Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 507: Path Chosen (Part 9)

Sunday came fast.

By ten, Don and the others had already cleared briefing and were standing outside another meeting hall—similar shape, heavier presence. This time, there was no casual entry. No drifting in mid-conversation.

A security cordon funneled them through in small groups.

Don stepped forward when his turn came, boots thudding softly against the floor as he moved through layered checkpoints. ID scan. Biometric confirmation. A wand passed over his frame with a low electronic whirr~. A second agent slid a tablet toward him.

"Read and sign."

Don took it, skimmed the block of text without expression, thumb scrolling once. NDA. Operational restrictions. Information containment clauses stacked thick. He pressed his thumb to the screen and handed it back without comment.

A red indicator turned green.

"Clear."

Past the final door, the hall opened up.

It was larger than the last—wider seating, higher ceiling. The lights were set low, the projected screen already active at the front of the room. A faint hum rolled through the space, equipment idling somewhere behind the walls.

People filtered in and took their seats with less chatter than before.

Don moved down the aisle and sat near the front. Casual clothes, like most of those present—dark shirt, jeans—but he stood out anyway. Beside him, Charles settled in with the same ease he always had, dressed relaxed but unmistakably expensive, one ankle resting over the opposite knee.

At the front, Director Graham stood waiting, cane planted lightly at his side. Benjamin hovered near the console, remote in hand, eyes flicking between the screen and the room.

Once the doors sealed shut with a dull clack~, Graham tapped his cane once against the floor.

"Now that we've got the formalities out of the way," he said, voice carrying evenly, "allow me to provide you all with further details."

The screen shifted.

An aerial view of Havenridge filled the display—quiet streets, modest buildings, tree lines framing the outskirts. Don's posture didn't change. His hands rested loosely on his thighs as he watched, gaze steady.

Graham continued, outlining structure and division of labor. Departments. Boundaries. Assigned zones.

Don listened without moving.

The image on the screen held—a slow pan over the town—and something in it caught. The angle. The way the light fell across rooftops and forest edge.

His focus narrowed.

The hall faded around him.

Graham's voice dulled, words slipping into distance. "…our point of entry lies in the outskirts of town. The forest is far less dense than our very own… but it's still a lot of ground to cover, especially deep underground."

The image reflected faintly in Don's eyes.

Trees blurred together. The town tilted, shrinking beneath an unseen vantage point.

"…each department cooperating with us on this operation will send their groups to allocated areas," Graham was saying. "…to avoid confusion, we will work with our own department members…"

———

Don blinked.

The hall vanished.

Cold air pressed against his face as the cabin of a military-style chopper filled his vision. Black walls. Webbed seating. Red indicator lights pulsing overhead in a steady beat.

The rotors thundered above them.

Don sat strapped in along one side, now clad in black tactical gear. The fabric hugged close, reinforced panels locked into place. An SHQ badge sat clean on his shoulder.

Across from him, Charles adjusted his harness with one hand, the other braced against the frame as the chopper shuddered slightly. Same calm expression. Same sharp eyes. His gear matched Don's, though it somehow still looked tailored.

Starboy sat two seats down, elbows on his knees, helmet tilted back as he stared out the open side door at the forest rushing past below. His foot bounced once, then stilled.

Four others filled the remaining seats, including Frostbite.

The chopper rocked again.

Starboy glanced back toward Don. "So," he raised his voice over the noise, "does anyone else feel like they skipped a few steps between 'briefing' and 'drop-in'?"

The older man chuckled around his cigarette. "You get used to it," he said, voice rough. He shifted, boots scraping lightly against the deck. "Or you don't."

Don didn't answer. His gaze stayed forward, tracking the tree line below as it rolled past in dark green waves. Forest. Clearings. A thin road cutting through.

Havenridge was close.

'Outskirts first,' he thought. 'Then we see what's waiting.'

The chopper banked slightly, rotors roaring louder as the land below began to rise.

The chopper began its descent not long after.

The forest thinned beneath them, trees breaking apart into dirt roads and cleared stretches of land. Then the camp came into view—wide, improvised, busy.

Shipping containers were stacked two and three high, some painted dull gray, others left rusted and bare.

Makeshift helipads dotted the open ground, rotors still spinning on a few choppers while others sat quiet, crews clustered around them.

