Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Some time later…

The chopper's interior hummed low, the sound of rotors whup-whup-whup fading into the steady drone of the engines.

Outside, the city stretched beneath them—grids of streets blurred into dull gray as the dawn fought to break through a sky clogged with dark clouds. Morning light barely touched the buildings, the edges swallowed in shadow.

Don sat by the window, his gaze tracking the horizon as it shifted. Rain threatened in the air, though nothing had fallen yet. The clouds hung heavy, as if waiting for someone to give the signal.

Charles spoke beside him, voice even, words measured as he laid out the rest of his plan. He had a way of talking like it was a business pitch, each point delivered cleanly, smoothly, no hesitation. His tone stayed light, but there was weight behind the words. A hint of satisfaction, maybe. Or anticipation.

"If we go at him from this angle," Charles finished, fingers tapping against the armrest in a soft, rhythmic thnk-thnk, "chances are we'll be very successful."

Don didn't say much at first. He kept watching the clouds, the faint streaks of light barely filtering through. The world felt muted. Maybe it was the altitude. Or maybe it was the weight of everything they'd done in the tunnels.

He turned to Charles, nodding once. "Sounds like it could work."

And he meant it. The plan—step by step—had been thorough. Detailed enough to make Don realize what he'd been piecing together in his own mind wasn't half as clean.

Each move Charles laid out sounded like its own operation, and somehow, it all fit. It wasn't perfect—nothing ever was—but it was damn good. Better than anything Don could throw together off the cuff.

For now, at least, he was fine taking a step back. Let Charles steer this one, while he focused on the other parts—building, planning, holding the line own his own resources. The thought lingered for a second longer than it should have, but it settled without resistance. He was already in.

"Let me know whenever I come in," he said, simple, no edge to it.

Charles nodded, a faint smirk ghosting across his face. The look of someone who'd just won another hand at a table no one else knew they were playing at.

They didn't say it outright, but the tunnels had changed things. The fight against Father John. The way they'd moved together, covered each other's backs without the usual bullshit. It wasn't trust exactly, but it was close enough to make both of them uneasy.

Charles leaned back, exhaling through his nose. "We'll wait a week before making a move," he said, gaze drifting toward the floor as if checking a mental calendar. "Let's see how this unexpected turn of events plays out for Harold first."

Don took another look out the window, the city growing clearer as the chopper descended. He nodded once. "Probably for the best."

They let the conversation die after that. The rest of the flight passed in silence, save for the occasional shift of the chopper's frame and the soft click of seatbelts. The hum of the rotors filled the gaps, steady and low, like a storm you couldn't see yet but knew was coming.

The chopper touched down on the Penthouse Tower's helipad with a soft thud. The rotors started to wind down, the noise dipping into a faint background whine.

Charles stayed seated as Don stood, unbuckling the strap across his chest with a quiet clack. He looked at Charles, who didn't move—his gaze was on his phone now, scrolling slowly, lips pursed in a faint, unreadable line.

"I've got more things to take care of," Charles said without looking up.

Don didn't question it. Just nodded once, turned, and stepped off the chopper. His crocs thumped against the pad as he moved toward the stairwell. The city air was colder than he expected, a thin bite against his skin as he descended.

By the time he reached the penthouse, the hallway was quiet, the world reduced to the soft hmm of the building's ambient systems. The door scanned him—thin blue lines sweeping up and down—and let out a beep before sliding open.

Inside, the air felt still. Dim ambient lights traced faint lines across the floor, guiding paths through the open space. The shutters were down, blocking out the skyline, leaving the place in a muted half-darkness.

Don paused by the entryway, considering the silence, then turned toward his room—only to stop as Winter stepped from the shadows like she'd been waiting for him.

"Good morning, Don. Welcome back," she said, voice flat as ever. Her tone was smooth, almost pleasant in a way that made it harder to tell if she was being sincere. "The others were incredibly worried, but I assured them that the chances of you dying were only a meager thirty percent."

Don blinked, raising an eyebrow. "That was a joke?"

Winter nodded once, though the motion felt more like a technical confirmation than a gesture of humor. Don just sighed.

"I see."

He really didn't. Winter's humor—if that's what it was—always felt like a language spoken behind glass.

"How are they?" he asked as he stepped forward, his crocs quiet on the floor.

