Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 570: Slow Days, Fast Plans (Part 5)

The following day, around 6 PM.

Don stood in front of Charles's door wearing charcoal joggers, a fitted black tee, and a light gray zip hoodie left half open. Comfortable. Casual. No effort wasted.

He knocked once.

Solid. Measured.

Then a soft mechanical hum answered him.

A thin beam of light swept downward from a panel above the door, scanning from his hairline to his shoes. It paused briefly at his face.

A synthetic voice followed.

"Welcome, Mr. Bright."

The door slid open with a clean hydraulic glide.

Don stepped inside.

The air carried that same faint scent he'd come to associate with Charles's home—aged wood, leather, something subtle and expensive burning somewhere unseen.

The interior lights adjusted automatically as he crossed the threshold, brightening just slightly to match the fading daylight outside.

He didn't stop to admire the place.

He walked straight toward the costume device.

Charles stood beside it, draped in his usual dark silver robe—thick fabric, tied loosely at the waist. One hand held a stemmed glass filled with deep red liquid.

The other held a suit suspended on a polished hangcoat holder, the shoulders structured, the fabric falling cleanly toward the floor.

Don slowed.

Raised a brow.

"Done already?"

Charles turned his head slightly, amusement visible before he even spoke.

"The machine already has your measurements," he replied. "It was no issue."

He lifted the suit slightly, letting the fabric shift under the light.

"Though you should invest in one yourself."

He took a slow sip from his glass—tilting it just enough for the liquid to slide along the crystal.

"You still need to regularly buy the various materials it uses to craft the clothes," he continued. "But beyond that, it's a great investment."

A smirk formed at the corner of his mouth.

"Especially in a household with women."

Don exhaled through his nose.

'He has a point.'

Between Samantha, Summer, Amanda—and guests—fabric consumption alone would justify it.

"True," Don said. "You should link me to the buyer."

"Not a problem."

He extended the hangcoat holder toward Don.

The suit was deep midnight blue—almost black under certain angles. Clean lines. No unnecessary flair.

Don ran his fingers briefly along the sleeve.

Quality.

Charles gestured toward the hallway leading to the exit.

"Ready to see the car you purchased as well?"

Don took the suit fully, draping it over his forearm.

"Of course."

"Don't worry," Charles added with a chuckle as they began walking. "It's not flashy. If you ask me, it's almost boringly tame."

"Just the way I like it," Don replied.

Charles gave a loose shrug. "Naturally."

They moved down the corridor together, their footsteps soft against polished flooring.

After a few minutes, they entered the private garage.

Supercars lined the walls in precise formation.

And among them—

They stopped in front of it.

A second-generation Aston Martin Vanquish.

Highest specification.

White and black bodywork flowed together seamlessly—the primary coat a rich pearl white that caught the garage lights with a soft glow, while the roof, hood vents, and lower trim sections were finished in deep gloss black.

The contrast gave it presence.

Dark multi-spoke rims sat cleanly under its arches. Large brake calipers visible behind them. Tires wide. Fresh. The tread still carrying that faint factory sheen.

Windows tinted just enough to conceal the interior without looking excessive.

The front grille rested low. Headlights narrow and refined. The rear curved inward slightly before flaring back out over the wheels.

Don stepped closer.

His reflection stretched faintly across the side panel.

"It's beautiful," he said.

Charles nodded.

"It is."

He moved to the other side of the vehicle, running his palm lightly over the hood.

"I first drove one during a family summer in England. I was twelve."

Charles smiled at the memory.

"Nearly crashed it too."

A short laugh escaped him—genuine, unguarded.

Don circled the car slowly.

He crouched slightly to inspect the rims. Straightened. Walked toward the rear. Paused at the exhaust ports.

Beyond the power plays. Beyond the planning. Beyond the weight of controlling outcomes.

He hadn't allowed himself to simply enjoy being rich.

Not really.

He reached out and tapped the body lightly with his knuckles—tok~.

"Thanks for finding me a seller."

He didn't know much about high-end vehicles. Negotiations. Authenticity checks. Mileage verification. Hidden issues.

Charles did.

"It's not a problem," Charles replied smoothly. "The other two vehicles you ordered will be here in three days' time."

Don nodded once.

"Great."

Charles turned slightly, leaning one shoulder against the car's hood. He lifted his glass again and took another slow sip.