Blacked-out SUVs lined one side of the camp in uneven rows, lights off, engines idling low—while farther out, emergency vehicles flashed muted reds and blues that bled into the dust.

A figure stood on one of the pads ahead, arms raised, waving them in broad motions to guide the incoming craft.

The chopper tilted and dropped.

Dust and loose debris spiraled upward as they touched down, skids scraping lightly before settling~. The rear ramp began to lower with a slow mechanical groan—krrrshhh~—and inside the cabin, hands moved in unison as seatbelts were undone.

Metal clasps clicked open.

One of the men rose first.

He was tall—impossibly so in the tight space—forcing him to duck slightly as he stood. Around 198 centimeters tall, broad through the chest and shoulders, muscle packed dense beneath his gear.

Medium-length brown hair was pulled back loosely, a full beard framing a square jaw. His green eyes moved across the group with measured intent.

Elliot Staples.

Geo-man.

The name carried weight even before the man spoke. Veteran hero. Elite Program graduate. A long list of successful operations across Santos City. Minimal collateral. Fewer fatalities than most men with half his tenure.

Too few, Don thought.

Staples planted his boots against the deck, bracing himself as the chopper vibrated. "Alright," he said, voice steady but firm, carrying even over the rotors. "Listen up."

The group's attention settled.

"I know you were told this isn't the military," Elliot continued, eyes moving from face to face, "and that operations like this are conducted loosely."

He paused for a moment.

"I'm here to tell you otherwise."

He stepped closer to the center of the cabin, one hand gripping a support strap. "You will follow instruction. You will conduct yourselves according to our rules of engagement. Anything more—or less—and you can say goodbye to your Elite Program status. Are we clear?"

As he spoke the last words, his gaze landed on Don.

Then shifted to Charles.

It wasn't subtle. It didn't need to be.

Don met his eyes without reaction. Calm face. Steady posture. No challenge offered. No agreement either.

Charles mirrored him—hands relaxed, expression unreadable.

A brief pause stretched.

Then one of the others—a senior by the markings on his vest—straightened. "Sir, yes sir."

Elliot held Don's gaze another second longer. Something unreadable passed behind his eyes before he turned away.

"Good," he said. "Let's move."

One by one, they filed out.

The ramp hit the ground with a dull clang~ and heat rushed in, thick with dust and fuel. Boots crunched over packed dirt as Don stepped down, scanning the camp as he moved.

It was louder up close.

Voices overlapped. Equipment clattered. Radios crackled as personnel moved with purpose. Scientists in protective gear huddled over portable stations. Military units marched supplies between containers. FBI agents stood off in clusters, jackets marked, eyes alert.

They were taking this seriously.

'Still not enough,' Don thought.

Spineworms didn't care about numbers.

As they moved deeper into the camp, Don reached up and pulled his balaclava into place, covering his mouth and nose. The fabric settled snug against his face.

Charles fell into step beside him. "Let's hope things go more smoothly this time," he said, voice low.

"Yeah," Don replied.

His eyes drifted across another assembling group nearby—gear marked differently. Elite Program members, but not from Santos.

One of them stood apart.

Thin. Uncomfortably so. His uniform hung loose on his frame, sleeves riding too long, vest cinched as tight as it would go and still swimming on him. Brown hair sat messy against his head, unkempt. Dark circles carved deep under his eyes, skin pale.

He looked less like a hero and more like someone who should've been in a hospital bed.

His eyes caught Don's.

Bright. Yellowish. Alert in a way the rest of him wasn't.

The man didn't react. Didn't flinch. Just watched.

Charles followed Don's line of sight. "Do you know him?"

Don shook his head once. "No. You?"

Charles did the same. "No."

Before either could dwell on it, Elliot's voice cut through the noise.

"Alright," he called, one hand pressed to his mouthpiece as he finished listening. "We've been given the go-ahead to proceed to the entrance."

He lowered his hand. "We'll meet our guides there. But remember—whether in or out of the tunnels—stay sharp. Clear?"

"Clear," two voices answered.

Elliot's eyes flicked to Don.

Then Charles.

No warmth. No trust offered.

He turned and started walking.

Around them, other teams began to move as well, lines breaking into motion, boots kicking up dust as the camp shifted gears toward deployment.

Don stepped forward with the rest, eyes forward, mind already elsewhere.