Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 500: Path Chosen (Part 5)

The days blurred into a series after that first brutal session with Redstar.

Training, more training, three days of rest that weren’t really rest, and visits to the Deadly Damsels to make sure the vision he’d set in motion didn’t fall apart the moment he looked away.

What surprised him most wasn’t the workload—he could handle pain.

It was that he still somehow kept in contact with his friends.

Campus mornings, quick chats before training, the occasional lunch when schedules aligned.

Everyone serious had already locked into their chosen path—hero work, UPSDF recruitment, and other programs. That meant the regular training cells were always booked, and those lower on the priority list got left behind.

Late June brought the clouds.

A grey Friday afternoon washed SHU in muted light as the campus moved like a living hive.

Students streamed across walkways, ducking under umbrellas or shrugging off the light drizzle.

Cafés overflowed with people on small metal chairs, cups steaming between their hands. Others sat on patches of grass with textbooks open, half-reading, half-scrolling.

Groups clustered near the central fountain posing for feeds, laughing as they took ten pictures to keep one.

Don was seated at one of the café tables—the same one he’d eaten at with Donald weeks ago.

Charles sat on his left.

He kept his hair tied into a neat ponytail now, the strands pulled back to emphasize the clean lines of his jaw.

He wore a fitted turtleneck sweater—some designer brand Don didn’t bother clocking—and khaki pants that probably cost more than Don’s entire weekly income.

Donald sat across from them.

His hair was cut shorter now, almost a buzz. He wore an SHU tracksuit like someone who’d just come from drills—dark green with gold trim. His glasses were different too, swapped for sport frames.

As for Don—

His hair hadn’t changed, but everything else had.

His features were more present.

Neck thicker.

Jaw carved.

Shoulders broader.

Frame toned to the point even the SHU tracksuit couldn’t hide it. The difference was obvious enough that strangers kept stealing glances before pretending they weren’t.

His tracksuit wasn’t the standard green.

Black with red trim, the city’s Elite Hero badge printed on the chest—ELITE in sharp white.

Their table looked almost too normal.

Bagels, scones, steaming cups.

This had become routine.

Donald, however, wasn’t routine at all. He kept glancing at a group nearby—girls pretending not to stare while holding their phones angled suspiciously.

Charles noticed.

Don did too.

Neither said anything until now.

"You know," Charles said, raising his cup, "the more you give them attention, the more curious and insistent they’ll be."

Donald’s head snapped back to the table. He glanced between Charles—who sipped his drink—and Don, who was mid-chew.

He flushed. "Doesn’t it bother you guys? What if they take a picture at a bad moment or something?"

Charles placed his cup down with a soft tap~.

"It comes with the territory, my dear Donald. That, and people haven’t fully forgotten what Don and I did."

Donald nodded slowly, then asked, "Speaking of... have you heard anything about those worm plant parasites or whatever?"

Don shook his head while chewing.

Charles leaned back. "It’s not yet known to the public, but a trusted source told me they’re calling them Spinevines."

He shrugged lightly.

"As for what they are or why they came to Santos City, I don’t know."

Donald swallowed hard. "I hope they’re really gone, because—"

His phone buzzed on the table—bzzt~

He picked it up. "Hello? ...Huh? What quiz? No, I didn’t check my email—wait, what? Shit, dude."

His expression changed instantly.

Pure panic.

He shoved the rest of the bagel into his mouth, muffled words spilling out:

"Gobbah go—class moved—Friah ’ftermoon—fuck!"

He grabbed his cup, his bag, his phone—almost leaving the chair behind—and sprinted.

Charles watched him disappear into the crowd.

Don took another bite of his scone, unfazed.

After, Don brushed the crumbs from his hands and set the scone down.

Across from him, Charles shifted his attention with the ease of someone gliding between topics without ever losing the thread.

"By the way," he said, lifting his drink, "will you be attending that meeting at SHQ? It sounded important." He took a bite of his scone before adding, "Given Director Graham wrote to us individually."

Don lifted his cup, took a slow sip. "I don’t have training tomorrow, so I don’t mind. You?"

Charles shrugged. "I could use the distraction. Aunt Elanoire has been making my training hell."

Don snorted. "Can’t be worse than Redstar."

Charles chuckled. "Probably not."

Then he nodded to himself. "Alright then. We’ll go together tomorrow morning. I don’t feel like traffic. You?"

"No."

Charles leaned in, a smug smile creeping up. "This is why I keep telling you to invest in a private chopper. Driving around these days is so... normal." He tilted his head. "Or maybe I’m just used to the skies."

"Maybe both."

Charles laughed, pleased with the answer, then smoothly shifted gears.

"Right, about that property you mentioned in New Coral City..."

Don took another sip of his drink, letting the warm cup settle in his fingers as Charles drifted into another topic.

He had grown used to this rhythm—Charles jumping between casual banter, city politics, heroes, romance, whatever he had stored in that ridiculous mind of his.

And Don always had a reply.

Over the past days and week, they’d ended up spending far more time together than expected.

Don chalked it up to something simple: Charles didn’t actually have many friends. At least not the sort who sat with him for bagels and campus noise.

He didn’t mind. It was easy.

Manageable.

A fair fit for this new life.

A few minutes passed like that, Charles animatedly recounting some story about a jeweler in France who tried and failed to scam him.

Don watched the way Charles gestured with his cup, the small flicks of his wrist, his growing amusement—until the mood around them shifted.

Crowd chatter spiked.

Both Don and Charles turned.

Frostbite walked past.

Jeans, white heels, designer white sweater, purse with blue trim. Her presence cut clean through the walkway. Students parted instinctively—some out of awe, some out of discomfort, some raising phones and pretending not to.

No one approached her.

They knew better.

Her gaze stayed straight ahead, as if carved from ice.

But Don caught something else.

A change in her stride.

Subtle. A hitch that told him more than any expression.

His senses had always been sharp, but Redstar’s training had drilled in observation. People’s tells. Mannerisms. Emotional shifts.

This one read as anger—quiet, buried, but there.

He almost looked away.

Almost.

That’s when Frostbite looked toward them.

Her gaze was cold enough that the air felt different.

Even Charles’s smile thinned.

She changed direction.

Walked straight to their table.

Students watched like prey noting a predator’s path.

Frostbite reached the table, set her purse down with a hard slam—THUDD~—and turned her eyes on Don.

"Fight me," she said.

Cold. Flat. Immediate.

Don blinked once, brow raising.

"...Huh?"