean, precise kills.

Don's eyes flickered toward the silver feathers, now embedded deep into the foreheads of the fallen. The bodies didn't even twitch.

Silence followed.

Then, Charles exhaled softly, rolling his shoulders before taking a slow step forward.

"Shame," he murmured. "I was hoping for more of a challenge."

Don glanced at him, then at the bodies across the stairway.