Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

There was no time to waste. More could be coming, and he had to finish this up quickly.

Crossing the road quickly, he headed straight for the wreckage of the overturned truck. The stench of diesel fuel mixed with the iron tang of blood filled the misty air.

The truck's head was upside down, a splintered log having run clean through it.

Don knelt by the shattered driver's window and peered inside. What he saw made his stomach twist, even with his heightened resilience.

The driver—a middle-aged man—was pinned to his seat by a piece of jagged wood that had impaled him through the chest. His face was ghostly pale, blood leaking from his mouth and nose.

His body was twisted unnaturally, arms bent at odd angles, his legs crushed under the dashboard. His right eye was blown out, likely from the pressure of the crash, and hung gruesomely from its socket, attached by a thread of sinew.

Blood oozed from a gaping wound in his neck, staining his tattered uniform and pooling in the broken glass beneath him.

"Please… help me," the man croaked, his voice weak, eyes wild and desperate as they fixed on Don.

Don didn't flinch, but inside, the brief satisfaction of his plan's success was obliterated by a wave of guilt. He knew that even if an ambulance showed up this very second, it wouldn't save the man. He was beyond help.

Don stared at the man for a long second, face impassive. 'You caused this,' he thought bitterly, but his expression remained blank. The unfazed trait pulsed within him, keeping him calm, composed—detached.

Without a word, he turned away from the pleading man, leaving him to die alone in the wreckage of his truck. There wasn't time to grieve. There wasn't time to dwell. If he hesitated now, everything would fall apart, this poor bastard's life would have been lost for nothing.

He steeled himself and moved to the next wrecked vehicle—a pickup truck, smashed by logs and twisted beyond recognition. His superhuman hearing picked up voices inside.

"Hurry up and get me out!" one voice shouted, followed by panicked responses.

"Hold on! Shit, how the hell did this happen?"

"That fucking truck came outta nowhere…"

Don's cold eyes narrowed as he approached the mangled pickup, now shrouded in mist. He was just a few meters away when his boot stepped onto something soft.

He looked down and grimaced slightly.

It was the bloodied torso of a man, separated from his lower half, his clothing shredded and soaked in red. What was left of his body was draped in the remnants of a torn shirt, and bits of flesh clung to jagged pieces of wood sticking out of the wreckage.

Don's expression flickered with disgust for a moment, the sight jarring even to someone as detached as he'd become with the unfazed trait at work. He sighed, stepping over the remains.

As he neared the pickup, he spotted two of his attackers, both trying to pull another man free from the wreckage.

One had a gash on his forehead, blood dripping down his face and soaking his clothes. The other had a dislocated shoulder, grimacing with each pull. Their friend—the one trapped inside—was slumped over, his legs pinned beneath a bent metal bar, and his breathing was shallow, his chest barely rising and falling.

"Just hold on, man! We're gonna get you out!" the one with the dislocated shoulder shouted.

Don moved silently toward them, his eyes hard and emotionless.

Without warning, he focused his telekinetic powers on one of the attackers—the one pulling at the wreckage—and tightened his mental grip.

The man suddenly stiffened, his body seizing as if an invisible force had wrapped around him. He let out a scream of pain, his muscles contorting painfully as he struggled against the crushing force.

"W-What the hell?" the other attacker muttered, looking at his friend in shock. He didn't even have time to react before Don was on him.

Don grabbed the back of his head, slamming it down onto the jagged, broken glass of the pickup's hood with a sickening **CRUNCH**.

The man let out a piercing scream as shards of glass pierced his face, with one large piece driving straight into his eye.

Blood gushed from the wound, running down the hood in thick rivulets as the man thrashed in agony, trying to pull back, but every movement he made only sent the jagged glass deeper into his skull.

"Fucking hell!" the man gasped, his voice muffled by his own blood.

Don remained silent, his expression cold as he kicked the man hard in the back, forcing his face deeper into the glass. **THUD**. The man then twitched once before going limp, his body slumping over the hood, blood still dripping from his ruined face.

The second attacker, still frozen by Don's telekinetic hold, watched in horror, his wide eyes locked on Don. His body trembled uncontrollably, but he couldn't scream, couldn't move, couldn't even look away. He was trapped, forced to witness the brutal scene.

Don slowly turned to face him, his cold, detached gaze locking onto the terrified man.

