Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Meanwhile Elsewhere…

The rundown stash house behind the abandoned apartment complex on Prominila Road reeked of smoke, sweat, and stale booze. It was practically a forgotten place where only the desperate or dangerous dared linger.

The cheap lounge inside was a pit of worn-out furniture, stained rugs, and old, patched-together walls. The large glass windows and doors were painted black, with sections haphazardly plastered with old newspapers, adding a layer of grimy secrecy.

The early morning light barely managed to pierce through the shoddy coverings, leaving the room dimly lit by a flickering overhead bulb.

Scattered throughout the space were members of the Hell Riders gang—grimy, restless, and simmering with quiet rage. Some sat on busted-up couches, their boots tapping against the floor, while others leaned against stained walls, idly smoking cheap cigarettes or picking at scruffy beards.

The silence was thick, heavy with unease.

**BAM!**

Suddenly, the two glass doors slammed open, crashing against the walls with a loud **clang**. Every head snapped toward the entrance, their eyes flashing with alertness as their hands drifted toward hidden weapons.

But it wasn't a threat—not an external one, anyway.

It was Ash.

She stormed into the room with a face like a brewing storm, her eyes blazing with fury barely held in check. Her thick black boots with spiked heels hit the floor with heavy **thuds**, her long legs encased in tight leather pants that clung to her wide hips.

A cropped black shirt bearing a cracked skull emblem stretched across her chest, partially hidden beneath her worn Hell Riders denim jacket.

Ash's gaze swept the room, her expression daring someone to give her an excuse to explode.

"Good," she muttered, her voice rough and sharp like broken glass. "You're alert. Since that's the case…" She took a threatening step forward, her fists clenched at her sides.

"Can someone explain to me how five of our brothers got iced… and we didn't hear shit 'til hours later?! From a dirty fuckin' cop, no less!"

Her words sliced through the room like a knife. No one flinched—they were too hardened for that—but a grim, shared understanding settled over them. Five dead meant more than a loss. It meant failure.

Sitting on a stained couch with torn cushions on the armrest, a member called Cutter idly flipped a worn silver coin between his fingers, its edges worn smooth from years of use. His heavy boots tapped against the cracked linoleum floor in a steady, repetitive rhythm.

He turned his dark, calculating eyes toward Ash and spoke, his voice low but steady.

"That's right." The coin moved across his knuckles before disappearing into his clenched fist. "I know my little brother Rusty. He'd've sent an alert the second somethin' went sideways."

Ash's jaw tightened, but before she could respond, another voice echoed through the haze of smoke.

Leaning against the wall, another member called Black Pete exhaled a long stream of smoke from his cigarette. His scruffy jaw and weather-beaten face spoke of long years spent surviving the streets. He flicked ash onto the ground without looking up.

"We should've known somethin' was off when they missed the hourly check-in," he added, his tone heavy with accusation. "How come no one was sent to check it out?"

Ash's frown deepened as her sharp gaze swept over the room like a searchlight. The unease in her chest twisted tighter.

"Rusty's group was supposed to check in with Vik," she said slowly, her voice edged with frustration. "Where the hell is he? I tried callin'—his line's dead."

Her fingers twitched, longing to grab something—someone.

"Fuck. He might be…" Her words trailed off, her concern momentarily replacing her anger. Vik was an ass, always challenging her authority, but right now, she didn't care about past arguments. She just wanted answers. And to be sure no other members were dead or missing.

From a tattered armchair in the corner, yet another member, this one named Crow, raised a tattooed hand lazily with a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His sharp features gave him a fox-like appearance, making him look sly and untrustworthy.

"He left, said he had to meet with some 'client,'" Crow said suggestively, stretching out the word. "Didn't say what it was about… Haven't seen him since."

The room fell into a tense hush as confused glances were exchanged. 'Client?' Vik didn't deal with clients—he handled territory, muscle, violence.

Ash's eyes widened in sudden realization. Her anger reignited like a flash fire.

"That motherfucker!" she cursed, spinning on her heel and marching toward the front doors.

Uncle Stan, the old-timer with a thick beard and faded gang tattoos snaking up his muscular arms, stood by the blacked-out window near the entrance. His eyes, sharp despite his age, followed Ash's furious exit.

