Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 501: Path Chosen (Part 5)

Charles took a second longer to react than Don did—less startled, more puzzled.

He looked between Frostbite and Don as if he’d misheard a word, then tilted his head and leaned forward slightly over the table.

"I think you mean spar?" he asked, tone mild, almost courteous.

Frostbite’s eyes slid to him.

She narrowed them just a fraction, enough to change the temperature. "I wasn’t talking to you."

Charles leaned back, hands lifting in a small, conceding gesture. He went quiet.

Her attention snapped back to Don. "And I do mean fight."

Don stared at her for a second. Then, without urgency, he reached for his scone.

As far as he was concerned, he hadn’t done a thing to her.

He lifted it, inspected the edge like he was deciding where to start, and said around it, "No thanks."

He bit down.

Crumbed pastry broke clean under his teeth. He chewed, slow and unconcerned, gaze drifting back to his cup like this was any other afternoon.

Charles turned his head toward Frostbite, watching her carefully now.

Around them, the campus kept moving—but not everyone missed the exchange. A few students nearby had hearing sharp enough to catch every word.

Others had already been half-listening out of boredom. No one intervened. Don and Charles had a habit of talking about nothing important, and people had learned to pretend that was still true.

Frostbite seemed to register it all at once.

Her mouth tightened.

She looked at Don again—really looked this time—and her eyes hardened. Then she straightened, picked up her purse, and turned on her heel.

As she walked past, she shot him a long, heavy side glance. Don didn’t look back.

Her heels clicked against the stone as she disappeared into the flow of students.

Charles waited until she was several steps away before glancing at Don again. His brow creased. "Don... don’t tell me you and her—"

"Don’t make such jokes," Don said flatly.

Charles blinked, then gave a short laugh. "Right. Of course."

Ahead of them, Frostbite’s stride faltered for half a step.

Her brows pulled tighter as the words reached her ears.

She didn’t turn around.

Elsewhere on campus, far from cafés and foot traffic, Mr. Dean Sanchez’s office sat sealed and quiet.

Mr. Xiao reclined comfortably in the dean’s chair, one leg crossed over the other. A slim monitor rested on the desk in front of him, its screen alive with a live video feed of the student plaza—Don and Charles’ table still visible from above.

Xiao watched with an easy smile.

With a flick of his finger, he swiped the feed aside. It shrank into a corner tile, replaced by a grid of other camera views scattered across campus.

Behind the desk, Dean Sanchez stood stiffly to one side, hands clasped behind his back. He looked everywhere but at Xiao—walls, shelves, the door—like a child waiting to be told where to stand.

Even for someone practiced at submission, the imbalance in the room was hard to disguise.

A knock sounded.

Knock—knock~.

Sanchez startled and glanced at the door, then at his watch. "I... don’t have any appointments for this hour. Who could that be?"

Xiao didn’t look up from the monitor. He leaned back further, fingers steepled, smile deepening.

"Please do come in, Anastasia."

Sanchez turned quickly. "Mr. Xiao—"

The door opened.

Redstar stepped inside.

She wore a black-and-red tracksuit, fitted and unadorned except for the small embroidered flag on her shoulder. Her stride was measured, as always, each step placed with purpose until she stopped in front of the desk.

Xiao watched her approach like it was a performance he’d been waiting for. "To what do I owe the pleasure?" he asked lightly.

Redstar didn’t answer right away.

Her eyes shifted to Dean Sanchez. She said nothing. Didn’t need to.

Xiao followed her gaze, then turned his head toward the dean. "Please give us a moment."

Sanchez opened his mouth, hesitation written all over his face. He glanced between them, then swallowed. "Ah—yes. Of course."

He moved quickly after that, nearly tripping over his own urgency as he excused himself. Even as he closed the door, he looked back, worry etched deep.

The latch clicked shut.

Redstar’s gaze snapped back to Xiao. "You know exactly why I am here."

Xiao tilted his head, feigning thought.

"The girl," Redstar continued. "Why did you tell her?"

Xiao’s smile never faded. He leaned back, resting his arms on the chair. "Ah. Frostbite." He shrugged. "I see no issue with telling her you lost interest in instructing her because of Don Bright."