Winter moved alongside him, hands folded neatly behind her back. "Your mother stayed up watching the news for any updates on your condition. She also attempted to contact the hospital and the Agency. She fell asleep on the sofa just over three hours ago."

Don exhaled softly, guilt knotting in his chest but not unexpected. The living area came into view as they walked—plush couches, a coffee table scattered with half-folded blankets and a few plates left from what must've been a late-night vigil.

Samantha was there—half-curled under a fleece blanket, her figure outlined in the soft fabric, one leg bent, a sliver of pale thigh showing where the blanket had slipped. Her hair was slightly tangled, glasses nowhere in sight, and her phone was clutched in her hand like a lifeline.

Don lowered his voice as he stepped closer, nodding toward her. "What about Summer and Aunt Amanda?"

Winter stopped behind the sofa, posture straight. "Amanda fell asleep earlier. Only Summer stayed up with your mother, but she was eventually persuaded to go to bed. Though she did so… dramatically."

Don smirked faintly at that, an edge of affection cutting through the exhaustion.

He reached down, brushing a knuckle across Samantha's cheek, the skin warm and soft under his touch. The kind of warmth that pulled at something quiet inside him. Her breathing was slow, steady.

But as he pulled his hand away, Samantha stirred. Her eyes fluttered open—half-lidded, unfocused, the blur of sleep still heavy in them. Her lips parted slightly as she mumbled, voice soft and slurred, "Donnie?"

She shifted, blanket slipping lower on her shoulder, exposing more skin. Her hand clenched faintly on the phone like she hadn't quite realized she was holding it. The way she said his name—uncertain, half-asleep—hit somewhere deeper than he expected.

Samantha shifted under the blanket, a faint rustle of fabric as she stirred more fully. Her eyelids fluttered, squinting through sleep. Her voice came out slow, low, barely a whisper.

"...Donnie?"

She reached out, fingers tentative, brushing at the air like she was checking if he was real or some leftover dream.

Don stood still for a moment, looking down at her with a small, tight smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. He extended his hand, meeting hers.

The moment her fingers closed around his, her breath hitched. Eyes wide now, the last remnants of sleep draining away.

"Donnie!"

The name left her in a breathless exhale, full of relief and disbelief tangled together.

She surged forward, arms locking around his waist. The blanket slipped off her shoulders, crumpling to the floor.

Don caught her instinctively, arms steadying her as the force of the hug pressed her closer. The fabric of her nightie dragged up slightly, hem catching on his waist.

A flicker of smooth thick thigh showed through the silk, the straps of her nightie sliding down just a touch, exposing the tops of her shoulders and the soft swell of cleavage beneath.

Her scent hit him—a faint, familiar warmth, not something he registered in detail, just another piece of the moment.

"Oh, sweetie... you're safe... I was so worried."

Her voice cracked at the edges, the words shaking.

Don stood there, holding her as she clung tight, her breath uneven against his chest.

He kept his tone steady, quiet. "If it was anything serious, I would've told you. I'm fine, Mom. See? All in one piece."

She exhaled slowly, her arms loosening as she stepped back a half-step, eyes scanning him quickly—up, down, checking.

The tension in her shoulders slipped away in slow increments.

She adjusted the straps of her nightie, pulling them back into place with a quick tug, the fabric settling again over her chest.

Her cheeks flushed faintly. She let out a tired sigh.

"I'm sorry, sweetie. You know how I get... just a worrywart, I guess. What happened to you, sweetie?"

She rubbed at her eyes, the edge of a yawn creeping into her voice.

Don gave a dry, tired smile, tilting his head slightly. "It's a long story. I'll fill you in later. Right now... we could both use more sleep. Especially now that no one's trying to pin murder charges on me."

Samantha's mouth opened slightly, like she had more questions—then she stopped herself.

Her hand brushed across her hair, tucking it back behind her ear as she nodded once, slow.

"You're right, sweetie. You deserve some proper rest."

Another yawn caught her as she turned toward the hallway, her steps slow, the soft rustle of silk trailing behind her.

Don watched her walk away, her figure outlined faintly in the dim lighting, the subtle shift of hips visible under the nightie's fabric.

Winter's voice cut in, dry as sandpaper.

"Are you perhaps admiring her... assets?"

Don didn't look at her. He handed her his cracked phone, voice low, even.

"Just have this sent to Gary for replacement."

Winter took the phone without a word, tucking it into her pocket as if it weighed nothing.

"Understood."