Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 537: Resistance V1 (Part 9)

The locker room smelled like disinfectant and damp concrete. Rows of metal benches, half-open lockers, discarded gear stacked in bins waiting to be processed or burned.

Don stripped out of field-worn layers without, movements economical but tired, muscles complaining as he bent and straightened.

Another test to check for infected followed.

Quick. No explanations offered.

When it was done, they were handed new agency IDs—still warm from the printer—and a directive that landed wrong the moment it was spoken.

"You are not to return to HQ until further notice."

Starboy stared at the card in his hand like it might change if he looked long enough. "That doesn’t make any sense."

Down the hall, raised voices echoed again, sharper now. Someone demanded answers. Someone else demanded the director.

Don didn’t wait to hear the outcome.

He clipped the ID into his jacket, nodded once to the soldier who’d handed it to him, and walked. Starboy followed without comment. Pyro slowed, hesitation pulling at him, eyes tracking the ongoing chaos with a tight frown.

"I’ll catch up," Pyro said. "I wanna know what this actually means."

Don didn’t argue. He didn’t look back.

By the time he reached the outer gates, the restrictions tightened again. Devices off. No Signal still. Another scan. Another nod. Then the signal came back all at once.

Don stepped through the gate.

Black boots hit the pavement, thick-soled and scuffed. Loose blue jeans hung low on his hips, a black shirt pulled clean, brown leather jacket creasing as he rolled his shoulders.

Aviators rested against his chest, hooked at the collar. His phone sat heavy in his hand as it powered on. The watch on his wrist was dead—cracked face, band snapped, useless.

Then, a sound reached him before he saw it.

It was that of a powerful v12 and it snarled nearby—loud, rude, unapologetic.

Don turned his head in time to catch the flash of gold and white trim as a Lamborghini SVJ tore past the gate line. Starboy sat at the wheel, one hand loose, posture relaxed in a way that said he didn’t care who was watching.

He didn’t slow. He revved harder, engine screaming as the road opened up and he disappeared in a blur of noise and heat.

Don watched the empty stretch of asphalt for half a second.

Then his phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.

He looked down.

Notifications stacked faster than he could read them.

Gary.

~Sir, is everything okay? There’s interference with your contacts, cell, and watch.

Another from Gary.

~The young madam is concerned and is looking into the matter.

Elle. Multiple missed messages.

Summer.

~Hey, are you okay? Checking in won’t kill you. Only asking cause mom’s worried.

Samantha.

~So many. Short notes. Voice clips queued. Updates about nothing and everything. Just checking in on you, sweetie. Today was quiet. Call when you can. How are things?

And at the top—most recent.

Miss Claire.

~Should I be concerned that the military wants you silent about something?

Don exhaled through his nose.

Before he replied to any of them, he spoke aloud, voice low, almost testing it.

"Winter?"

The response came instantly, smooth and level.

"Good morning, Don. It’s good to see you’re in one piece. Your absence, combined with the speculation surrounding yesterday’s events, has caused concern across several channels."

Don shifted his weight, scanning the road without really seeing it. "I’m fine," he said. "I just need someone to pick me up."

A brief pause. Not hesitation. Processing.

"I have your coordinates," Winter replied. "I’m en-route."

Don let his shoulders drop a fraction.

He stayed where he was, phone still warm in his hand, the gates of SHQ looming behind him.

———

An hour and some minutes later, Don stood in the living room of his residence in Ebon Crest Tower, jacket tossed over the back of a couch, boots finally off, and still nowhere near relaxed.

The news murmured from the mounted screen. Clean graphics. Calm anchors. Carefully chosen words scrolling along the bottom.

OPERATION CLASS REEVALUATED — THREAT LEVEL PREVIOUSLY UNDERESTIMATED — SITUATION NOW UNDER CONTROL.

Don snorted quietly through his nose and didn’t bother hiding it.

The couches were full.

Samantha sat nearest the armrest, legs tucked beneath her in soft plaid pajama pants, an old jersey hanging loose over her frame.

Her hair was pulled into a practical ponytail, glasses perched low on her nose as she watched Don more than the screen. Her hands stayed clasped together, thumbs rubbing slow circles without her realizing it.

Summer lounged sideways on the other couch, one leg folded under her, the other dangling. Booty shorts, a loose shirt knotted at the side, a head sock pulled low with her hair tied back into a high ponytail.

Headphones rested around her neck, one earcup tapping lightly against her collarbone every time she shifted. Her eyes were attentive, tracking everything.

Amanda had claimed the far end, swallowed by an oversized shirt. Long socks covered her calves. Her hair stuck out in uneven directions, like she’d lost a fight with sleep and come back for seconds. She blinked slowly, trying to stay awake and failing.

From the kitchen came the sound of cookware being put to work and the low hum of Winter moving around. She wore her usual maid attire, though the sleeves were rolled up to the elbows, dark hair tied back neatly.

Steam rose from a large pot as she stirred, posture calm, attention divided between the stove and the room beyond.

Samantha had insisted on the meal.

Don stood with his hands in his pockets, weight shifting from heel to heel as he explained what he could.

"It was bad," he said. "Worse than they planned for. Gear didn’t hold up. Response times slipped. And well... people got hurt."

That part wasn’t a lie.

"The site’s been reclassified," he added, nodding once toward the screen. "They’re saying it’s contained now, so I hope that’s the case."

The anchor repeated the claim almost on cue.

Samantha’s mouth pressed into a thin line. "And you?" she asked softly. "You’re okay?"

"I’m standing here," Don replied. "So yeah."

She didn’t look convinced.

Summer leaned forward, elbows on her knees. "That’s it?" she said, frowning. "You’re just gonna repeat stuff I can read on any reliable forum?"

Don glanced at her. "Apparently."

She clicked her tongue. "Come on. You were there. On-site. You’re telling me that’s all?"

He exhaled, slow and controlled. "I’m telling you what I can."

Her eyes narrowed. "That’s not an answer."

He shrugged. "Then get the rest from your oh-so-reliable forums." He turned toward the kitchen. "I just want to eat and sleep."

He’d taken three steps before Summer shot up.

"Hey—get back here!" she called, already moving after him. "Just say what you’re hiding. Is it true it was a government experiment gone wrong? Oh—oh! And did Dr. Gadget really use a mech?"

She darted ahead of him and slid into his path, waving a hand inches from his face. "Hey. Hey. Focus. You’re dodging."

Don stopped short, looked down at her flatly.

Samantha turned on the couch. "Summer," she said, voice firm. "Leave him your brother alone. Let’s just all be happy he’s safe."

Amanda yawned wide, rubbing at one eye with the heel of her hand. "Yeah..." she mumbled. "Safe..." Her head tipped sideways, cheek sinking into a pillow as her eyes closed again.

Summer opened her mouth, then shut it, shooting Don one last look before stepping aside with a huff.

He walked past her and into the kitchen.