Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 419: It Doesn’t Always Pay To Be Loyal (Part 2)

Strass didn’t register the sound at first.

The sharp crack that ended his son’s life felt more like a lightbulb flickering out. No grand flourish. No cinematic echo. Just a body dropping like a sack of meat and the blood—his son’s blood—warm and sudden, splashing across his cheek as if to confirm this wasn’t some bad trip.

It was real.

He stared, eyes wide, mouth open but frozen, unable to form the word stuck in his throat.

Not even a second passed before the moment was stolen.

THWMP~

A boot slammed into his ribs with unceremonious force. Strass let out a garbled grunt as air shot from his lungs, his body folding forward and crashing onto the cold concrete floor.

Dust and blood mingled at his cheek, the latter trickling down in lazy arcs to meet him. The side of his face throbbed where it hit the ground, but that wasn’t where the pain lived.

It was in his chest. Somewhere deeper. Somewhere unreachable.

His fingers twitched. So did his jaw. His mind screamed, but his body... it just shook.

That was his son. His first. The one he taught to drive. The one he scolded for sneaking out. The one who, despite everything, still called him dad.

Gone. Just like that. Because of him.

Footsteps approached—measured, confident, the kind that didn’t bother to hurry.

Gary came into view, adjusting the sleeves of his suit with clinical motion, as though wiping off a speck of dust. His shoes made a soft squelch as they settled in the puddle of blood near Strass’s jaw.

"Well," Gary said mildly, tone still polite, "your son was a terrible person. Much like yourself. So I don’t quite mind ridding the world of him."

He paused, letting the weight of that settle before continuing, "But your daughters... your wife... I’d truly hate to end their lives prematurely."

Strass didn’t answer. His lips trembled. Eyes wet, blood-slicked and wide.

Gary knelt slightly, just enough to meet his gaze.

"I’m not here for games, Mr. Strass. So I would quite truly appreciate your cooperation. And I’m sure your family would as well."

The words were gentle. Almost fatherly.

Strass flinched.

He tried to speak, but the breath caught in his throat. His voice, when it finally came, was thin and raw.

"...I’ll tell you everything," he choked out. "Just... let my family go."

Gary straightened, making a thoughtful sound in his throat.

"Hm."

He stepped over the body without flinching and moved to stand directly in front of Strass. Another few footsteps clicked into place behind him as one of the minions returned, carrying a black duffel bag.

Without ceremony, the bag was dropped beside the corpse.

THUMP.

Then unzipped.

Inside—money. Bundles upon bundles. Crisp. Stacked. Bound.

"A token of good faith," Gary said, hands folding behind his back. "Tell us what you know, and not only will your family be spared... we’ll leave you one million to disappear with."

Strass didn’t look at the bag. He didn’t even blink. His eyes stayed locked on the concrete.

But the offer—insulting as it might have felt in any other moment—planted something in him.

Hope.

Weak, miserable hope.

"Ok... ok..." he croaked. "Here’s what I know..."

He didn’t lift his head. Just lay there, cheek pressed to the wet floor, lips brushing the dirt with every syllable.

And he told them everything.

Names. Faces. Where Barclay hid certain files. Who was on the take. Where the bodies were dumped. Which officers took hush money. Even the location of a warehouse where certain victims had been processed.

He didn’t know everything, no. But what he knew, he gave.

Minutes dragged by. The light buzzed faintly overhead. A rat skittered in the corner, unseen but present.

Strass coughed once—then fell quiet.

"I swear," he muttered, voice cracking. "That’s everything. I swear it."

Gary tilted his head.

"I see."

He smiled—faint, polite.

"Thank you for this information."

Strass didn’t notice the nod. But the two men behind him did.

They moved quickly.

One grabbed his collar. The other his wrists. He was yanked upright like a puppet, neck exposed, head pulled forward into position.

"W-what?! What are you doing?! Hey! Stop! Hey! You promised you’d let me go!"

His voice hitched, cracking with panic as his legs kicked out, scraping across the concrete.

Gary reached into his coat.

A glint of metal appeared. Small. Simple.

The pocket knife.

"You see, about that, Mr. Strass..." Gary said, opening the blade with a slow flick of his thumb, "it simply isn’t in our best interests to leave you alive."

Strass’s eyes went wide. Too wide. His breathing turned ragged.

