Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 573: Slow Days, Fast Plans (Part 8)

"What surprise?"

Don didn’t answer.

He simply walked toward the door.

Summer narrowed her eyes at his back but followed anyway. Amanda gave her a small nudge toward the exit.

"Move, scientist."

"I am moving."

The hallway lights dimmed automatically as they stepped out. The was quiet except for Summer’s impatient finger tapping against her hand.

Don stood in front of them, hands in his pockets.

When they got close, Don didn’t let them see.

"Blindfolds," he said.

Summer groaned loudly. "You’re so dramatic."

"Just put it on."

Amanda took hers with a sigh, tying the fabric over her eyes. Summer did the same but pulled it too tight at first, then loosened it with an irritated huff.

Don guided them forward by the wrists, steering them carefully across the private garage. Their footsteps echoed faintly in the wide concrete space.

A few more steps.

He stopped.

"Argh, this better be worth it," Summer muttered, arms already crossing over her chest again. "I was really in the zone, you know?"

Amanda chuckled beside her. "Trying to blow things up?"

"No," Summer snapped immediately. "If it works nothing will blow up. And it will work. I’m not an idiot."

"Coulda fooled me," Don said flatly.

Summer’s hands shot forward in search of him. She caught fabric—his shirt—and drove a quick kick into his shin.

"Shut up."

Don barely shifted. He looked down at her blindfolded form and shrugged.

"Take off your blindfolds."

Summer ripped hers off instantly.

Amanda removed hers slower, fingers sliding the cloth upward.

Summer blinked once.

Then—

"Woah."

Amanda’s brows lifted as her gaze settled forward. A slow smirk formed.

"This better not be a prank."

In front of them, positioned side by side beneath the overhead lighting, sat two vehicles.

A white Porsche Boxster, low and clean, its lines smooth and compact. The paint reflected the ceiling lights in long streaks across the hood.

Next to it stood a black Land Cruiser pickup, trimmed for off-road use. Raised suspension. Reinforced bumper. Wider tires with deep tread. Matte accents along the sides.

Amanda stepped forward slowly.

"I don’t know what to say..."

Summer didn’t walk.

She ran.

She circled the Porsche immediately, eyes wide, hand hovering inches above the paint before finally resting against it.

"It’s really a Porsche," she breathed.

Her fingers traced along the curve of the hood, then the side panel. She crouched to inspect the wheels, then stood again, walking around it once more.

Don watched quietly.

He remembered the offhand comment weeks ago. A video on her tablet. A comparison between German engineering and Italian design. She’d talked for twenty minutes straight.

He remembered.

Amanda approached the Land Cruiser instead, palm resting against the door.

She gave it an approving nod.

"Minimal display," she muttered as she glanced through the window. "Manual switches. Good."

Summer straightened and turned toward Don, barely containing herself.

"I wanna take it for a test drive!"

"Unfortunately," Don replied, crossing his arms, "I won’t be giving them to you just yet."

Her face dropped.

"The heck do you mean not yet?"

"They need to be modified."

"I don’t want it modified!"

Amanda placed a hand on her hip as she walked around the Land Cruiser’s front grille.

"This baby looks well modified already," she said. "What’s there to add?"

Don answered simply.

"Making them tougher."

He let it sit a second.

"Bulletproof."

Summer blinked.

"Why would I need it to be bulletproof?"

Don stepped forward and flicked her forehead lightly.

"Because the city is getting more dangerous, genius."

She recoiled and rubbed the spot.

Amanda’s grin widened.

"Hell yea."

She slapped the hood of the Land Cruiser lightly.

"That’s what I’m talking about."

Summer threw her hands up. 𝓯𝓻𝓮𝙚𝙬𝓮𝙗𝒏𝙤𝒗𝙚𝙡.𝒄𝒐𝓶

"Argh, but that will mess with the car’s balance and weight and—"

Don stepped beside her and draped an arm around her shoulders, steering her gently toward away from a car.

"Don’t worry. They’re pros."

She resisted for half a second before walking.

"Still—"

"They’ll be here to collect them soon," he continued. "Just wanted to show them to you today since Aunt Amanda is heading out soon."

Amanda exhaled loudly.

"Argh, don’t remind me."

She turned back once more to look at the Land Cruiser before stepping away.

"But I guess someone has to visit your grandma. She’s too old to be traveling alone."

Summer looked up at her.

"Who’s she visiting?"

"Dunno," Amanda replied, shrugging. "Some old friend of hers kicked the bucket. She says she wants to go laugh at her grave."

Summer stopped walking.

"Huh?"

Amanda looped an arm around her shoulders and tugged her forward.

"Come and help me pack. Winter is busy helping your mom."

Summer groaned.

"Argh, do I have to?"

"Yep."

They continued toward the exit

Don stayed back.

"I’ll catch up," he said. "Let me just message the guys who are coming to get the cars."

Amanda waved without turning around.

Summer glanced once more at the Porsche before disappearing through the corner.

The garage quieted again.

Don reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He typed quickly.

**Cars are ready for pickup.**

A pause.

**And when will the Mustang be ready?**

He hit send.

---

Meanwhile—

Andrew Barclay was learning what consequences felt like.

The interrogation room inside Central City Police Department was square, windowless, and lit by a single overhead panel that hummed faintly.

Gray walls. Bolted metal table. Two chairs facing each other. A third against the wall near the door.

Andrew sat in one of them.

