Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 551: A Busy Night (Part 3)

Several minutes later, the car rolled south under a night sky.

Ash drove.

Don sat in the passenger seat, elbow braced against the door, eyes turned toward the passing blur beyond the glass.

The radio filled the space they weren’t using.

"...I’m telling you, it’s not the same city anymore," a man said, voice tinny through the speakers. "You’ve got more feds on the streets, bigger body counts every week, and a hell of a lot more superhuman incidents than anyone wants to admit. This place used to be one of the safer spots out west. Now? It’s a mess."

Another voice cut in, amused but tired. "Yeah, I agree. And it’s not just capes and freak accidents. Just yesterday the FBI pulled off a massive drug bust down at the docks. I mean big. Took down a major player."

Ash’s hands tightened slightly on the wheel.

The host continued. "Name was Johnny Black. You heard of him?"

A second past.

"Nah," the other guy said. "Sounds like a porn star, not gonna lie."

Both laughed.

"Hey man, watch it," the first replied, still chuckling. "You keep talking like that, you’re gonna put a target on our backs."

More laughter.

"Alright, alright—next up, sports."

"Oh brother..." the other host added.

Ash’s eyes widened. Just a little. Enough.

She flicked a glance toward Don from the corner of her eye.

He didn’t react. Didn’t shift. Didn’t even blink. Just kept watching the world slide by as if the radio were nothing more than static.

’Did he have something to do with it?’

The thought came uninvited.

She knew he had connections. She’d guessed he might’ve nudged the cops, pulled a string or two after the club got hit. That alone would’ve been enough.

But this?

Her mind tried to stretch toward the idea—and stopped. Whatever Don had done, it lived in a space she couldn’t map.

The radio kept talking. She let it fade into background noise as the scenery thinned.

Buildings gave way to open lots. Chain-link fences replaced brick walls. The road straightened, flanked by low shrubs, scattered trees, sun-bleached signs advertising mechanics, storage yards, and diners that looked like they’d never closed because no one had bothered to check.

It wasn’t countryside, not really. Just the city loosening its grip—enough people around to matter, enough distance to forget.

They slowed near an intersection.

Across the street sat a bar.

Low, wide, and built like it expected trouble. Steel siding patched in mismatched panels. A row of motorcycles lined the front, chrome dulled by use rather than neglect. Hot rods crowded the lot beside them—raised hoods, custom paint, engines still ticking as they cooled.

Music thumped from inside, doors swinging open and shut as bodies moved in and out. Laughter spilled into the road, rough and loud.

Ash pulled up near the curb and yanked the handbrake. The car rocked once, then settled.

"That’s the place," she said.

Don shifted his gaze forward.

"You’re sure," he said calmly, "they’re the guys who fucked up the club?"

"Dead sure." She nodded toward the bar. "Didn’t even have to dig. They’ve been bragging about it in the streets. Look—Johnny’s the real one behind them, trust me, but their leader?" She snorted. "About as dumb as a sack of bricks. He—"

"Doesn’t matter," Don said.

Ash exhaled and leaned back against the seat, arms crossing over her cropped vest. Leather creaked softly as she settled.

"Okay," she said. "So what, you wanna hit this place? I mean, sure, they don’t have any serious superhumans from what I know, but... you really trying to draw that kind of attention right now?"

Don turned his head and looked at her.

A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

"I’m not," he said. "That’s why you’re gonna do it."

Ash blinked.

"...What?"

"You’re gonna burn it down," Don continued evenly. "Same way they did to mine."

Her mouth fell open.

For half a second, surprise owned her face.

Then something else crept in.

Her eyes lit up—not with fear, but interest. Almost delight.

From what Don knew of her, payback had been sitting in her chest since the night of the attack, heavy and unresolved. He wanted to see what she did with it.

"You serious?" she asked. Wide-eyed. A grin threatening at the edges.

"Yeah," Don said. "Think you can manage that?"

The grin faded. Just a bit.

She looked at the bar again. The doors. The bikes. The people coming and going.

"I mean..." she said slowly. "If it’s just setting the place on fire, I think I can."

"Are you sure?" Don asked. "If you get caught this time, there’s no bail. No help."

Ash chewed on that. Jaw tight. Then she shrugged.

"I’m used to the lack of help," she said. "And since I’m fired anyway? A little jail time isn’t the worst thing. Might even make some connections inside."

She pushed the door open before he could respond.

Whatever.

She stepped out, boots hitting pavement, leather jacket settling over her shoulders. Before closing the door, she leaned back in through the open window.

"I do this," she said, eyes locked on his, "and we’re good. Right? Right?"

Don didn’t hesitate.

"Right."

She nodded once, satisfied.

Ash crossed the street without looking back.

’Ballsy,’ he thought. ’And doesn’t give a fuck.’

Then the rest of it followed

’But she’s not smart. Not like this. She can fight, she can lash out—but she can’t lead.

Not without direction.’

———

Kilometers away, the hills rose into uneven silhouettes against the night, dotted with old industrial scars the city had long since decided not to heal.

One of them sat half-buried into the slope.

The plant had once been an android fabrication facility—clean lines and optimism, back when optimism still got funding.

Now it stood hollow and gutted, concrete ribs exposed where walls had collapsed inward. A rusted sign clung above the main gate, letters missing chunks but still readable:

GORGE TECH

Below it, bolted to a cracked pedestal, stood what remained of a statue. An android figure, torso split open, one arm frozen mid-lift as it held a massive stylized G that had broken clean through the middle.

The head was gone. So were both legs. Spray paint crawled across the surface in angry layers—tags, slogans, crude faces.

The fence surrounding the property leaned inward at odd angles, sections patched with newer wire that didn’t match the rest. A single sign hung crooked near the gate:

NO TRESPASSING

Someone had crossed out NO.

Along the curb beside the outer wall, a black sedan sat idle, engine humming low. The driver—a quiet minion with both hands on the wheel—kept his eyes forward.

Gary occupied the passenger seat.

A data pad rested in his hands, its glow lighting the lower half of his face. On-screen, an overhead feed showed the interior of the compound: long roofs collapsed inward, open yards littered with skeletal machinery, assembly tracks frozen mid-run.

Nothing moved.

Nothing stood out.

Gary frowned slightly. "Do you see anything?"

The pad’s speakers crackled.

Above the plant, there was no drone.

There was an eye.

Winter’s.

It hovered high overhead in single-rotor form, silhouette narrow against the dark sky. One optic tracked steadily as she adjusted her position by small increments, compensating for wind she didn’t need to feel.

"No," her voice replied evenly. "I am moving closer to the precise coordinate origin. I do not detect anything immediately worth noting."

Gary watched the feed update in small jumps as her perspective shifted.

"Understood," he said. "Remaining on standby."

The eye drifted lower.