"No! Stay back! No—stop! Please!! Nooooo!!"

The scream echoed.

But no one outside would hear it.

And no one inside cared.

———

Meanwhile, at the bright residence... 𝙛𝓻𝒆𝓮𝒘𝙚𝙗𝒏𝙤𝙫𝓮𝒍.𝓬𝒐𝙢

The living room was quiet save for the low buzz of the television. Faint static during scene transitions. Overly dramatic music. Close-ups. Slow zooms. That kind of show.

Don sat slouched into the left corner of the long velvet couch, arms sprawled, one hand casually resting over the rim of a throw pillow.

Samantha leaned against him—head near his shoulder, her warmth seeping through the sleeve of his shirt.

The table in front of them held the aftermath of a late dinner. Two empty plates. A forgotten fork. A water glass tilted just enough to drip slowly onto a napkin.

On-screen, the episode reached the kind of plot twist that had become its own punchline over the years.

A wedding scene.

The bride walked in... only for the groom to drop to one knee—not to propose again—but to beg forgiveness from her twin sister. The same one who had amnesia last season but somehow remembered every lie in the span of a two-minute monologue.

Samantha made a quiet sound.

Not quite a sigh. Not quite a groan.

"Seriously?" she muttered.

The online reactions were predictable. Somewhere on Maskbook, women were already losing their minds. Typing in all caps. Threatening to cancel the show—again. Sharing the same meme of the lady with the broom yelling at her TV, hair in curlers, captioned: "If he don’t marry her by season six I’m taking hostages."

Don didn’t laugh. He didn’t smile.

He just blinked at the screen and said, "This show is allergic to progress."

Samantha shifted, her tone more collected than the usual online meltdown. "They always do this. Just dragging it out. I swear."

"Really?" Don asked, feigning interest. "How many seasons have they been teasing the romance?"

Samantha leaned away slightly, expression dry. "About four."

She sighed, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear and then fiddling with her fingers a little.

"I think I’m done with the show for today, sweetie."

Don caught the slight change in her tone. Not annoyed. Not exactly. Just frayed around the edges. Like she was waiting for the quiet to settle.

Then came the shift.

"Did you... still want me to m... help you with your camera work?"

’Camera work?’ Don almost snorted but held it in.

Instead, he leaned his head back against the cushion and gave her a half-smile.

"Camera work?" he echoed. "It’s art, Mom. Or at least it will be."

That earned him a soft chuckle.

Samantha rolled her eyes but the tension in her shoulders lessened.

"Okay, fine," she said, clearly less nervous now. "Do you still need help with your art, then?"

Don nodded, voice light. "That’s better. And yes."

Before she could move or say anything, he added, "But first I need to get familiar with the camera again. Go on Reddit. Ask what the best settings are for this model."

He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. As if his art couldn’t possibly be achieved without consulting a dozen contradictory strangers online first.

He turned to look at her. "You can pick out which outfits you think are best. If you haven’t already."

Samantha looked like she wanted to ask something—but held back. She just adjusted her glasses instead and nodded.

"That sounds like a good idea," she said. "You still need enough rest. And focus on fully recovering, young man."

Her attempt at being stern was half-hearted at best.

She stood, stretching with a low exhale, arms rising above her head.

The hem of her nightie pulled up slightly in the motion, revealing the curve of her thighs and the dip of her hips. The silk strained softly across her chest, the light from the TV screen casting faint shadows across the subtle bounce beneath the material.

Don sighed. He glanced away before his gaze lingered too long.

"I’ll relax in the hot tub for a bit. Clear my head before sleeping," he said. "Doctor said it helps with mental fatigue."

The phrasing did what he meant it to. Samantha’s expression shifted immediately—maternal concern replacing anything else that might have formed.

"Oh. Okay, sweetie. That sounds best."

She leaned in and kissed his forehead. Her lips were soft, the kind of familiar warmth that brought comfort. Her fingers brushed gently across his cheek as she pulled away.

"Goodnight, sweetie. Don’t stay up too late."

"I won’t."

She smiled at him and turned, the light from the television catching the sway of her figure as she walked away. The nightie fluttered slightly with each step. Her bare feet padded softly on the polished floor.

"Winter?" she called out as she disappeared down the hallway. "Could you please clean up the living room?"

Don watched for a moment. Just long enough to exhale.

Then he turned, moving toward the terrace doors.