Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

The room shifted the moment they heard Charle's voice.

Heads turned. Eyebrows lifted. Lips twitched—some into scowls, others into tight, plastic smiles. A few of the board members grimaced openly.

Charles Monclaire wasn't on the guest list.

He didn't need to be.

He stepped into the VIP booth without waiting for permission. No rush. No hesitation. Just that deliberate, measured walk—slow enough to feel rehearsed, confident enough to make it land.

He wore an all-white suit, crisp and tailored, paired with a silver shirt left unbuttoned enough to make older members fidget and younger ones pretend not to look.

His smile? Wide. Pretty. Vicious.

Dean Sanchez, ever the designated doormat, was the first to react. He stood too quickly, knocking a small bottle off the table in his flail to seem composed. It landed with a dull thud, but he ignored it, arms already spreading like a desperate sunrise.

"Ah! Mr. Monclaire, hahah—" The laugh came fast, dry, almost a cough. "I didn't know you'd be joining us today. I wasn't—uh—wasn't informed."

He looked like someone trying to host a party at a funeral. And failing.

A few of the other board members didn't even try to hide their thoughts.

'Does he have an allergy to dignity?'

'He's the Dean. Why does he sound like he's introducing a celebrity at a bar mitzvah?'

Charles merely tilted his head. "I didn't want to bother you with welcoming me in, my dear Dean," he said, his grin widening. "You're so terribly busy, after all."

There was no humor in the words, only daggers dressed as compliments.

Dean Sanchez laughed it off, because of course he did. "Heh, well, yes, of course, of course," he said, gesturing toward an empty seat beside his own. "Please, have a seat. Can I get you a drink?"

Charles ignored the gesture entirely and walked past him. Instead of the seat offered, he slid into the seat—the Dean's own, still warm.

He didn't ask. He didn't need to.

Dean Sanchez froze for a moment, then chuckled awkwardly and took the seat beside him like it hadn't just been hijacked.

One of the older board members leaned over to another and whispered, "You think if someone slapped Sanchez, he'd thank them for exfoliating?"

Charles waved off the drink offer, glancing down at his watch with all the weight of someone timing a private performance. "No, thank you. I'd like to focus on the spectacle."

Another board member—young, prematurely smug, hair gelled like he'd been attacked by a vat of pomade—raised an eyebrow. "Could've just watched it from home, no?"

Charles laughed. And not just a polite chuckle. A full-bodied, beautifully timed hah that echoed faintly against the booth walls. He flicked a few strands of hair back like punctuation.

"True," he said, pulling his phone from his jacket pocket. "But I'm invested."

He angled the screen slightly toward them. "Imagine my surprise to see that the school sold the TV rights to this round of qualifying for such a low price. So I doubled the offer and got them myself. Just a few minutes ago, actually."

He tapped the screen once.

"Would you look at that? The stream already has two million viewers."

A long silence followed.

The kind that made throats dry and smiles freeze mid-stretch.

The board members didn't have to say anything. Their faces did the math.

This round of qualifiers wasn't supposed to be a moneymaker. Not with the scandal, not with the reputation hits. The audience predictions were weak, the market interest even weaker.

But they'd underestimated one thing.

Hate sells.

And right now, Don Bright was the most profitable lightning rod on the continent.

People weren't just waiting for the trials. They were watching for the chance to see a scandal break live. To see the now infamous Don stumble. To gawk, judge, cheer, or hate.

And Charles owned all of it.

Dean Sanchez tried to smile, but it looked more like a stroke in progress. He cleared his throat and straightened his tie—again.

Before anyone could speak, the arena's speakers crackled.

**Bzzt—click**

"All right, qualification candidates," came the announcer's voice, projected from drones overhead. "We will be beginning very shortly. If you are still in the changing rooms, you now have five minutes to step onto the field or you will be disqualified."

Most of the field was already populated—young competitors pacing or stretching or exchanging barely civil nods. Some adjusted gloves. Some clenched fists. No one was slacking.

No one, except—

Every head turned toward one of the field entrances.

**Thmp** **Thmp** **Thmp**

Footsteps. Calm. Even.

