Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

As Mr. Barclay stormed out of Dr. Manson's office, he nearly collided with a young nurse just outside the door.

She was an average-looking girl with brown hair tied into buns, green eyes that seemed too wide for her freckled face, and a figure that was neither remarkable nor unattractive. She appeared startled, almost dropping the clipboard she was holding.

"Watch where you're going!" Mr. Barclay yelled, his voice full of irritation.

The nurse, who had been the one to stumble backward from the encounter, quickly straightened up and began to apologize, patting herself down nervously. "I-I'm so sorry, sir. I was in a hurry to inform the doctor that the patient is awake."

Mr. Barclay's face twisted in annoyance. "It's about time," he muttered through gritted teeth. "Lead me there."

The nurse hesitated, clearly taken aback by his commanding tone. "I'm sorry, sir, but I'll need to inform the doctor first in case of—"

"Do you want to still have a job by the end of the day?" Mr. Barclay interrupted sharply. His words cut through her stuttered explanation like a knife. "Think twice about talking back again."

Fear flickered across the nurse's face. She nodded quickly, swallowing her protest. "This way, please," she said, turning on her heel and leading him down the quiet, sterile corridor.

The wing they entered was one of the hospital's most private sections. It was eerily quiet and impeccably clean, unlike the bustling, chaotic atmosphere of the main hospital areas.

The stark white walls were interrupted only by the occasional closed door or an emergency exit sign. No sounds of beeping machines or chattering staff could be heard—just the steady hum of the air conditioning.

Finally, they reached a door. The nurse hesitated, her hand on the handle, and began to say, "It's hea—"

But Mr. Barclay wasn't interested in pleasantries or protocols. He shoved the door open, not bothering to thank or even acknowledge her.

He let himself in, his polished shoes clicking against the tiled floor.

The room was small, but it was the best one available for such a critical patient. The blinds were partially drawn, casting thin lines of dim light across the floor and over the bed where Andrew lay.

He looked like a shell of the arrogant young man he once was—bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, a cast on his left arm, and bruises dotting his face. His expression was sour, eyes staring blankly at the ceiling until the door opened.

As Andrew raised his head to see who had entered, his sour expression quickly morphed into one of worry. The sight of his father entering with an expression of barely concealed disgust sent a shiver down his spine.

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"Dad," Andrew said, his voice unsure, trailing off as his father came to stand at his bedside.

Harold looked down at him with an expression of visible disdain.

"If only you knew how pathetic you looked," Mr. Barclay began, his voice full of contempt. "Do you have any idea how humiliating it feels to call you my son?"

Andrew swallowed hard, his throat dry. The words stung more than he expected, the memory of Don turning the tables on him flashing in his mind.

He quickly tried to defend himself. "But Dad, you saw it for yourself. I was winning, and then suddenly he just... he just—he must be at least a rank—"

Before Andrew could finish, his father's hand moved in a blur, delivering a backhand slap so forceful it echoed through the room.

**SMACK!**

Andrew held his cheek in stunned disbelief, his eyes wide. He looked at his father with a mixture of confusion and anger. "You hit me," he muttered, his voice trembling with shock.

"Yes, I hit you," Mr. Barclay replied coldly. "And what are you going to do about it? What 'can' you do about it?"

Andrew's eyes glistened with tears of humiliation, but he couldn't bring himself to speak. His father continued his tirade, voice rising with every word. "If you really hated getting beaten so much, you wouldn't have let a nobody beat you to the point where you need medical care!"

The sheer volume of his voice caused the nurse outside to flinch, her face pale with discomfort and fear.

But Harold Barclay didn't waste another word on his son.

He adjusted his tie, letting out a sigh of frustration, shaking his head in bitter disappointment. He put his hands behind his back, his posture rigid. "You will stay here and undergo treatment. Until then, no allowance and no contact with friends. Understand?"

He turned to walk away, his decision final, when Andrew's voice, frail and desperate, called out. "What about Ashley?" he muttered out, his voice cracking.

Mr. Barclay paused, turning his head just slightly to address the question. "What about her?"

Andrew hesitated, clearly afraid of his father's response but feeling compelled to speak. "She's... she's my girlfriend. I'll need to—"

"You'll need to do as you're told," Mr. Barclay snapped, cutting him off without a second thought. "Remember, the only reason your pitiful self has any value in this world is because you have my name. Without it, you'd be less than nothing. Do you think your precious girlfriend would care for you then?"

