Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 538: Resistance V1 (Part 10)

The days quickly passed.

But not in a cinematic way. No new disasters. No televised explosions. Just meetings, briefings, convoys, and the slow, grinding presence of the military folding itself deeper into Santos City.

Checkpoints on certain roads that hadn’t needed them before. Uniforms where there used to be joggers and delivery drones. Helicopters threading low across the skyline like they were testing how much noise people would tolerate before snapping. 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

The governor addressed it twice. Three times, if you counted the emergency broadcast he cut short when protestors flooded the steps to city hall.

Havenridge hadn’t gone quietly.

Some of the survivors rejected the compensation packages outright. Some refused relocation. Others demanded names, signatures, trials. A few of the louder SHQ members joined them, accusing the government of treating heroes like disposable equipment.

Headlines churned. Panels argued. Analysts speculated.

Don said nothing.

He’d taken the doctor’s words at face value and used the lull the only way he knew how: to recover, and to watch.

That was harder than it sounded. Information was being buried almost as quickly as it surfaced. Statements contradicted each other. Timelines shifted. Reports vanished behind sealed reviews and "pending classification."

Winter helped. Quietly. Relentlessly.

So did Gerald Richmond.

The man had settled into his new position with unsettling ease. He knew which ports were being rerouted. Which contractors had suddenly tripled their logistics budgets. Which guest lists were being rewritten after the fact.

He passed everything upward without commentary, taking instruction directly from Elle or Gary, and Don let them handle the shaping of it.

His job was digestion.

Patterns. Pressure points. What could be used, and when.

It still wasn’t simple.

Late Saturday afternoon light spilled through the tall windows of his room, cutting long bars across the floor and bed. Don sat on the edge of the mattress, back slightly rounded, one forearm resting on his thigh.

He wore a white vest, thin cotton stretched across his torso, navy track bottoms hanging low on his hips, white socks planted flat against the rug.

The bed around him had vanished under paper.

Shipping inventories. Redacted manifests. Event schedules. Floor plans printed and reprinted at different scales.

Some were stacked. Others lay half-overlapping like they’d been abandoned mid-thought. Names were circled. Routes boxed. Certain pages carried tight clusters of notes in the margins, written small and controlled.

A rolled blueprint rested open across his lap.

He studied it without moving, eyes tracking a service corridor that didn’t match the public layout.

Then the air ahead of him fogged.

Not smoke. Not light.

Pink.

It gathered in a loose, drifting mass a few feet in front of the bed, thickening until it folded in on itself. A soft pop followed—and Trixie dropped out of it, already seated cross-legged in midair before settling onto the mattress.

She wore a cropped black-and-pink hoodie that rode high enough to show her stomach, the fabric hugging her chest and arms. A tiny silver stud caught the light at her navel. Black-and-pink booty shorts hugged her hips, and black mid-length socks covered her calves.

A smirk sat ready on her face.

It lasted all of half a second.

Her eyes dipped. Took in the papers. The blueprint. The way he hadn’t even flinched.

The smirk slid away.

Her tail snapped once behind her as she folded her arms, a frown pulling at her mouth. "Oh, come on," she said. "Not you too."

Don lifted his head. Looked at her.

Her entrances didn’t register anymore. Not here. She was careful. Too careful. And he’d learned the rhythm of her popping in and out of spaces like she owned them.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

She jabbed a finger toward the mess on the bed. "That. You. Elle. Gary. Everyone’s busy doing boring stuff."

Her eyes rolled as her tail flicked again, then stretched forward to poke lightly at the top of his sock.

"Sooo..." Her mouth tilted. "Wanna take a break? And have a snack?"

Don shifted his foot, brushing her tail aside. "Maybe later."

She opened her mouth to push it—

Knock. Knock.

"Donnie?" Samantha’s voice carried through the door. "Are you up, sweetie?"

Don’s gaze cut back to Trixie.

She grinned instantly, gave him a thumbs-up, and leaned in just enough to whisper, "I don’t mind a show either."

Then she vanished in a puff of pink cloud, air rushing inward where she’d been.

Don exhaled through his nose and used his telekinesis.

The papers lifted.

Not dramatically. Not fast. They slid together as if caught in a slow current, straightening, aligning, stacking into clean piles that floated down onto the side table beside his bed.

He didn’t need Samantha wondering why he’d turned his room into a planning cell. And knowing her, she’d believe almost anything he gave her, but he wasn’t interested in building lies today.

"No, I’m up," he called. "Come on in."

He shifted to the side of the bed as the door slid open.

Samantha stepped through.

She wore a light blue work suit, tailored and neat. The jacket was fitted through the waist, the fabric sitting close along her ribs before flaring gently over her hips. The skirt followed the same line, stopping just above the knee, the material pulled smooth over the curve of her thighs.

Brown pantyhose covered her legs, catching the light in a soft sheen. Heels clicked quietly as she crossed the threshold, modest in height but precise in shape, lifting her posture without forcing it.

A purse hung from her shoulder, one hand hooked around the strap. Her hair had been brushed and set back into a tidy style that framed her face without getting in its way.

Glasses rested low on her nose. Makeup was light but enough—subtle color along her eyes, a warm tone at her cheeks, and rosy red lipstick that stood out against the blue of her suit.

The door closed behind her as she turned, smile already forming.

"There you are," she said. "I wasn’t sure if you were still asleep. You didn’t answer your phone earlier."

Her eyes flicked briefly to the side table, then back to him. She stepped closer, the soft tap of her shoes marking the distance as she approached the bed.

Don shifted his weight back, hands resting loosely on the mattress. "Sorry mom, I was busy."

He then looked up as Samantha stood just inside the room, the door sliding shut behind her.

She took a second to glance around—at the neatly stacked papers, the cleared bed, the open curtains—before her eyes came back to him. Her smile softened when it did.

"You look better, sweetie."

A corner of his mouth lifted. "I feel better. How was work?"

She exhaled and shifted her purse higher on her shoulder, fingers tightening around the strap. "Well..." A pause. Then she straightened a little. "I thought about what you said and... well. I quit."