And just like that, the noise in the arena died.

Don walked onto the field like it belonged to him.

No bravado. No swagger. Just strides that didn't ask for space—they took it. Shoulders squared, chin level, that ever-bored expression fixed under the sharp edge of his hair.

The new outfit did him no favors in terms of public forgiveness—black and steel silver, reinforced plates, nothing but clean lines and aesthetic menace. It said villain without needing to shout.

You'd know he was public enemy number one.

You'd know half the arena wanted him bleeding.

And that was the problem.

Because hate was easy.

Fear was harder to ignore.

The murmurs started before he even reached center field. Some were just whispers, others venom in lowercase—That's him. The freak. The killer.

A few clicked their tongues in clear disgust. One guy near the edge actually spat on the grass, like it'd help.

But most just stared. Quiet. Calculating. Nervous.

After all, this wasn't some scandal-fueled exaggeration.

The videos were real.

Don Bright and Charles Monclaire tearing through the casino like gods with grudges? Real.

Don Bright punching Starboy across pavement like a mop? Real.

Don Bright's evaluation performance, where he casually dismantled a top-tier android like it was a toy? Very real.

And now he was here, standing near the edge of the battle stage, arms crossed like a man at a crosswalk. Just waiting.

The silence between his entrance and the next announcement dragged long enough for discomfort to settle. Not just for the students on the field, but for those watching—board members, scattered media crews, the stream's swelling viewership.

"Well," the announcer's voice finally broke through, projected from the overhead drones and speakers like divine interruption, "it seems everyone is present."

He paused. The silence was obedient.

"Let us begin the Category A qualification trials."

There was no fanfare, just a calm lead-in.

"To all our competitors—welcome. You stand here today not just as students, but as challengers to your own potential. Victory today will offer you direct representation rights for SHU in national and interprovincial contests, mentorship access from affiliated sponsors, and a shot at real career traction in the hero field."

Don's eyes stayed on the stage ahead, but he listened. Not because he needed to. Just to track the rhythm.

"To those who fail—remember, failure here is not the end. This isn't an elimination tournament. It's a filter. And filters only block what's not ready."

The clapping began slowly. Light. Reserved.

Don joined in. Two hands. Three claps. Just enough to be seen. He didn't bother pretending to be moved.

He wasn't.

The applause faded as quickly as it came.

"Now," the announcer continued, "let's review how this works."

A hovering screen blinked to life near the center of the field, detailing the format as the voice continued.

"Each of you will have the opportunity to take the stage and face any opponent willing to challenge you. Each win earns 3 points, each loss earns 0, and each draw earns 1. You may face the same opponent up to three times."

Heads nodded. No one spoke. The seriousness of it all had settled in.

"Victories will be determined by submission, removal from the stage, or the detection of critical injury. Draws may occur if both participants are injured beyond reasonable continuation, or if both parties agree to a stalemate."

Don's eyes flicked to a tall student near the center group—red visor, bulky gear, the kind of kid who probably thought he was the next big name. He looked away the moment Don's gaze met his.

"Fighting guidelines will follow Regulation C of the Provincial Collegiate Combat Board—yes, that includes reactive gear limitations and ethical restraint protocols. So please, no spinal ruptures. It's just the first round."

A few chuckles. Nervous. Controlled.

Then the announcer's tone shifted.

It got cleaner. Sharper.

"As per tradition, the first to take the stage is the competitor with the highest demonstrated capability in prior engagements. This is done to set the standard—and to remind us what's possible."

Even before he finished the sentence, every head turned.

"So continuing with that tradition… please step forward—Don Bright."

There it was.

Don didn't move right away.

He first uncrossed his arms. Then rolled his shoulders once.

Finally, he stepped forward.

----

A/N: This one took a bit longer than usual to write—mostly because I had to keep stepping back to figure out just how hard Charles would go without triggering an HR investigation. Turns out, pretty hard.We've officially entered the stage of the story where public perception is weaponized and trust is currency. Don's not here to make friends. He's here to win.If this chapter made you smirk, scoff, or cringe in the best way… Power Stones and Golden Tickets are always appreciated. Think of it as applause I can actually hear.