Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

An old wooden door creaked as T-Back shoved it open, revealing the same dingy backroom Viktor remembered all too well.

The place hadn't improved—still reeking of stale smoke and hopelessness. A battered sofa was placed in the center, its threadbare cushions threatening collapse. On the other side of the room, an old TV sat perched on a worn out wooden stand, its cracked plastic casing faintly reflecting the flickering orange overhead light.

Viktor followed reluctantly, jaw clenched, still irritated by the pounding wake-up call. His boots **thudded** against the scuffed linoleum as he stepped inside. His bloodshot eyes darted around, half-expecting some drunken brawl or unruly gang member to explain why he'd been dragged here.

"Alright," he growled, hands resting on his belt. "What the fuck's so—"

His words died in his throat as his gaze locked onto the flickering TV screen.

The worn-out screen displayed a gut-churning image: BREAKING NEWS: Five Dead in Brutal Drug Scheme - Investigation Ongoing.

The anchor's somber tone had Viktor's full attention, "Authorities have yet to disclose details of the victims' identities or the circumstances surrounding the killings. Sources say the scene was particularly... graphic."

Viktor's breath practically paused for a moment. His stomach twisted as his mind went into panic. 'You've gotta be fucking kidding me...'

His lips moved, but the words barely escaped.

T-Back crossed his thick metallic arms, leaning against the splintered doorframe. His rugged features were set in a hard scowl, though there was something else there—something almost regretful.

"What the fuck went down?" T-Back asked, his gravelly voice sounding a little sympathetic. He'd seen his share of bloody aftermaths and burned-out operations. No criminal ever lasted long when bodies started piling up.

Viktor blinked rapidly, struggling to process the sight in front of him. He turned slowly, his voice trembling despite his best efforts.

"When the fuck... did this happen?"

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T-Back shrugged, shifting his weight as the overhead bulb **buzzed** weakly. "Dunno. I was just about to clock out when this shit popped up." He nodded toward the screen. "But it's real, Vik. So I'm gonna need to know what went down. Right now, your crew's a hot potato—and this place don't do hot."

Viktor stared at him, disbelief plastered into his weathered face. His fingers curled into fists at his sides, fury bubbling beneath his skin.

"Are you being fucking serious right now, T-Back?" he blurted out, stepping forward threateningly. His thick neck strained as veins bulged along his temple.

T-Back remained unfazed, giving a slow, measured nod. "Dead serious." He extended a calloused hand, gesturing vaguely toward the TV. "Five bodies, Vik. Don't matter if you're the victim or the butcher, cops'll be sniffing 'round every dark corner soon enough. And this club?" He tapped the wall for emphasis. "It don't need that kinda heat."

His words hung in the stale air like the cigarette smoke lingering near the ceiling.

Viktor's nostrils flared as he ground his teeth, barely containing the volcanic rage he felt, threatening to erupt. His mind quickly filled with half-baked solutions, none of them promising. "We weren't movin' real drugs… This has to be a fucking setup."

As the words left his mouth, a cold realization hit him like a sucker punch.

'The product... that goddamn truck...'

His mind flashed back to the disastrous heist—Don's ambush, the violent takedown, and the truck they had lost full of product.

"That motherfucker!" he spat, kicking the leg of the dilapidated sofa with a **crack**, sending the frame skidding a few inches across the floor.

Before T-Back could respond, the distant **roar** of motorbike engines emerged, echoing faintly through the thin walls.

Viktor and T-Back exchanged sharp glances.

T-Back was the first to spin on his heel, his heavy boots **thudding** against the worn floor as he led the way and Viktor followed toward the front entrance.

Neither man spoke—there was nothing to say.

The low sound of distant motorbikes reverberated through the walls, growing louder with each passing second as they got closer.

As they reached the club's main doors—tall metallic slabs framed by peeling velvet trim—T-Back grabbed the worn brass handles and yanked them open with a harsh metallic **creak**.

Outside, the dim streetlights that were yet to be turned off cast a sickly orange glow over the road and sidewalk.

The street was filled with Hell Riders gang members seating on their motorbikes. Their battered leather jackets gleamed faintly in the flickering light, emblems proudly displayed. They had parked with open defiance, spilling onto the sidewalks and blocking both lanes like they owned the place.

The few unlucky drivers on the road either sat frozen behind their wheels or cautiously reversed, preferring retreat over confrontation.

No one honked—only a fool would.

T-Back's face shifted into a deep frown, his brow furrowing in immediate concern. He worked hard to keep this dive off the cops' radar, and now there were over a dozen gang members turning his street into a spectacle in the early morning.

Viktor, standing rigid beside him, looked troubled—but for entirely different reasons. He wasn't thinking about police interference or public spectacle. His mind locked on one unavoidable truth: He'd screwed up.

If he hadn't ditched his post, maybe Rusty's crew wouldn't have been caught off guard. Maybe they wouldn't be dead.

His pulse quickened as his gaze locked onto Ash, who had just gotten off her bike and was now striding toward him with lethal intent. She was one of the few who'd bothered to park her bike properly—though she might as well have ridden it straight into his chest.

Her long legs moved with vigor as her eyes burned like molten steel, gaze fixated on Viktor.

"Ash—" T-Back raised a calloused hand, attempting to diffuse the situation. "You and your people can't be here right now—"

Before he could finish, Ash lifted her hand sharply toward Viktor, fingers spread.

**CRACK!**

The air suddenly hissed as emerald-green sparks **fizzled** into existence around her fingertips, growing hotter in a split second before **FWOOOSH!**

A vicious arc of searing green flames blasted toward Viktor, striking him full in the face.

"ARRGH!" Viktor screamed as the fire scorched his skin upon contact, sending him crashing backward onto the cracked pavement. He hit the ground hard, his back slamming against the curb as he clawed at his burning face in blind agony.

His skin blistered on contact, flesh turning an angry, raw red around his jaw and cheekbones. The acrid smell of singed leather and burnt hair filled the air, heavy and nauseating.

Nearby Hell Riders fell silent, their eyes wide with disbelief. Some shifted uneasily in place; others simply stared, stunned by the violent display.

However, they all remembered—Ash wasn't respected just because she was the old leader's daughter. She was feared because she was a living weapon.

T-Back stiffened, the initial shock fading. He quickly lurched forward, ready to intervene—but before he could take a single step—

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Police sirens blared, echoing down nearby streets like the wail of hunting hounds closing in.

T-Back froze, his shoulders sagging as he cast a long, tired look toward the street where flashing red-and-blue lights loomed just out of view.

"Shit…" he muttered, shaking his head. He glanced toward Viktor, still writhing on the ground, then back to Ash, her burning gaze fixed on her target.

His voice lowered, resigned yet bitter.

"The boss isn't gonna like this."