Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 375: Don Vs Everyone (Part 10)

The road was too empty.

Don's Mustang moved through the city outskirts with the kind of smooth, predatory ease that only came from a well-tuned machine and a driver who didn't flinch.

The highway stretched ahead like a spine—long, pale, untouched. Even the sky looked like it had been drained of color, one lingering shade of grey shy of night.

**Vrrrmmmm**

The engine hummed low. No strain. Just momentum.

He didn't speed out of impulse—just habit. It was late, but not dead. Streetlights still blinked overhead. Drones still hovered. Patrol cars loitered at intersections like disinterested chaperones.

But the voices?

They didn't sleep.

The radio had been bouncing between channels, all of them noisy with opinion.

"…you ask me, it's insane," one host said, voice nasal and far too awake for the hour. "We've got kids protesting outside SCPD and the mayor's office. Actual students with signs asking why Don Bright is still breathing fresh air and not counting ceiling tiles from a holding cell."

A woman's voice cut in—sharper, less forgiving. "Not just him. Let's not forget Charles Monclaire. These boys tore through civilians and left a pile of bodies behind, and all we got was a PR statement about extenuating circumstances."

"I mean, fair," the man replied. "But the irony? Bright just won his qualification match today. Blew through the trials like it was nothing. Stats are already trending. Views on the official SHU stream tripled. The kid's either a walking headline or a lawsuit in motion."

"Or both," the woman muttered.

Don adjusted the rearview mirror, catching a glimpse of his own eyes in the reflection.

Still dark. Still unreadable.

**KZZZZZT—shfff**

The radio hissed with sudden static.

Then—Winter's voice.

"Securing transmission channels." Another brief crackle. "Channels secure."

Don's grip didn't tighten, but his thumb tapped once against the wheel. Not tension. Just a signal.

"Evening, Don," Winter said, tone clean as ever. "I have a message to relay."

He exhaled. "Go ahead."

Message relays had become one of the newer methods Gary and Don used. Safer than direct messaging, even if that was already fortress-grade encryption. Winter didn't just pass along data—she atomized it.

Each transmission was dismantled into fragmented binary strings, scattered across multiple frequency bands like coded junk. One piece would ride a local power grid. Another embedded in a satellite network. Some rode traffic cams. Others jumped between police channel interference.

Only devices synced to the Citadel's core—Gary's computers, a few secure nodes—could reassemble the fragments through a decipher key hardwired into Winter's internal mainframe.

And the final result?

A message no one could trace. No one could fake.

Winter continued. "Playing message now."

A small click. Then—Gary's voice, smooth and dry as always.

"Greetings, sir. As you know, the young madam and I have been closely observing the investigation site."

The sound quality shifted slightly as Gary's voice dropped.

"One of our miniature drones—an entoptic crawler unit—managed to breach the investigator's perimeter, though security there is quite mild to begin with. The unit latched onto the side of a tent housing internal communications. Less than thirty minutes ago, it recorded the following."

A short burst of static. Then—

A new voice. Male. Clipped, a little rushed.

"Mr. Barclay, I have some good news. One of the teams sent down is yet to report back, and contact's been lost. Detective Kurkowsky is considering halting the investigation until a full sweep of the tunnels can be done using an android. If he goes through with this, I'll send you the list of the ones he plans to use. If you can tamper with them a little, I'm sure that'll come in handy, right?"

A low chuckle answered.

Barclay. Distinct. Dismissive.

"Precisely. If we can rig them with enough silvertine, the results should be… conclusive."

The first voice returned, a touch nervous now. "I'll let you know once Kurkowsky makes a decision."

Barclay again. "No need. I'll take it from here."

**Click**

Gary's voice resumed.

"From what I could gather, the man Barclay was speaking to is Detective Vernon Strass. He has no documented link to Barclay—publicly. However, he's been the recipient of at least four large gambling wins at Crimson Bell Casino, a property co-owned by one of Barclay's close associates."

Don's lips pressed together.

Gary went on.

"If Barclay was comfortable enough to speak openly, I'd wager Strass is one of his… handlers. A discreet fixer. The kind you pay to handle your stains without needing to bleach them."

A moment of silence followed. Then, Gary continued, "I will continue digging into Strass. I hope this proves useful."