He pushed off the wall with a slow, measured motion after she walked out, his heavy boots **thudding** against the floor.

"We better follow her," he muttered, his gravelly voice calm but firm. "Cops'll come sniffin' around soon enough… Best we be long gone before they do."

Without another word, the gang members began moving, the creak of worn leather and clatter of boots filling the air as they prepared for what came next.

———

Meanwhile, the Vik in question was in a room bathed in dim, lurid red light.

Its walls were covered in dark velvet, stained with age and indifference. A heavy, round bed with worn crimson sheets covered match of the room, its corners anchored by steel poles etched with faint scratches.

A cracked mirror stretched across one wall, bordered by fading string lights, while a cheap nightstand sagged under the weight of empty liquor bottles, used ashtrays, and a half-crushed pack of cigarettes.

Lying across the bed like a king in a kingdom of vice was Viktor—his hairy chest and an even hairier belly rising and falling with each thunderous snore.

Curled against him was a young woman with short, bleached-blonde hair and a tiny silver nose ring that glinted faintly in the red glow of the room. Heavy makeup—smudged mascara, clumped eyelashes, and lipstick faded from too many drinks—barely hid her worn features.

Her body was soft, her chubby tummy spilling slightly over her cheap black underwear, and her lacy bra hung awkwardly off one shoulder, its clasp half-undone from… earlier carelessness.

The room was still… until—

**BANG!** **BANG!** **BANG!**

The sudden, violent knocks slammed against the door, shaking the frail frame and making the loose, hanging bulbs flicker for a second.

"What the fuck!?" Viktor jolted awake, his bloodshot eyes darting around wildly, fists clenching as if expecting an attack. His breathing slowed when he realized no one was barging in with guns blazing—just some jackass hammering the door like they owned the place.

He rubbed his face with a groan, scratching his thick, hairy chest and stomach, still half-dazed from the nap. His tattooed knuckles traced the edges of the faded ink across his torso—symbols of a past soaked in blood and bad decisions.

"Damn…" he muttered, stretching before reaching for the cracked-screen phone on the nightstand. "That was a nice nap… Good idea sneakin' off."

His fingers found a half-burnt cigarette wedged in the ashtray's edge. He wasted no time lighting it up, inhaling deeply before letting the smoke drift lazily from his mouth.

'No way this stupid plan will work anyway,' he thought bitterly, shaking his head. 'Can't believe Ash expects me to sit around all damn day waitin' for some alert like the bogeyman's comin.'

The cigarette's dull ember reflected in his narrowed eyes as he took another drag.

"She should've listened… Should've put up some cameras instead."

He snorted and glanced at the dim phone screen, finally checking the time—5:45 AM.

His eyes widened in instant alarm.

"What the fuck?!" he yelled out, nearly dropping the cigarette as he twisted toward the woman next to him.

"Cathy! Cathy!" he called out, shaking her shoulder roughly. "I told you to wake me up after an hour! Cathy!"

Her only response was the slow rise and fall of her chest, her mouth hanging slightly open as she remained completely unresponsive.

"Shit…" Viktor gritted his teeth, prying one of her eyelids open with two rough fingers. Her gaze was unfocused, pupils dilated to oblivion. He let out a frustrated growl.

"Fuckin' bitch… the hell'd you take?"

Realizing she wasn't waking up anytime soon, he snarled under his breath and stomped toward the scattered pile of clothes near the edge of the bed.

He yanked on his worn jeans, the leather belt hanging half-looped, and shrugged into his faded Hell Riders jacket—no shirt, just skin, ink, and attitude.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

**BANG!** **BANG!**

The pounding at the door resumed, relentless.

"Hold the fuck on!" he cursed out, yanking the door open with one motion.

Standing in the dimly lit hallway was T-Back—wearing a battered leather vest covered in rusted metal patches and faded blue denim jeans and brown boots. His signature black sunglasses reflected the seedy red light of the room, hiding his expression.

His metallic knuckles rested casually on a knife-studded belt.

"You might wanna come see this," T-Back said evenly, his voice low and rough as gravel.

Viktor felt his stomach sink, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips.

This wasn't going to be good.