Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

At the Citadel, the garage area of the main entrance looked less like a vehicle bay and more like a supply artery.

Industrial lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale wash over the shifting tide of minions below. Some moved in single file, carrying metallic crates with labels stenciled in red or black.

Others moved in formation, hefting full-sized shipping containers between them—one at each end, two in the middle for balance.

Above it all, on the balcony that overlooked the activity, stood Gary.

He lowered the phone from his ear and slipped it into the inner pocket of his blazer, the movement smooth, practiced.

His other hand remained occupied with a black tablet, its screen quietly updating as crates were logged and accounted for in real time. Numbers flicked upward. Icons blinked green.

Gary studied the manifest without blinking, eyes steady. "This should be enough to begin more tactical operations," he murmured, thumb tapping the edge of the tablet. "And assist Sir Don in earnest."

A short pause.

Then a sigh, quiet and clipped. "But I fear controlling this city will prove far more difficult than we anticipated."

Poof~

A puff of pink smoke burst behind him. Wispy tendrils floated past his shoulder and dissolved into nothing before they could reach the ceiling.

Gary didn't turn.

"Whatcha doing there, Gary?" came the voice. Cheerful. Slightly nasal. "More boring number stuff?"

He glanced sideways.

Trixie now stood beside him, hands on her hips, head tilted. Tonight, she wore a loosely cropped blue tank top and baggy gray pajama bottoms.

Technically tame—until one's eyes adjusted enough to process the ahegao faces scattered across her pants like some cursed print catalog. Breasts censored with white bars. Tongues out. Eyes crossed.

Gary didn't blink.

"Yes," he replied flatly. "Many of the basic resources we needed are now available. For the more complex and expensive items… I'm afraid we'll require a functional presence at the docks. Perhaps even a stealth-class submarine."

Trixie rubbed her chin thoughtfully, tail flicking side to side behind her. "Huh. So how'd you pull this off without getting flagged by the locals? I thought the city was crawling with patrols."

Still watching his tablet, Gary answered, "I used a transport service with an already established route. Some manner of mafia shell operation. Once the cargo was loaded, it was only a matter of tracking checkpoint rotations and selecting the quietest corridor."

Trixie nodded like she understood all of that. "I see. I see…"

The tablet emitted a low ping, then displayed a blinking green bar at the bottom of the screen.

Gary lowered it. "Everything appears to be accounted for. I should prepare a team and leave shortly."

"For what?" she asked, turning to face him properly.

Gary turned as well—then paused.

He took in her pajamas. The pants. The uncensored horror that was somehow sold as casual sleepwear. He didn't say anything, but his eyelid twitched—just barely.

"An operation," he said.

Trixie's tail curled upward before lazily unwinding. "Boring."

She stretched her arms overhead, then grinned. "Well, I'm gonna go watch porn in the control room. See ya, Gary. Have fun with your war plans."

Poof~

Another puff of smoke. This one brighter, more concentrated. When it cleared, she was gone.

Gary's mouth opened slightly. "Miss—…"

Too late.

He sighed.

A slow shake of his head followed as he glanced toward the far end of the room.

"I do hope she deletes the history this time around…"

A memory surfaced. A cursed folder left open. Things no amount of digital bleach could clean.

His eye twitched again.

———

A few hours later…

The city had grown quieter. No sirens. No horns. Just distant wind and the low, electrical hum of infrastructure that didn't know how to sleep.

Restrictions were still in place. Movement at night was minimal, and it wasn't just because of policy.

People had grown superstitious.

Ever since the viney parasite scare, even the reckless had started second-guessing their nightly strolls. Weekly tests were now mandatory. Wristbands proved you were clean. No green band, no entrance. No exceptions.

Biological threats had a way of reshaping policy quickly. The same had happened years ago, after that incident in Zhengzhou—where a baby was born with an unstable radiation field, thanks to a mutation involving a power called Gamma Pulse.

The kind of ability that turned every emotional hiccup into a localized disaster. When she cried, people coughed blood. When she screamed, they melted.

By the time her mother gave up trying to breastfeed, the entire city had begun showing symptoms. Four months later, everyone was dead.

Still, a few places in Los Santos braved the odds. After all, risk wasn't enough to deter some people.

A bar on the edge of downtown—barely lit, wedged between a closed laundromat and a forgotten pawn shop—hummed quietly. Its sign flickered overhead: Jon's Bar & Pool, the "J" half burnt out so it looked more like "_on's".

Inside, the smell of beer-stained wood and stale smoke clung to every inch.

Two pool tables dominated the back, both occupied by groups too focused on their games to talk much. Every now and then, the clack of balls echoed louder than it should have.

A jukebox near the bathroom muttered old rock in mono, barely loud enough to compete with the sound of the ceiling fan that creaked every few turns.

At the bar, two figures sat.

One was the bartender—late forties, thick arms, thicker accent. Black shirt, gold chain, towel over his shoulder. The other was Agent Strass.

He sat hunched in a brown trench coat, whisky glass in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other. His hat cast a shadow over tired eyes. The kind of tired that wasn't about lack of sleep—it was about everything else.

The bartender wiped the counter lazily and said, "You sure you don't want another glass, Strass?"

Strass took a slow drag from the cigarette, then exhaled through his nose. "Can't, Tony. The wife's been on my case lately. Says I'm never home enough. Wants me 'present' for the kids. Now I gotta start worrying about some little turds tryin' to bang my daughter."

Tony laughed, loud and full of disregard. "That's why I ain't got kids. Just me, myself, and a new lady every weekend. No diapers, no college funds, no problems."

Strass scoffed. "Sounds like a bunch of headaches you don't even remember."

He stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray, then stood, draining the rest of the whisky in one smooth motion.

"Anyway, Tony. I gotta get going. See ya around."

Tony raised a hand. "Tell Maria I said hi, yea?"

Strass nodded. "Will do."

He stepped out.

The door creaked open with a tired squeak, then slammed shut behind him with a thunk. The sky above was bloated with clouds.

Rrrrrrrrmmmmm~

A low rumble rolled overhead.

Then the rain came. First, a light peppering across the sidewalk. Then sheets. Heavy. Cold. Relentless.

"Fucking great," Strass muttered. The cigarette he'd just lit fizzled uselessly and drooped. He tossed it to the gutter.

"This was my favorite coat, too…"

He jogged across the street to where a black Pontiac sat parked, paint dulled with age but body kept immaculate. Chrome trim, vintage frame. The kind of car you bought because you didn't care about gas mileage or public perception.

He unlocked it with a click, slid into the driver's seat, and slammed the door shut behind him.

The sound of rain drumming on the roof surrounded him. He peeled off the coat and tossed it over the passenger seat with a wet flop.

"Much better," he muttered.

He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it.

Rrrr-RUMMM~

The engine roared to life.

As he reached to adjust the rearview mirror, something caught his eye.

A shape. Vague. Sitting directly behind him.

The only light came from the flickering bar sign outside, and it barely reached this far. But it was enough.

"What the fuck—"

Before he could move, two hands slipped around from the backseat. They wore pristine white gloves. The kind that didn't belong in any bar.

One hand pressed a thick white cloth over Strass's mouth and nose.

He thrashed once. Twice.

Then slumped.

The cloth stayed there a moment longer. Just in case.

Then the hands withdrew, vanishing behind the seat.

The figure leaned forward, just slightly, as if studying his work.

Gary's face came into view, cast in dim red from the bar sign's dying glow. He adjusted his cuffs and muttered, "It would've been best if he drove a little first…"

A pause.

Then a quiet sigh.

"It seems this will be quite the long night."