**Click**

Then Winter's voice returned.

"Message relayed. Unless you have another request, I'll be disconnecting."

Don gave a single nod, even if she couldn't see it. "Sure. Go ahead."

**KZzzZzT—click**

The radio slipped back into its regular broadcast, but the voices felt muffled now. Distant. Muted by what he'd just heard.

He turned the wheel slowly, easing off the main stretch and into the side road that led toward his new neighborhood.

Headlights crawled along the guardrail. The Mustang moved like a thought.

Don let out a slow breath, almost a sigh.

'That bastard is really going out of his way to ruin my life.'

His fingers tapped once more on the steering wheel. Not anxious. Not angry.

Just thinking.

'So that's what Charles wants to talk about.'

———

Ten minutes later, Don walked through the entrance of the penthouse building like a man on auto-pilot. No stops. No detours. His own floor blinked past on the elevator console and he didn't flinch.

Charles's door didn't need a knock.

The sensors caught his presence the moment he stepped within range—whrrr-click—and the lock disengaged with that clean, mechanical hiss. A soft digital chime followed.

"Welcome. Charles is expecting you."

Of course he was.

The door slid open, revealing the interior that still managed to look showroom-perfect despite being lived in. The lights were warm, low, and expensive in tone. Walls of backlit art. A ceiling so spotless it felt smug.

Don stepped inside without speaking.

From the far end of the open-plan layout, the faint clink of glass exposed Charles's location. He stood at the minibar, shirt sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow, blazer discarded somewhere off-frame. Shoes off. Cufflinks still gleaming. The kind of half-dressed that took effort.

He poured with the wrist precision of someone who never spilled.

Don didn't greet him.

Instead, his eyes drifted toward the massive flatscreen that took up half the far wall. The feed on display was night vision, hazy green overlay, 720p at best—enough to make out vague shapes and movements.

The investigation site. Aerial drone view. People. Equipment. Motion trailing away from the central point.

Gear being packed.

Withdrawal.

He moved toward the back of the leather sofa facing the screen and leaned against it with a quiet exhale, arms loose at his sides.

Charles took a slow sip from his glass.

"My contact reached out again," he said finally, gaze still on his drink. "Said Barclay's trying to interfere with the investigation."

Don didn't respond. Not yet.

"They didn't say why," Charles continued, voice smooth, bored. "Only that if he pulls it off, the site may not exist by tomorrow."

Don's eyes stayed on the screen. 'Is that really all his contact told him… or is he trimming the fat before I hear it?'

It wasn't a stretch. Charles was smart enough to redact information on the fly—keep cards close when it suited him. And Don wasn't planning to share what he'd learned either. At least not directly.

On the surface, he just shifted his weight and slouched behind the couch, fingers tracing along the edge of the upholstery as he replied.

"If that's true, we've got a major problem coming."

Charles nodded once, then downed another sip.

"We do. That's why I had you come over. Need to figure out what his move is—and fast."

He turned slightly, leaning back against the bar now, one elbow braced against the surface.

"My people are listening in where they need to be," he added, casually glancing toward one of the dark panels near the far bookshelf. "If anything comes through, we'll know."

Don's tone didn't shift. "And if nothing does?"

Charles shrugged, smiling just faintly over the rim of his glass.

"We may need to learn Yemeni Arabic."

Don raised an eyebrow. "That specific?"

Charles looked pleased with himself. "You'd quite like it actually, as long you keep your head low and don't speak english."

He turned back toward the bar and reached for his phone.

"Alright, to start, I think—"

**BZZT-BZZT**

The phone buzzed.

Charles froze for half a second, glanced down, then picked it up with a flick of the wrist. He brought it to his ear, expression smoothing out.

"Hello?"

He didn't speak again for a while.

Whatever came through the line wasn't long, but Don watched his expression shift in increments—mouth tightening, brow twitching. It wasn't dramatic. Just... off.

Don heard everything, of course. The voice on the other end didn't even try to whisper. But he kept his own face still, even as a flicker of thought ran through his head.

'Not good.'

The call ended.

Charles lowered the phone slowly.

Don didn't ask.

Charles didn't wait.

"We need to leave. Now."