"Wonderful…"

He lowered the glass.

His expression shifted—not darker, but more focused.

"Now about that proposition I had for you…"

Don looked up from the car.

His posture relaxed, but his eyes didn't.

"I'm listening."

---

Several hours later—

Don no longer wore joggers and a hoodie.

The suit Charles had prepared now fit him like it had been grown there.

Midnight blue—deep enough to look black beneath low light, but rich under direct illumination. The jacket tapered cleanly at the waist, structured shoulders sitting square without excess padding. 𝐟𝗿𝐞𝚎𝚠𝐞𝚋𝕟𝐨𝚟𝐞𝕝.𝕔𝕠𝚖

The trousers fell straight, no break over polished black shoes. Underneath, a crisp white shirt. No tie. Top button undone.

Refined.

He sat not inside the Mustang's familiar cabin—

—but behind the wheel of the Aston Martin.

The V12 engine rolled through an underground tunnel with a heavy, layered growl—VRRROOOOM~—the sound rebounding off concrete walls and low ceilings as he drove through the descending passage that led toward the underground parking levels of the coastal luxury complex he was currently at.

Lights flicked past in measured intervals overhead.

White. White. White.

Then the tunnel opened.

A broad underground garage stretched ahead—polished concrete flooring, marked bays, vehicles scattered throughout. Some practical. Some indulgent. A few draped in covers. Others left proudly exposed.

Don eased off the accelerator.

The engine settled into a deep rumble—brrrmmm~.

He steered toward the elevator bank.

She was already there.

Leaning against the wall beside the stainless-steel doors.

Ash.

He knew it was her.

Still—he almost didn't.

She wore a cocktail dress in layered light green and black. The upper half structured and fitted, the green catching the cool garage lights in a subtle sheen, while black accents framed her waist and ran along the sides.

A slit ran up one thigh, revealing smooth leg with each shift of weight.

Dark heels grounded her stance.

Her toes and nails were painted deep green to match the dress.

A thin pearl necklace rested at her collarbone. Matching pearl earrings framed her jaw. A small silver nose piercing tipped with green caught the light when she turned slightly.

Her hair was gathered into a Chinese-styled bun, secured with a green ornamental pin. Clean. Elegant.

Her lipstick was dark. Glossy.

Don slowed as he approached.

'She cleans up very nice.'

He brought the car to a stop near her.

Beautiful.

Absolutely gorgeous.

And absolutely… pissed.

The driver's door opened.

Before he could fully step out, the passenger door opened—Ash sliding in with abrupt force.

She didn't look at him at first.

She yanked the door closed harder than necessary and dropped into the seat, crossing her arms.

Even dressed like that, she managed to look threatening.

"Did you really need me for this job, Boss?" she muttered. "Ugh… Every time I see my reflection I cringe."

Don closed his door and adjusted the steering wheel slightly.

"It's a job," he said calmly. "You're not supposed to be comfortable."

He glanced at her once.

Slowly.

Then returned his gaze forward.

"Besides…"

A small pause.

"You look really good."

He shifted into gear.

The engine responded immediately—and the car rolled forward.

Ash's expression shifted for a fraction of a second.

Surprise.

Then she leaned back, trying to look irritated again, jaw tight, arms folded harder.

She stared out the windshield like she hadn't heard him.

---

A/N: Here you go — satire tone, slightly self-aware, a little chaotic, but still clean and on-brand with your voice:

---

**Author's Note**

So.

Let's talk about the Barclays.

Originally? They were supposed to be a nice, compact little hurdle. You know. A respectable obstacle. A "look at Don overcoming structured opposition" type of situation.

At some point along the way, I realized I had not actually built them up enough to justify the weight I intended to put on them. Which is author-speak for: I got distracted. By power moves. And character dynamics.

By the time I looked back, too many chapters had passed without properly feeding the Barclay side of things. And at that point, forcing it would've felt… artificial.

So instead of pretending everything was meticulously orchestrated from the beginning (it wasn't), we pivoted.

Now we're using this arc to: ntroduce more moving pieces and Refine the Barclays into something more layered than "rich family obstacle pack."

Sometimes the story decides it wants something different.

And I've learned to let it.

That's pretty much it.

Thanks again for reading. Keep sending stones or golden tickets — they genuinely help more than you know.

And if you're ever feeling particularly generous… well.

I won't stop you.

See you in the next chapter.