——— the place mvlempy _r

At the opposite side of the road, where the corolla wreck lay like a crumpled can, the few remaining attackers were frantically trying to rescue their boss from the twisted wreckage.

Despite the horrific crash, the boss had somehow survived, though bloodied and bruised, with cuts covering his face and arms. His left leg was pinned under the dashboard, twisted at an unnatural angle.

He gritted his teeth, his eyes wild with pain and frustration as he barked orders.

"Get me the fuck outta here! I think my leg's broken!" His voice was rough, panic creeping in with every breath. His chest heaved with each pained gasp as he tried to move, only to cry out in agony.

Outside the car, four men were scrambling around. One of them, a stocky guy with a thick neck and a buzz cut, wiped the sweat from his brow. "Boss, where's Lenny?," he asked nervously, looking around the mist-shrouded road.

The boss, struggling to twist his body enough to peer into the passenger seat where Lenny had been sitting, could only see shards of glass and mangled metal. Lenny, or his body, were nowhere to be seen. "I don't fucking know! He probably got tossed out during the crash. Just focus on getting me out before the damn cops show up!" the boss snapped.

A lanky man with a torn jacket, clutching a crowbar in his trembling hands, shook his head. "Boss, we can't get you out without tools. This thing's jammed up tight—fuck, we'd need a chainsaw or somethin'."

Before the boss could snap back, a loud, gut-wrenching scream tore through the mist. **Aaaaahhhh!** The sound echoed through the dense fog, causing birds to scatter from the surrounding trees. The group instantly froze in place.

The man holding the crowbar, who had dark circles under his eyes and a scruffy beard, was the first to speak, his voice shaky. "That… that sounded like Rory."

He turned toward the mist, his eyes wide with terror. "Rory! Rory! You there, man?" he called out, but there was no answer—just the occasional **caw** of crows that had begun to gather, drawn by the scent of blood.

Another man, with a scar running down the side of his face, looked around nervously, his gun clutched tightly in both hands. "I don't like this… somethin' don't feel right."

"What the fuck do you mean?" the man with the buzz cut snapped. "Go check it out, then. Maybe Rory just tripped over somethin'."

"Why should I go?" the scarred man replied back, his hands trembling as he pointed his gun into the fog. "Why don't you go?"

Before the argument could escalate, the boss, still trapped in the corolla, growled in frustration. "Shut the fuck up, both of you! You've got guns—use 'em! Jack, go check it out. It's probably just some goddamn mutants. We're near Oldtown, remember?

They come out this far sometimes, but the real dangerous ones are deeper in the forest."

Jack, the man with the crowbar, glanced around with wide, fearful eyes. "Fuck no. This whole thing's goin' to shit. The cops are gonna be here soon, and I ain't goin' back to jail. Fuck this, man." He dropped the crowbar and turned, bolting up to the road without looking back.

"Jack! Get your cowardly ass back here!" the boss yelled, his face turning red with rage. But Jack's figure quickly disappeared into the mist.

One of the remaining men, a wiry guy with tattoos snaking up his arms, looked nervously at the boss. "Should we go after him?"

"No!" the boss spat. "Let that spineless piece of shit run! Now get me out of this fucking car!"

But before anyone could move, another scream ripped through the fog—this one shorter, sharper, and unmistakably Jack's. **Aaaaahh!**

The three men still standing froze, their eyes wide with terror. "Was… was that Jack?" the tattooed man asked in a low tone, his voice barely audible.

"Shit… shit!" the scarred man muttered, gripping his gun tighter. "I don't know about this, boss. Something's not right here."

The man with the buzz cut nodded, his face pale. "Yeah, somethin's off, man."

The wiry man with tattoos suddenly lifted his gun and fired wildly into the mist, the sharp **bang bang bang** of gunfire echoing through the trees.

Birds scattered again, but there was no other response—only the sound of the bullets hitting the distant wrecked cars, and the faint rustle of leaves as the crows circled overhead.

"Stop wasting ammo, you idiot!" the boss yelled, struggling against the wreckage pinning him in place.

The tattooed man lowered his gun, his hands trembling as he tried to calm himself. "I'm tellin' you, boss. Maybe we should check it out guys. Together."

The three men exchanged uneasy glances, their faces pale and their hands slick with sweat. Each of them knew something was terribly wrong, but none of them wanted to admit it.