Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 325: A Night To Remember (Part 7)

Don didn't immediately answer and just stepped forward toward the man clutching the rail before delivering a violent kick to the chest. It sent the man tumbling down with force, the sound of bone crunching audible.

"It's done, thanks." Done finally responded.

With the last of the attackers dealt with, Charles casually brushed his hands together, silver wings folding neatly behind him as if nothing had happened. The eerie quiet that followed was only broken by the hard click of his shoes against the debris ridden marble floor as he approached Don.

Around them, people began to stir. Some peeked out from behind overturned tables and furniture, while others slowly rose from their crouched positions. The initial panic had vanished, replaced by wary silence.

It was clear that Charles's presence alone made them feel safer. And for those who recognized Don, that sense of security only grew.

But the sense of safety was fragile. The distant screams and yelling from the stadium below drifted up to the top floor. The massive viewing windows framed the disaster clearly—crowds were scattering like disturbed ants, running from assailants wielding strange, green-tinged weapons.

It wasn't just panic; it was carnage.

Among those standing near the viewing deck was an older man, tall and fit for his age. His tailored navy-blue suit had the sheen of wealth, and the silver cufflinks on his wrists glinted faintly under the dimmed lights. A square jaw, graying hair swept back, and sharp blue eyes gave him a look of authority.

He stepped forward, voice strained but still carrying the command of a boardroom leader.

"Mr. Monclaire," the man called out, adjusting the gold-framed glasses perched on his nose. "What in God's name is going on? Is this… a terrorist attack? Who are those lunatics?"

Charles, who had just come to a stop near Don, glanced down at one of the fallen attackers. The man lay crumpled a few steps away, his bat-like weapon discarded nearby. What stood out, though, was the dark stain spreading across the floor beneath him.

Blood. But not just red. A sickly green liquid trailed from the wound, mingling with the red in unnatural swirls.

Charles's silver eyes narrowed. He didn't need more evidence.

"Yes," he answered plainly, standing tall as his wings tucked in further. "I believe we can safely assume this is an attack by the Green Thorns."

The moment Charles spoke those words, the room came alive with anxious murmuring.

"The Green Thorns?" someone muttered, their voice carrying disbelief. "But isn't their leader—what's his name—Nightshade? Yes, isn't he in prison?"

"Yes," another answered, sounding equally panicked. "But who knows how many of his twisted minions are still out there? They wore those creepy masks, didn't they?"

A younger man, dressed far less formally than the elites around him, scoffed, adjusting his disheveled tie. "Masks or not, you think they just walked in here dressed like us? They had to have been here ahead of time."

An elegant woman in a sequined evening gown, clearly an escort judging by her lack of jewelry compared to the others, sneered. "Planted? Like undercover agents? Please."

But then another voice cut through the chatter, pained and frantic.

"Does that mean there could be more of them among us?"

Silence fell immediately. The words hit like a slap, and the energy in the room shifted. Suspicion bloomed like a disease.

People began glancing at one another, their expressions hardening.

And then the dam broke.

"I—I knew Mr. MacGaffer for eight years," a middle-aged man sputtered, clutching his bleeding forehead as he cradled an injured arm. His suit was torn, and blood stained the cuff of his shirt. He pointed shakily at the first man Charles had taken down—the one still motionless on the floor. "And he just tried to kill me!"

His voice cracked with raw disbelief as he added, "It could be anyone here! A bodyguard! A waiter! Our own bloody partners!"

His wide, fearful eyes darted across the crowd before locking onto Charles. "You need to do something, Mr. Monclaire. Please. Silverwing, sir… please."

The fear was contagious. The murmurs rose again, but now they carried an edge—accusations half-formed, suspicion turning to paranoia.

One woman, her diamond earrings glittering as she twisted her head frantically, stepped away from the man beside her as if he'd suddenly grown fangs. A younger couple argued in hushed tones, the woman pulling away as the man protested.

Don frowned, arms crossing tightly over his chest as he took it all in.

There was no way to know how many more were hiding in plain sight, waiting for the next signal or trigger. And that uncertainty was dangerous.

The thought made Don's stomach twist—not for himself, but for his family. He couldn't reach them, not with the signal jamming still active. He didn't even know if this attack was random or connected to him somehow.

'No use worrying about what I can't control,' Don reminded himself, pushing the thought aside.

Instead, he glanced at Charles, who was watching the growing panic with a cool, calculating gaze.

"He's right," Don muttered, voice low but firm.

Charles didn't look away from the frightened crowd, but the faintest nod acknowledged Don's words.

The tension hanging over the floor didn't break, but it shifted—morphing from raw fear into uneasy trust as all eyes turned to Charles.

He stood tall, wings tucked behind his back, silver gaze steady and composed. Even without his shirt, bruises faintly lining his sides, he radiated control. The kind of control people desperately clung to when the world spun into chaos.

