Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Meanwhile, The SUV Medusa drove moved through one of the many dimly lit streets of New Coral City's Y2 district, its tires rolling over uneven asphalt that had seen better days.

Streetlights were scarce—maybe one or two flickering every few blocks—leaving most of the road shrouded in deep shadow. The occasional neon sign struggled to stay lit, buzzing faintly as it cast sickly colors onto the damp pavement.

Strange figures loitered along the sidewalks, wandering aimlessly or lurking in the doorways of rundown buildings.

A massive man in a trench coat stood on a street corner, his face shadowed by his hat. But anyone who looked closely would see that his skin wasn't normal—it was rough, hardened, like thick calluses covered every inch of him.

Further down the road, a woman in a tight dress and fishnet stockings strutted toward a seedy strip club.

From behind, she had the silhouette of someone desirable, but when she turned toward the entrance, her face was grotesquely deformed—twisted skin, eyes slightly off-balance, features that looked as if they'd been melted and reshaped.

Before stepping inside, she pulled a black ski mask over her head. Business as usual.

Egor and Pantheress didn't spare any of this a second glance.

To them, this was normal. They were born into it.

Medusa, however, hated it.

She hated this level of living. The filth, the mutations, the barely scraping by. And yet, no matter how high she climbed, this district remained a reminder of where she now was—a life she wanted nothing to do with.

But tonight, her mind wasn't on the streets.

She was pissed.

Her fingers gripped the wheel tightly, knuckles stiff, nails pressing into the leather. The entire drive, her mood sat dangerously close to rage, her thoughts replaying everything that had gone wrong.

Then—**beep**

The radio broadcast, which had been droning on about the situation in Santos City, cut off abruptly as an incoming call appeared on the infotainment screen.

The name unknown flashed across the display.

Just seeing it made Medusa's grip tighten further.

Without hesitation, she slammed the answer button and snapped,

"You have some nerve sending me and my children on a mission without all the details, Barclay. Was this some poor attempt to get me killed? If so, you better be ready—"

"Calm down, Irene."

The voice on the other end was steady, but there was an unmistakable edge to it.

Harold Barclay stood alone in his private office, away from prying eyes. The space around him was a reflection of the ego he carried—walls lined with portraits of him shaking hands with powerful figures, plaques boasting about corporate achievements, articles framed in gold detailing his rise to influence.

A shrine to himself.

He stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the SHQ facility below as it bustled with activity.

His face remained composed, but in his hand, he gripped a Rubik's cube—his fingers pressing into it so hard that veins bulged slightly on the back of his hand.

"If I wanted you dead," Barclay continued, his tone eerily controlled, "I would have done so already. God knows it would've saved me the trouble of sending money to your little daycare project."

Medusa's rage spiked.

"You have some fucking nerve calling it a daycare, Barclay! Your company is single-handedly responsible for most of the cases in this district. The audacity to—"

"I'd watch your tone, Irene."

His words were sharp.

"Throwing around accusations without proof? Dangerous."

Barclay's grip on the Rubik's cube tightened, but he kept his voice measured. "It might just lead to funding being cut. And then what? I wonder who your people would blame for that."

**Screech—**

Medusa slammed the brakes, bringing the SUV to a sudden, violent halt right in the middle of the road.

Pantheress and Egor barely reacted—used to her outbursts.

She gritted her teeth, muttering under her breath, "You bastard…"

On the other end of the call, Barclay didn't so much as flinch.

"Yes, well," he exhaled, forcing his fingers to relax around the cube, "I've been called worse."

He turned away from the window, rolling his shoulders as if brushing off her anger.

"Now, if you're done throwing insults and accusations, I asked a question. What happened?"

It took everything in Medusa not to snap again.

Instead, she exhaled sharply through her nose, gripping the wheel like it was the only thing keeping her from reaching through the phone and strangling him. She forced herself to explain—a clipped, irritated summary of how things fell apart.

She hated reporting to him. But this was business.

After a minute of listening, Barclay finally responded, his voice as detached as ever.

"I see. We didn't take into account how formidable their android would be."

A pause.

"Fine. I'll handle the rest. You just hide that vehicle and lay low."

His voice shifted slightly—calculated, dismissive.

