Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 358: Thickening Alliances (Part 7)

That surprised Don.

Normally, a public check from Graham would've made Barclay withdraw—at least outwardly. But this time, Barclay seemed emboldened. He sat taller, chin raised slightly.

Just like Charles had warned.

He wasn't just acting out. He had backing.

Barclay scoffed. "What's there to tell?" he said. "Footage recovered by the FBI already shows them cutting down citizens like it was a contest. If we don't act now—if we don't tell the public who's truly responsible for their grief—we risk dragging all our reputations through the dirt for their poor judgment."

Murmurs broke out across the chamber. Low at first, but spreading. Some nodded. Others mumbled to one another. Agreement was seeding itself into the room like rot in the walls.

"Order!" Graham barked, raising his voice.

The murmurs died.

His eyes narrowed on Barclay now. Less patient. More pointed.

"I don't care what you think," he said. "We have protocols. We will let them speak first. Then we'll decide how to proceed."

Barclay sat back with a tight-lipped scoff, arms crossing like a petulant child in a tailored suit.

Director Graham turned his gaze down to Don and Charles.

"Please," he said. "Tell us what happened."

Charles didn't hesitate to speak.

"Naturally, Director," he said, voice composed, "we were just as surprised as everyone else when the attacks began…"

He sat straight in his chair, one leg crossed over the other. Calm. Controlled. The image of someone who had absolutely nothing to hide—even if he had plenty to protect.

What followed was a smooth, unbroken account of the events.

He walked them through it all—how the crowd shifted, how the first scream broke out, how the blood hit the ground before anyone understood what was happening.

And then he said it plainly.

"That was when I made the decision," Charles added. "To take their lives."

A few murmurs stirred across the chamber.

But Barclay didn't let the moment pass.

He leaned forward again, finger twitching against the table. "And what gave you the right to decide that?"

His voice wasn't loud, but it had weight—like he was lobbing a stone with the expectation it'd crack something.

Don spoke next, his voice low but unflinching.

"Because there was no viable way to stop them."

He didn't glance at Charles. Didn't need to. He looked toward the crowd instead.

"The church incident, which I'm sure you're all aware of, taught me what we were dealing with," Don said. "A viney, worm-like parasite. It takes over the host, keeps them moving until their bodies physically can't anymore. That means you either kill them—or you break enough bones to stop them from standing."

A moment passed.

"And when they're rushing you in a group? That's easier said than done."

More murmurs now. Curious. Uneasy. Some of them began whispering to those beside them.

Barclay frowned.

"Lies," he said bluntly. "The FBI is working with our scientists. And so far? They haven't concluded, with proof, that those people were unsalvageable."

Don's eyes sharpened slightly.

He didn't bother replying. He could see what this was now.

This wasn't about fairness.

Barclay stood slowly, eyes sweeping the assembly.

"I recommend," he said, "that we inform the public of these two's actions. Suspend them. Relocate them—quietly. Let them work in another division until this dies down."

He paused just long enough for effect. "The public won't be satisfied without solid proof their loved ones couldn't be saved."

He almost sounded sincere. Almost.

But Don wasn't convinced. And judging from the looks on a few faces—neither were others.

This wasn't about justice.

It was damage control dressed as virtue.

And Charles?

Charles didn't miss a chance to play this game.

"If that's what Deputy Director Barclay feels is best," he said evenly, "then I'll gladly accept this decision."

Barclay's smile twitched at the corners. Almost satisfied.

But Charles wasn't finished. "However," he continued, "since Don and I discovered what we believe to be the main lair of the Green Thorns…"

He let that hang, just long enough to hook the room. "…I'll use my family's resources to ensure the public is made aware of what truly happened to their loved ones."

Barclay's expression faltered.

Charles was still calm. Still polite. But there was something sharpened beneath the words now.

"And if, at that time," Charles added, "research supports our actions—if what we find proves we had no other choice—I trust the department will understand when my family seeks legal recourse against those responsible for defaming our name."

Silence.

No one moved. Not even to breathe too loudly.

The Monclaires didn't throw threats around often. But when they did… people listened.

Because they followed through.

Suddenly, siding with Barclay didn't seem quite so clean.

If Charles was right—and they had found the main hive—then any move made now could blow back harder than expected.

Barclay knew that.

And it showed.

His expression soured. Jaw tight. Fingers curling into a fist against the table.

This wasn't checkmate.

Not yet. After all, Charles could have been bluffing.

But it was a clean check.

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And the room knew it.

Now it was Barclay's move.