With those final, biting words, Mr. Barclay slammed the door shut behind him.

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After leaving the hospital, Harold Barclay strode across the polished pavement toward a pristine white Maybach that awaited him at the curb. The sun glinted off the car's sleek surface, emphasizing its spotless finish.

The door was held open by a man who was impossible to ignore—standing at six and a half feet tall, with intense blue eyes and short blonde hair, shaved at the sides. His muscular build made it clear he wasn't just a chauffeur but a bodyguard as well.

As Mr. Barclay reached the car, he gave a curt nod to the imposing figure. "Back to the office, Victor," he ordered, his tone more relaxed now.

"Affirmative, sir," Victor replied in a slow, deep voice that matched his intimidating appearance. His expression remained stoic as he waited for Mr. Barclay to settle into the back seat before gently closing the door behind him.

Inside, the car's interior was just as pristine and refined as its exterior. Soft leather seats cradled the occupants in luxury, and the faint scent of a high-end fragrance lingered in the air.

Beside Mr. Barclay sat an alluring woman with a stern expression, her deep blue eyes focused on a digital tablet.

She had long red hair that cascaded down her back, and she wore a vintage formal dress, which added a touch of elegance to her otherwise severe demeanor. In one hand, she held a glass of wine, which she occasionally sipped from as she read.

Without looking up, she asked in a distant, uninterested tone, "How did it go?"

Mr. Barclay clicked his tongue in irritation. "He'll live. That's good enough." He then shifted his focus to her. "More importantly Victoria, did you manage to get it done?"

The woman, gave an almost imperceptible nod, her finger still swiping across the tablet's screen. "It's done," she confirmed calmly.

"Who's handling it?" Mr. Barclay pressed, his gaze fixed on her.

Victoria paused her swiping but didn't bother to look up. "It's being dealt with by a local force known for violence. It will be impossible to trace it back to us," she replied, her tone matter-of-fact.

Mr. Barclay frowned, his dissatisfaction evident. "What about his family?"

Victoria finally turned her head slightly, giving him a narrowed side glance. "Don't be too greedy," she advised coolly. "His family lives in one of the safest neighborhoods in the city. If anything out of the ordinary were to happen there, it would draw unwanted suspicion. We're already taking a significant risk with this."

Mr. Barclay sighed deeply, leaning back into his seat, his frustration clear.

Noticing his discomfort, Victoria added, "Don't worry. I'm already thinking of ways to get to them. But you'll need to show some patience."

Mr. Barclay's expression softened slightly, and a small smile appeared at the corners of his lips. "I expect nothing less of you, Victoria," he said, his tone warmer now.

———

Hours later, Don was driving back into the city after finishing his Durability Endurance Training and Telekinetic Weight Training. His muscles ached from the rigorous exercise, and his mental limits had been pushed.

As he drove, he glanced at the dashboard clock. It was a little past 2 p.m., and he thought to himself that he should make a quick stop at home for a shower before heading out to Eastend Mall to meet up with Tori.

After a quick shower, he changed into a fresh set of clothes and was back on the road, heading toward Eastend Mall.

As he drove, he decided to give Tori a call to check in on her whereabouts. The phone rang for a few seconds before she picked up, her voice coming through the speaker with a raspy, familiar tone.

"Hey, Don," Tori greeted him casually.

"Hey," Don replied, keeping his eyes on the road. "I'm on my way to Eastend Mall now. Just pulled into the car park."

"Same," Tori said. "I'll let you know when I'm there."

"Cool," Don said, and the call ended.

Almost immediately after hanging up, his phone buzzed again. This time it was Summer calling. He answered, and before he could say anything, she spoke up.

"Hey, jerk," she greeted him in her usual bratty tone. "Can you come pick me up?"

"Not with that attitude," Don replied with a smirk on his lips.

Summer's voice softened a bit, though her annoyance was still apparent. "I'm just joking. So, can you come or not?"

"Sorry, can't," Don answered, his tone firm but not unkind. "I'm meeting up with a friend right now."

"A friend?" Summer repeated, her tone carrying suspicion. "Since when do you have friends?"

"Yes, my friend," Don confirmed, rolling his eyes even though she couldn't see it. "Look, in case I'm late, just tell Mom not to wait up, okay?"

"Huh, wait what frie—" Summer tried to ask more questioned but Don ended the call and continued driving.