Redstar’s jaw tightened. "You know what you are doing, William." A hint of her accent crept in. "You are poking at fire. What is it you want to achieve with this?"

Xiao brought his hands together, fingers interlacing slowly.

"Well," he said calmly, "since you asked..."

The following morning came early.

By eight, the city was already awake beneath a low blanket of cloud as Charles’s helicopter cut through the air, rotors thudding in a steady rhythm. The cabin was quiet and plush, leather seats angled comfortably toward one another.

Don sat back with one arm resting against the door, dressed simply: black shirt, blue jeans, boots planted firm against the floor, aviators hiding his eyes.

Across from him, Charles lounged like this was a routine commute, jacket draped neatly, one leg crossed over the other.

Above them, a slim screen mounted into the ceiling flickered.

"—continuing developments surrounding former deputy director Harold Barclay," the news anchor said. "Following last week’s data leak, multiple investigations have been launched into Barclay’s financial history, including alleged involvement in offshore transfers and undisclosed intermediary deals."

Images scrolled past—Barclay at podiums, shaking hands, smiling for cameras that no longer loved him.

"Several individuals and organizations have already filed civil suits," the anchor continued. "At this time, neither Gerald Richmond nor Director Graham have issued public statements regarding their potential connections to the matter."

Charles let out a quiet laugh, lifting his glass of juice. "How I enjoy starting my morning with good news."

Don didn’t smile. He nodded once. "So do I."

The screen droned on until the helicopter began its descent. The city pulled away beneath them as the SHQ complex rose into view—wide, layered, and unmistakably fortified.

The landing pad met the skids with a muted thump~.

Moments later, Don and Charles were moving through the central building. Footsteps echoed softly along polished floors as people passed in every direction—older men in tailored suits, younger heroes in gear, recruits in training outfits still marked with sweat.

They drew looks without trying. Some curious. Some wary. Some openly calculating.

Neither of them slowed.

They stopped in front of two large wooden doors. A metal placard beside them read:

MEETING HALL 4

Muffled voices leaked through the seams.

Charles reached out and pushed the door open.

Inside, the hall opened wide—tiered seating rising in gentle arcs like a university lecture room, rows already half-filled. Low conversation rolled through the space as heads turned toward the entrance.

Don’s gaze swept across the room.

Frostbite sat several rows up on the right side, posture rigid, hands folded tight in her lap. She looked back instinctively—and frowned the instant she saw him.

Starboy lounged a few seats away from her, one leg propped up, attention fixed on his phone, thumb scrolling with lazy indifference.

Benjamin stood near the front, close to the projected screen, tablet in hand, eyes tired but alert.

Don didn’t linger on any of them.

He and Charles moved down the aisle and took their seats. As they settled, Don’s eyes lifted forward.

Director Graham stood at the front of the hall, hands clasped behind his back. A projected aerial image of a small town filled the screen behind him—quiet streets, clustered rooftops, nothing that rang familiar.

Graham noticed them and offered a small nod before facing the room again. He raised his watch slightly.

"Well," he said evenly, "I believe most of those invited are here. So I won’t delay the meeting any longer."

The room settled.

"The reason I called you all here," Graham continued, turning his head slightly, "is this."

Benjamin stepped closer to the console and pressed a button.

The image changed.

A photo filled the screen—bright, ordinary. A young boy, maybe eight or nine, smiling shyly at the camera. Backpack slung over one shoulder. Grass and sunlight behind him.

"Last week," Graham said, "a young child from the town of Havenridge went missing. A town-wide search was conducted. No remains were found."

A hand shot up.

"Excuse me, Director," Starboy said without looking up from his phone. "Not all of us have time to spare. What does a missing kid from some small town have to do with us?"

Graham didn’t bristle. He didn’t sigh.

He looked at Starboy calmly. "The town is under our jurisdiction," he said. "And as for what it has to do with you..."

He turned back toward the screen. "...while searching for the boy, local authorities stumbled upon this."

Benjamin pressed the button again.

The image shifted.

A dark subway tunnel appeared—old concrete arches barely visible beneath growth that didn’t belong. The walls were... Fleshy. Veined. Thick strands clung to the surface like vines, slick with moisture.

The room went still.

Even Starboy lowered his phone.