Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 357: Thickening Alliances (Part 6)

Dozens of people gathered on the streets. Some carried signs, most of which weren't kind. Others just stood there, screaming themselves hoarse.

From this height, they looked small. But the anger was loud enough to feel.

Charles leaned forward slightly, staring through the glass with a far-off look in his eye.

After a long silence, he said, "It's funny, isn't it? Being a hero."

Don looked at him. Charles didn't return it. "You sacrifice a few to save many—and they demand justice. You leave them to die—and they demand justice again."

He gave a small shake of his head. "You bleed either way. But the crowd's never satisfied unless someone's burning."

Don turned his gaze back to the window. "They're driven more by emotion and impulse than logic and reason."

"Exactly," Charles murmured. "So why keep risking ourselves to protect people like that?"

Don didn't answer.

Because he didn't need to.

Charles's face remained unreadable. Still. But it was clear—he wasn't happy with how this was unfolding.

—

They touched down on a rooftop landing zone attached to one of SHQ's largest buildings.

**Whrrr—THNK**

The rotors slowed as Don tapped through his phone. Messages. Mostly from Samantha, Summer, Donald… and Elle. He responded to a few, then slipped it back into his pocket.

Charles didn't move. His eyes were still out the window. Watching the protests disappear below.

As the doors opened, they were greeted by a woman already waiting by the edge of the platform.

She looked to be in her fifties—Asian descent, average height, hair tied back in a tight bun. Her grey office suit was clean and crisp, but there was a subtle weight in her eyes. The kind that came from working too long in buildings where trust didn't exist.

She gave a quick, professional bow. "Mr. Monclaire. Mr. Bright. This way, please. Most of the others are already seated in the main assembly hall."

She turned without waiting and led them toward a set of metal doors.

Don glanced at the time. 'Early.'

Charles caught the look and said without hesitation, "We're on time. They probably got told to arrive early."

Updat𝒆d fr𝒐m freewebnσvel.cøm.

He scoffed after saying it.

"Gives them time to debate our fates behind closed doors."

The woman flinched slightly at the comment but didn't turn. She kept walking, leading them through a bland hallway lined with reinforced doors and security panels.

At the elevator, she swiped her card against the scanner.

**Beep**

The doors opened with a soft chime.

"I'll be taking my leave here," she said quickly, stepping back to let them through.

Charles didn't even glance at her.

As he stepped into the elevator, he muttered, "I find corporate dogs to be really ugly, you know?"

His tone was casual—like he was commenting on the weather.

Don followed him in, adding, "I can understand why."

The woman's face paled slightly. She turned and walked off quickly before the doors shut behind them.

**Click**

Silence again.

Not because there was nothing left to say—but because they both knew they were being watched now.

Every inch of the elevator felt like it had eyes.

So they waited.

Still. Quiet.

The elevator ride soon ended with a smooth ding, followed by the sound of metal sliding aside.

The doors opened into a wide, polished hallway—clean, symmetrical, and decorated in colors that seemed to be trying to appear noble. Blue and white panels lined the walls. Gold-trimmed lighting hummed faintly from overhead.

Along one side, medium-sized statues of heroic figures stood atop marble pedestals—names engraved into their bases with reverence.

Don walked silently beside Charles, eyes drifting toward the sculptures.

He passed a figure in a sweeping pose, plated in a stylized armor, one hand extended toward an unseen enemy.

The Silver Guardian, the plaque read.

Don narrowed his eyes slightly.

'Charles's father?'

The resemblance was hard to miss. Same jawline. Same arrogance cast in bronze. Don wondered—'will he be in the meeting?'

Charles had never mentioned much about his family. Not even in passing. Don hadn't cared enough to press the issue.

The thought didn't linger.

Ahead, the hallway ended at two large doors—thick, metallic, clean. As they stepped forward, they hissed and parted automatically.

**Pssht**

They entered.

The room on the other side was massive—structured like a modern parliament chamber. Semi-circular rows of sleek seating surrounded a central space, all facing a high-raised podium where the top brass sat elevated, watching like gods.

Director Graham sat in the center—stern, with a face carved from habit and hierarchy. Beside him sat Harold Barclay, his expression sharpened by something bordering on smugness.

To Graham's other side sat a tall, wiry man in a white coat—Dr. Gadget. There were others—figures Don didn't recognize—but their suits and silence said enough.

The seats below were crowded.

Don's eyes swept the chamber.

He picked out faces almost immediately: Starboy, seated with arms crossed and jaw set. Thunderclap, jaw twitching with disdain. Phantom Strike. Frostbite. Andrew Barclay, seated like he owned the air he breathed.

Dozens more filled the chamber—some curious, others already judging. Many had eyes fixed squarely on Don.

Not kindly.

He'd barely been met any any of these people, and yet half the room looked at him like he'd personally insulted their lineage.