"I'll be sure to send extra for the minor mishap."

**Click**

The call had ended, but Medusa's anger hadn't.

She didn't sit there seething, though. Instead, she drove.

The roar of the V8 engine filled the quiet streets, the only sound accompanying them as the SUV glided through the nearly deserted district. The city had pockets of life, flickering neon signs, distant murmurs from alleyways, but for the most part, it felt like the world had shrunk into just them and the road.

Eventually, she turned down a wide alleyway.

It was filthy—the kind of place that had never known cleanliness. The walls were streaked with grime, old graffiti barely visible under layers of dirt and peeling paint.

Trash had settled into the corners, broken bottles and discarded wrappers blending into the filth. A rancid stench clung to the air, something between rotting food and stale piss.

Medusa ignored it.

At the far end, an open garage door led into a shadowed building. Outside, an old, deformed man sat in a rickety chair, a cigarette hanging from his lips.

His skin looked as if it had been sculpted wrong—too much flesh in some places, sunken in others. The deep wrinkles carved into his face weren't just from age but from something else, something unnatural.

The vehicle rolled smoothly into the garage, its growling engine quieting as Medusa killed the ignition.

Stepping out, her anger was still evident in her movements—long, controlled strides, fingers flexing slightly as if she wanted to claw into something.

The old man barely reacted.

He exhaled a slow stream of smoke and, in a gruff but respectful tone, muttered, "Evening, Mistress."

Medusa didn't respond.

He didn't take it personally.

As Egor passed, the man spoke again. "Evening, Egor."

Egor grunted in response but didn't slow his steps.

Then, to Pantheress, he added, "Evening, Pantheress."

Unlike the others, Pantheress flashed him a bright grin and waved.

"Evening, Mr. Jeffries!" she said cheerfully before skipping ahead.

Jeffries watched them disappear deeper into the alley, their figures swallowed by the shadows as they crossed over two more streets.

They arrived at the Theatre of Nightmares soon after.

It was a dying place.

Even on a good night, there were rarely more than a handful of attendees. It catered to specific tastes—the kind of people who didn't fit anywhere else, who didn't belong in the glossy, curated world beyond this district.

Inside, a play was in progress.

The performers on stage were deformed—some subtly, others grotesquely. Their limbs bent in strange ways, faces stretched unnaturally, their bodies moving with an unsettling fluidity that made them look less like actors and more like puppets with broken strings.

The audience was no different. Scattered figures sat hunched in the dark, their own mutations hidden under tattered cloaks or exposed unapologetically under dim lights.

Medusa barely looked at them.

Before she descended the steps to the lower seats, she turned to Egor.

"Go get yourself checked. Make sure nothing is broken."

Egor nodded obediently.

"Yes, Mistress."

Without another word, he walked off, his heavy footsteps fading into the corridors beyond.

Seeing an opportunity, Pantheress piped up. "Can I also go? These shows are sooo boring."

Medusa's gaze snapped to her, sharp and unamused.

Pantheress immediately retracted. "Just kidding."

Medusa gave a final look before turning and beginning her descent down the steps.

Pantheress rolled her eyes behind her back but followed.

Then, halfway down, something changed.

The performance stopped.

All at once, the actors on stage froze, their twisted bodies locking mid-motion, heads snapping forward in unison. Their gazes weren't focused on the audience—they were looking straight ahead.

Straight at Medusa.

She frowned, her voice resonating through the eerie stillness.

"I told you girls countless times, do not stop your performance when I walk in. Please continue."

But they didn't move.

Their gazes remained fixed, not blinking, not shifting.

Then, before Medusa could follow their stares, a voice echoed through the theatre.

Deep. Terrifying.

"I don't think that would be possible."

Pantheress reacted first, her body turning immediately, ears perking as she snapped her gaze upward.

At the top of the theatre hall, standing where the light barely reached, was a figure.

Predator.

The shadows danced around him, moving unnaturally, almost as if they were alive, slithering and shifting like hungry things at his feet.

The small audience present turned their heads, their grotesque faces etched with something primal—a feeling beyond fear, beyond panic. It was dread.

Medusa felt it too.

Her body stiffened, her breath catching for just a fraction of a second.

Then, slowly, her gaze lifted to meet his.