Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

A shadow tendril snaked out from the darkness, wrapping around the guard's ankle and yanking him backward. He lost his balance and fell with a startled **thud**, his gun clattering to the ground. Before he could recover, another tendril—this time tipped with sharp spikes—shot out from the ground beneath him.

**Shk!**

The spike impaled him through the head, the eerie sound of it piercing flesh followed by the dull crack of bone. The guard's body twitched once, then lay still. His flashlight rolled awkwardly away, the beam of light bouncing as it spun across the pavement.

The remaining guard's eyes narrowed when he noticed the strangely moving beam of light. "Hey!" he shouted, starting to move toward the spot. But as he turned around to glance over his shoulder, he found himself face-to-face with Don.

**Wham!**

Don's fist slammed into the guard's face with brutal force from his use of the Forceful Strike (Bronze) skill, sending the man sprawling onto the ground. He tried to scramble to his feet, dazed and disoriented, but before he could even make sense of what had happened, Don flicked his wrist. Spikes of shadow erupted from the ground, piercing through the guard's head, neck, and chest.

**Shk.**

The guard's body collapsed, blood pooling on the ground beneath him.

Don exhaled slowly as he stood there for a moment, surveying the area, making sure no one else was nearby.

'That's all of them,' he thought, turning his gaze toward the entrance of the warehouse. The dim light from inside flickered faintly as he narrowed his eyes. 'Time to deal with those inside.'

———

Inside the warehouse, dim lighting bathed the scene in shadows, casting long, distorted silhouettes over the floor.

Stacked crates and large shipping containers were scattered throughout, creating a maze-like interior. Many of the containers were branded with the logo "HR Goodwill Foundation," a mockery of whatever charitable front the Hell Riders had created to move their illegal goods.

The scent of musty wood, oil, and something faintly metallic hung in the air, mixing with the lingering stench of alcohol.

From his vantage point, Don crouched on a large metallic support frame high above the ground, his dark, mist-like form blending seamlessly into the surrounding shadows.

The frame creaked faintly beneath his weight, but the noise was lost beneath the general hum of the warehouse lights mounted on similar beams. Even if one of the guards bothered to look up, they wouldn't see him—not with how the lights cast harsh glare below while keeping the heights cloaked in relative darkness.

His glowing white eyes scanned the scene below. There were ten individuals, all armed. Five of them were patrolling the area, their movements half-hearted and lazy, while the other five sat in a dimly lit corner, playing poker on a crate, a large bottle of alcohol passed around between them.

Don watched the patrolling guards first. They moved in erratic patterns, clearly just going through the motions without any real care or discipline. Two of them showed signs of intoxication—sluggish steps, exaggerated sways as they walked. It was almost laughable.

'No wonder this gang is falling apart,' Don thought, eyes narrowing in disdain. This level of negligence was beyond pathetic. To be intoxicated while guarding what was likely an important shipment? It spoke volumes about the lack of respect the members had for their leaders, and the even greater lack of oversight those leaders had on their men.

He observed their movements for a moment longer, searching for any kind of pattern. But there wasn't one. These were men patrolling just for the sake of patrolling, their lack of coordination almost embarrassing. They weren't going to last long, even if Don didn't intervene.

Silently, Don slipped off the beam, his form disappearing into the shadows below.

**Whoosh.**

He reappeared behind the first guard, a large man with a rifle slung lazily over his shoulder, his eyes half-closed as if he were on the verge of falling asleep while walking.

Don's shadow tendril materialized behind the man, rising silently before coiling around his throat like a noose. The guard didn't have time to react. **Crack.** With a quick twist, Don snapped his neck and the man's body crumpling to the floor with a dull **thud**.

Don moved quickly, slipping back into the shadows before anyone could notice. The next guard was only a few feet away, his steps slow and heavy as he muttered to himself about needing another drink.

Don materialized behind him, his movements quick and silent. **Shk!** A spiked tendril shot up from the ground, impaling the guard through the chest. The man gasped, eyes widening as blood sprayed from his mouth, but before he could scream, Don covered his mouth with his hand, silencing him as his body slumped lifelessly against Don's chest.

Two down.

He let the body fall to the ground and vanished once more. **Whoosh.** He appeared behind the third guard, one of the two intoxicated ones.

This guard was humming to himself, his steps uneven. Don didn't even bother with the tendrils this time. He grabbed the guard by the back of the head and slammed it against the edge of a nearby crate.

**Crack.** Blood splattered across the wooden surface as the man's skull fractured, his body twitching violently before going still.

Three down.

Don continued, methodical and relentless. The fourth guard, though slightly more alert, was no match.

A shadow tendril wrapped around his neck too, pulling him back into the darkness before he even realized what was happening. He struggled for a brief moment, hands clawing at the tendril, but it was futile. **Snap.** Another neck broken. Another body crumpled to the ground.

By the time Don took out the fifth guard, who barely had time to react before Don slit his throat with a jagged spike of shadow, the remaining men still hadn't noticed anything amiss.

They were too engrossed in their crude conversation and poker game, their laughter echoing through the warehouse as one of them posed a strange question.

"Fellas, if you had to sleep with two women with a combined age of 30, what ages would you pick?" The man grinned, clearly amused by his own question.

The four others paused, actually pondering it. One of them, looking particularly pleased with himself, snapped his fingers and declared, "Twenty-five and five, except the five was born on February 29, so she's really twenty."

"What the hell are you talking about?" another man asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.

The original speaker rolled his eyes, explaining as if it were obvious. "It's a leap year, you dump fuck. Doesn't change the fact that the girl's technically five, though."

The man shrugged, completely unfazed. "Legally, she's twenty."

Another man at the table chimed in, nodding approvingly. "That's actually pretty smart. In that case, I'll choose a thirty-year-old pregnant woman. Problem solved."

Before the original speaker could respond, the fifth man, who had been silent up until this point, finally offered his opinion. "You guys are thinking too hard. I'd go with nine and nine—you can keep the rest."

The crude banter was interrupted when one of the men glanced toward the crates at the back of the warehouse. "Hey McCarthy! Wanna switch shifts?"

There was no response.

The man called out again, a bit louder this time. "McCarthy? Are you there?"

Silence.

This time, all five men turned their heads, looking around the warehouse. There was no sign of any of their patrolling guards. The poker table fell quiet, the atmosphere growing uneasy as they exchanged nervous glances.

"Something's wrong," one of them muttered, reaching for his gun.

Unbeknownst to them, Don was already watching, perched high above once more, his glowing white eyes locked on his next targets.

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