Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 334: Crisis In Santos City (Part 6)

Neither Don nor Charles answered right away.

Charles was clearly sizing them up, his gaze shifting between the two agents like he was deciding whether to take them seriously. Don, on the other hand, was simply waiting for Charles to speak first. He had no desire to be the one engaging in small talk with the Feds.

After a moment of silence, Charles gave a slight nod. "Of course. Go ahead."

The pause, however brief, was noted. Neither Hathaway nor Defoe reacted much, but their subtle side-glance at one another showed they were paying attention. Hathaway gave a curt nod before clearing his throat.

"Alright then."

Defoe took a step to the side, hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shifting between Don and Charles as Hathaway continued.

"You two were already inside when the fighting started, correct?"

Charles answered with a small shrug. "That's right."

"And how exactly did it start?"

Charles exhaled lightly, as if recounting an exhausting chore. "A group came in fast, heavily armed. They weren't looking to negotiate. Pretty much opened fire and starting attacking people with weapons immediately."

Hathaway studied him for a beat. "You're saying they just started shooting and beating people, no warning?"

Charles smiled, but it was the kind that didn't reach his eyes. "They were Green Thorns. When do they ever give a warning?"

Hathaway's lips pressed into a firm line. He didn't argue, but Defoe spoke up next.

"And you two? You engaged immediately?"

Charles gave an easy nod. "Naturally."

Hathaway glanced at Don, who had remained silent, then returned his focus to Charles. "And how many did you take down?"

Charles turned his head slightly, as if actually trying to count. "I don't know, maybe a couple 100 each?"

Hathaway gave a doubtful hum. "You don't know?"

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Charles smiled again, tilting his head. "I wasn't keeping score."

Another glance at Don. Still silent.

Defoe tapped a finger against her forearm. "We saw the bodies. Efficient work. Hard to believe it was just the two of you."

Charles spread his hands, feigning modesty. "You'd be surprised what a little teamwork can do."

Hathaway's gaze sharpened slightly. "Any civilians get caught in the crossfire?"

"Ours? No."

"No casualties at all?"

Charles sighed, stretching his shoulders slightly. "No one that wasn't attacking us, no."

Hathaway looked at him for a long moment, but Defoe was already preparing another question. Before she could ask, Charles lifted a hand.

"I think that's enough questions for now. Anything else you need can be found in the report Don and I will submit at SHQ."

Hathaway frowned. "Why not give the report now?"

Charles kept his smile, but his posture tensed slightly. "Standard protocol. SHQ first, then external agencies."

Hathaway's attention shifted back to Don. "And yourself? We'd still like to hear your version of the events."

Don immediately recognized the play—his silence was being interpreted as passivity, or worse, submission. That wasn't what he intended. He simply didn't care to say anything that might be twisted out of context. But that didn't mean he was about to be pushed into answering.

He narrowed his eyes, feigning irritation. "No, I'd rather not."

Defoe's gaze sharpened slightly. "Do you have something to hide?"

Charles, still in his usual relaxed stance, looked ready to step in with some smooth deflection, but Don shook his head and cut in before he could.

"No," Don said flatly. "I just prefer not to waste any more time repeating something that's already been explained. I have a worried family to get to, and I care very little for your pushy attitude. If you have a problem with that, take it up with the department or my lawyer."

Charles grinned, clearly entertained by the response. "Mine too."

Hathaway's expression darkened slightly. "There's a lot of bodies here, and people will want answers for how these men and women died. Do you really want to—"

Don didn't even let him finish. He simply walked past them without another word.

Charles exhaled through his nose, debating for a fraction of a second whether to smooth things over. He decided against it. At that moment, walking away just felt right. So he did.

Behind them, Hathaway clenched his jaw.

"Forget it," he muttered to Defoe. "Let's just start checking the bodies. We'll know soon enough what went down here."

Don stepped outside, greeted by a world that barely resembled what it had been before the attacks.

The street was a mess. Bloodstains streaked the pavement in uneven patches, smeared by hurried footsteps. Walls bore the occasional splatter of red, marking places where the fighting had been especially brutal.

Broken glass glittered under the harsh artificial glow of overhead floodlights, discarded weapons lying here and there, abandoned by their owners—some who had fled, others who had been carried out on stretchers.

Flashing blue and red lights dominated the night.

Police cruisers, ambulances, and emergency response vehicles lined the perimeter. Medics worked in organized clusters, tending to the injured, stabilizing those who could be saved, and covering those who couldn't.

At the forefront of the congestion sat armored vehicles and a row of black Cadillac SUVs, their government plates confirming who they belonged to. More FBI agents stood nearby, some engaged in tense discussions, others busy questioning survivors—people who had managed to escape the carnage inside. Their expressions ranged from dazed to outright shell-shocked.

Elsewhere, several individuals were being forcibly loaded into armored vans. Unlike the wounded or the terrified, these ones were animated, thrashing against the officers restraining them. Their voices rose above the noise, spitting out strange slogans with rabid conviction.

"This is Green Justice!"

"The culling has begun!"

"The roots run deep! You can't kill what grows beneath!"

Don watched them for a moment, taking in the sheer fanaticism in their eyes. Even after everything, they were still completely unhinged.

His gaze swept across the rest of the scene.

The devastation was eerily familiar.

His mind flickered back to the central mall incident, the first real glimpse he'd had of something bigger—something he hadn't been ready for at the time. Back then, he had barely scraped by, surviving more on luck than anything else.

But now? Now, he stood here, completely intact. No near-death wounds, no hazy delirium from blood loss.

He had changed.

The horror of this scene was still there, but it wasn't overwhelming. It wasn't shocking anymore. He was getting used to this kind of atmosphere, adapting to it.

A sense of pride settled in his chest. A visible marker of his growth.

But at the same time, it was a reminder.

He was still far from where he needed to be.

Charles, mistaking Don's silence for something else, offered a reassuring smirk. "Don't worry. Civilian public agencies always give us a hard time. They won't do anything."

Don let out a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. "It's not them I'm worried about." His gaze swept across the destruction again. "It's the state of this city in the coming months."

Charles raised a brow at that, intrigued but choosing not to press. Instead, he exhaled and gestured with a tilt of his head.

"Looks like we have to get through more agents."

Don followed his gaze.

More suits were heading their way, their expressions making it very clear they were about to start asking questions.

Don sighed internally.

'Just great.'