His suit—once tailored and precise—now looked lived in. The jacket hung open. His tie was loosened and slightly crooked. The top button of his shirt undone. Faint creases marked the fabric at his elbows where he’d leaned forward too often over the past forty-eight hours.

In front of him sat a federal agent. Late forties. Clean-cut. Dark suit that fit without effort. Posture straight. Hands folded neatly atop a closed folder.

The man’s voice was measured.

"Walk me through it again," the agent said. "When did you first suspect your father was involved in illegal gambling operations?"

Andrew leaned back in his chair, letting it tilt slightly on its rear legs before it settled again with a soft tap~ against the floor.

He dragged a hand through his hair.

"About six months ago," he muttered. "Certain accounts weren’t lining up. Payments routed through subsidiaries that didn’t exist on paper."

"And your brothers?"

Andrew reached for the glass of water beside him. The ice clinked faintly—clink~—as he lifted it and took a slow drink.

"They handled most of the guest-facing business," he said. "Events. High-value contacts. I didn’t see everything. But I saw enough."

The untouched meal tray sat to the side of the table. Sandwich. Fruit cup. Coffee gone cold.

This had become routine.

For two days straight, he’d been here—questioned, re-questioned, cross-checked. He’d thought about the flash drive the entire night after Don left the fundraiser. Stared at it on his desk until sunrise.

He’d walked into the building alone.

And by evening—

He’d become the talk of the city.

Local stations replayed his face between headlines. Commentators debated his motives. Some called him brave. Others called him a traitor.

Family members stopped answering his calls.

A few had picked up.

Only to curse him out.

...."Make it right."

...."It’s not too late."

...."You’ve embarrassed us."

One cousin told him to leave the country.

Another told him he’d regret this.

Don hadn’t followed up.

No pressure.

No threats.

Just silence.

Andrew had expected something.

Instead, he was alone with his choice.

The agent in front of him flipped open the folder.

"Did your father ever directly instruct you to conceal assets?" the man asked.

"No."

"Did he ever discuss match-fixing in your presence?"

Andrew’s jaw tightened.

"No. But I overheard conversations. Late-night calls. He wasn’t careful when he thought I wasn’t paying attention."

The agent studied him for a moment.

"And why come forward now?"

Andrew looked at the tabletop.

Why?

Because I was tired of standing at the bottom while they ran the show.

Because I was already on the outside.

Because someone told me I’d go down with them.

He exhaled heavily.

"Because it was wrong," he said instead.

The agent watched him carefully.

After a few seconds, he closed the folder.

"I think that’s enough for today, Mr. Barclay."

Andrew frowned faintly.

"Just call me Andrew."

The agent stood and walked around the table. He placed a firm hand on Andrew’s shoulder.

"You’ll be alright, son."

Andrew didn’t look convinced.

As the agent moved toward the door, he added in a quieter tone, "We’re arranging extended protective coverage. Two additional agents rotating shifts. We’ll monitor your financial activity in case anyone attempts retaliation. If there are threats—direct or indirect—you notify us immediately. Understood?"

Andrew reached up and gently removed the man’s hand from his shoulder.

"I’m fine. Can I get going now? I have a lot to do. Banks need to collect their money."

The agent studied him.

"Do you need assistance with liquid assets or transitional accounts?"

Andrew shook his head.

"I have my own money. I’m not dependent on his dirty money."

A faint nod.

"Alright."

The door opened with a muted click~.

The hallway beyond was brighter. Officers moved back and forth. Phones rang intermittently.

The agent guided Andrew out.

"Just a moment," he said, holding up a hand before stepping toward another investigator who had just exited a separate interrogation room.

Andrew stood alone near the wall.

He pulled out his phone.

Notifications flooded the screen. Missed calls. Messages. Tags. News alerts.

He swiped most of them away without reading.

He paused on one name.

Ashly.

He opened it.

**Is everything okay? 😊😊**

**What do you want me to cook tonight?**

For the first time that day—

A faint smile touched his face.

He typed:

**As long as you cook it, I’ll enjoy it.**

He stared at the screen, waiting for the typing indicator that usually came within seconds.

Instead—

A voice spoke nearby.

"It seems you’re enjoying yourself."

Andrew froze.

His shoulders stiffened. His thumb halted above the screen.

Slowly, he raised his head.

Harold Barclay stepped out of the interrogation room across the hall.

His suit was still immaculate. Hair combed back. Cuffs aligned. But his eyes—

His eyes held something colder than anger.

Contempt.

Disappointment.

Andrew’s stomach tightened.

He lowered his phone slightly.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Andrew looked away first.

The other agent near Harold shifted his stance.

"Hey," the officer said firmly. "Watch it, Barclay. Worry about yourself."

Harold gave a short scoff.

Before he could reply, a woman stepped out from the room behind him. Mid-forties. Tailored navy suit. Thin glasses resting low on her nose. A file tucked beneath her arm.

She looked at the officer coolly.

"Are you threatening my client?"

The hallway quieted slightly around them.

"If any form of intimidation occurs," she continued evenly, "we’ll be filing a formal complaint. And I’ll be seeking suppression of statements on grounds of coercive environment. I trust we understand each other."

The officer held her gaze for a second.

Then exhaled.

"Forget it."

He turned his head toward Andrew.

"You can leave, Mr..." He paused. "...Andrew."

Harold’s eyes never left him.

Andrew slipped his phone into his pocket.

He walked past his father without another word.