Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Trixie's voice faded, the words still hanging as static buzzed faintly in her comm. Gary hadn't even finished his next sentence when Elle moved.

Not a step. Not a dash. Not even a flicker in her stance.

One moment she was standing. The next—gone.

What remained was her echo. That semi-transparent figure that had loomed behind her like a mirage, a blur with edges that didn't sit right, now shifted.

It glided forward in stuttering movements—frames skipping across the distance between her and Rose like a broken film reel.

Each flicker left behind faint imprints, fading like breath on glass, scattered like exhaust.

Trixie didn't blink—but her eyes widened. "...Wait—"

Rose saw it too.

Her already unnerving stare somehow widened. That cracked-glass clarity in her eyes snapped tighter.

Then, Elle was there.

Her real body—not the echo—materialized directly in front of Rose, crouched low with one arm raised, fingers extended like claws. She slashed downward—one clean, savage arc.

Trixie's breath hitched.

Gary's voice came through the comm again, louder now. "Madam Trixie, what is happening? How bad is it?"

Before she could answer, the sound hit—**skrrrkk**-**THUMP**—as Rose dropped to all fours in a flash.

Not fast. Just wrong.

Like a puppet being dragged by invisible strings, limbs bending too sharply, too evenly. She scuttled backward on hands and feet, spine arched like a bridge. Then—up. Back to standing. Inhumanly fluid. And completely still.

Elle hadn't moved.

Then—

**SHHLKT!**

An invisible claw tore across Rose's body.

Neck. Shoulder. Arm.

The air itself seemed to rend open—then close just as fast. Flesh didn't just split—it peeled. Chunks of skin and muscle flung out and hit the dirt with wet, slop-like sounds. Bone cracked from the force, visible in pale shards through the wounds.

"Arghhh!!" Rose screamed—loud and hollow, like something howling through a throat it wasn't made for.

Her eyes, once wide with eerie calm, now burned—narrowed and hateful. "You insufferable meat puppet!" she hissed. "You'll pay for—"

**SHNK!**

Elle's other arm came up and slashed upward—faster than a blink.

Another invisible force struck her mid-sentence.

This time, Rose lifted off the ground, her frame contorting midair. Her shoulder twisted back unnaturally as her nearly severed arm flopped limply, connected only by a tendon that looked ready to snap.

Her midsection split open—her stomach tearing from inside out. Entrails spilled. Thick. Red and green. Twisting together like some unholy vine.

She was launched backward, flung into the forest's shadowed mouth. Her body vanished into the dark. Only the mangled arm remained in sight, lit faintly by the moonlight, dangling from some nearby root like a forgotten offering.

Trixie didn't move. Just stared, eyes wide, mouth slightly open.

Gary's voice snapped through again. "Madam Trixie, what did you mean it's different? Can you tell me exactly what is going on?"

She blinked. Inhaled. Then, in the exact same tone she'd used earlier, said, "Like I said. She's critical. That's what's happening, Just not violent as usual."

Her eyes drifted to the severed limb, still twitching faintly.

"Well…" she muttered. "Less violent."

Gary didn't respond immediately. When he did, the edge in his voice had dulled slightly—replaced with grim acceptance.

"This is… strange. But there's nothing we can do for now. Please watch the young madam. I'll set up measures around the nearby areas in case cover is needed."

Trixie exhaled slowly. Shoulders down. Pulse settling.

Elle, now back in full form, didn't speak. Her posture shifted—slightly looser. Like the adrenaline had burned through and now she was cooling down. Her head tilted once, gaze still fixed on the darkness.

Trixie's grip on her bracelet eased. "Don't worry, Elle's practically already nuked it. We'll be back in no ti—"

She stopped. Her gaze had followed Elle's.

Down. Toward the arm.

The fingers were twitching again.

More of them, this time. A faint sound crept in from the woods.

**schlk...** **thup...** **schlurk...**

Wet. Meaty. Like someone squeezing different slabs of butchered organs in a leather sack. The noises weren't loud—but they weren't shy either. Like whoever was making them didn't care if you heard. They wanted you to.

Then, the arm began to drag. Not by any visible force. It just started sliding—slowly—into the dark.

The ligament that had barely held it moments ago? Now thickening. Rebinding. Fusing.

Elle didn't flinch. Her eyes narrowed again, but there was no alarm. Just… focus.

Trixie, on the other hand, had heard a lot of things in her time. Voices in the walls. Whispers in bone. The sound a demon made when it was born sideways through ash.

This?

This unsettled her.

She brought her bracelet back up.

"Uh… nevermind, Gary," she muttered, lips tight. "We might be here a while."

———

Back at the Bright residence, the sound of running water had only just faded.

Don stood alone in his room, the dim bedside light casting a low glow across the space. His hair was still damp, pushed back haphazardly. Droplets clung to his shoulders, trailing down the skin of his back before vanishing into the edge of the towel wrapped loosely around his waist.

He'd taken his time with the shower. Let the water burn the fog out of his mind. It had helped—a little. At the very least, he didn't feel like he was dragging half the night behind him anymore.

He moved toward the closet, bare feet making soft **pat-pat** sounds across the hardwood. The door creaked faintly as he opened it.

Then—his eyes flicked upward as a glowing prompt flashed into view, projected just past his natural line of sight.

———

[Side Quest Failed: Art of Networking]

Failure Penalty: None

———

Don blinked once. The screen dissolved.

His shoulders sank slightly as he exhaled through his nose. Head tilted downward, he gave a soft shake and muttered, "Fuck."

Not angry. Just... annoyed. He hadn't even remembered the quest until now. It figured. The night had been one long interruption after another. He could feel the wasted progress settling in his chest like cold coffee.

Still, nothing to be done.

He reached for a pair of sweatpants, pulling them off the hanger with one hand while thinking of a quote from one of the books he read for mental training, 'We don't get to fix the time we wasted—only decide whether we waste more.'

It didn't help.

"Easier said than done," he muttered, voice low as he tossed the towel onto the chair of his desk.

The loose-fitting grey sweats slid on easily. After that came a plain white vest, pulled over his head without ceremony. He flexed his shoulders once, checking the fit out of habit more than vanity, then scratched lightly at the side of his neck as his eyes drifted back toward the closet.

Then—**knock knock**.

Don turned his head toward the door. "Come in," he called.

The door creaked open, revealing Summer in her usual brand of "comfy."

She wore a baggy black and pink hoodie, sleeves draping past her wrists. Her hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, and the silk red shorts she had on were just long enough to pass as socially acceptable in the hallway.

She stood with her arms crossed, one brow raised.

"Took you long enough," she said. "You shower like a girl on prom night."

Don shrugged.

"Not everyone's allergic to water like you," he replied, already walking toward the desk to grab his phone.

Summer rolled her eyes. "Is that the best you can come back with?"

Don didn't bother looking her way. "No. I'm just not arguing with kids today. Long day."

He turned around then, leaning back slightly against the desk with his arms folded. "Anyway, you show up because you missed me, or is there actually something you wanted?"

Summer's frown deepened. Her arms folded tighter.

"I was going to ask what kind of pizza you wanted Winter to make," she muttered, "but never mind. You can eat dinner leftovers. Jerk."

Don blinked, then shrugged with mock confusion. "No need to be sensitive, sis," he said. "It's bad for your health."

Summer opened her mouth to retort—but another voice cut in first. "Don't tell me you two are already fighting," came Samantha's voice.

She stood just outside the doorway, wearing another modest robe, her skin still carrying the fresh scent of rosewater and steam. Her eyes were alert but soft, already tired from the day but not too tired to intervene.

Don straightened just slightly, already responding.

"Nope. Summer's just throwing a tantrum about movie night food," he said. "She's making pizza and won't share. Can you believe that?"

He shook his head with the kind of overplayed disappointment that barely qualified as teasing.

Samantha's mouth twitched upward. "A movie night sounds really cute," she said. "You two used to love those when you were young. Summer would always beg to stay up with you."

Summer immediately turned, cheeks pink. "I did not beg."

Samantha chuckled, shaking her head. "We're just teasing, honey." She looked between the two of them—then paused. A thought flickered across her face.

"You know what?" she said. "After the mess today was, I think I'd like to join you two. That is, unless you're too old to watch with your mother."

Summer blinked, caught off-guard. The idea clearly hadn't occurred to her. She glanced at Don, silently asking if he was going to deal with that one.

He didn't hesitate.

"Of course not, Mom," he said plainly. "The more the merrier. Let's make it a family movie night."

The effect on Samantha was immediate.

Her smile lit up the hallway—warm, wide, genuine. Like someone had handed her a gift she didn't know she still wanted.

"That's a wonderful idea," she said, already stepping back. "Let me get your aunt Amanda before she drinks herself to sleep."

She vanished down the hall, soft **pad-pad-pad** of her slippers fading into the background.

Summer stood there, staring after her for a second.

Then she turned back to Don, expression flat.

"Yay…" she muttered. "Family night… woohoo."

Her tone was sarcastic. But her eyes weren't.