Don watched it happen in real-time. The whispers died down, the uncertainty dimmed, and the fragile herd mentality kicked in. They wanted a leader, and Charles had stepped neatly into the role without missing a beat.

Charles took a measured breath and nodded along, as though confirming unspoken thoughts. "Since no one else has acted out here, we can reasonably assume there are no more Green Thorns among us."

His voice carried effortlessly, calm yet commanding. "But there's no telling how many could be out there, beyond this floor. With that in mind—" he glanced briefly at Don, "—my friend here and I will descend and clear the floors. Once that's done, I'll fly out and alert both the police and Superhuman HQ."

He paused, letting the plan settle. Simple. Efficient. Exactly what frightened elites wanted to hear.

"Our fellow SHU students," Charles gestured toward Hector, Tori, and Donald, "will remain here. Should any threat persist, they will act accordingly." His gaze swept over the crowd, narrowing ever so slightly. "Stay together. Keep calm. And avoid making assumptions about those around you. Panic only serves our enemy."

That last line did the trick. It cut through the lingering paranoia like a scalpel, slicing away the seeds of hysteria that had begun to sprout. Some of the more vocal skeptics nodded along, reassured not by logic, but by Charles himself.

'It's not the plan they're trusting,' Don realized, 'it's the man delivering it.'

And why wouldn't they? Charles spoke with the confidence of someone who'd already seen the ending of this particular story.

Even those still visibly shaken didn't dare voice concern—not in front of someone like him. Because, even with lives at stake, the fear of offending Charles Monclaire outweighed almost anything else. Status, after all, was currency. And no one wanted to bankrupt themselves in front of the city's elite.

Don kept his expression neutral, but inwardly, he was impressed. He knew he couldn't command a room like that—not without resorting to brute force or manipulation. Charles did it with nothing but poise and presence.

Still, Don wasn't blind. The plan sounded airtight on the surface, but risks lingered beneath the polished delivery.

What if the Green Thorns had taken hostages on other floors? What if they were rigging something bigger, something more catastrophic? Don doubted Charles hadn't considered these things.

The real question was whether Charles truly believed in his own plan… or if he was just playing the role expected of him.

Charles offered nothing more to the crowd. He simply turned, stepping toward the staircase with smooth, purposeful strides. As he passed Don, he spoke in a quieter tone, just loud enough for Don to catch. "We should go."

Don's gaze flicked to Charles's profile. Composed. Unyielding. And not entirely honest.

It didn't take a genius to see that Charles was holding something back. But voicing concern here, in front of everyone? That would fracture the carefully constructed progress so far. It would make Don look unsure, weaken his standing by association. And right now, his association with Charles was too useful to jeopardize.

So, he said nothing. Just spared a glance at his friends.

Hector, predictably, was already standing taller, soaking up the attention like a plant under the sun. "Not to worry, good people," Hector announced grandly, one hand on his chest and the other gesturing dramatically, "you're in very good hands. Best hands. Primo hands."

Don nearly rolled his eyes.

Tori, by contrast, stood stiffly, arms crossed, eyes darting between the crowd and the stairwell like she was bracing for another explosion. Donald wasn't much better—he looked like he might be sick, pale and fidgeting with the hem of his jacket.

But they didn't speak. Didn't argue. And that was enough.

Don gave them a curt nod before falling into step beside Charles.

The descent down the lavish staircase was almost surreal. The once-bustling upper floors, so lively just minutes ago, now felt eerily hollow. The dimmed lights, the faint hum of emergency systems running in the background, the distant echoes of panic from lower levels—it all felt staged, like a scene from a disaster film. Too clean. Too controlled.

"I've never seen the Green Thorns operate like this," Charles murmured, voice low enough to keep their conversation private. "They've always been extremists, yes, but not coordinated to this extent. And certainly not without their leader."

Don's gaze swept the empty hallway ahead, every muscle quietly primed for movement. "Maybe someone more radical has taken charge. Nightshade's been out of the picture for a while. Power vacuums don't stay empty."

Charles frowned at the possibility, his lips pressing into a thin line. He came to an abrupt stop near the base of the stairs, silver eyes narrowing as he glanced toward the elevator wreckage and the smoke-stained hallway leading into the floor.

"It bothers me," Charles said, tone sharpening, "that some of them were able to hide among such high social circles for so long. These weren't low-level infiltrators. They were embedded. Trusted."

"Then again," Charles continued, "there's the possibility they weren't acting of their own will."

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Don gave a slow nod. "Mind control? Chemical influence? It'd explain why they didn't break stance, even when taking hits that should've put them down."

Charles exhaled through his nose, displeased. "Yes. Which makes them both dangerous and disposable."

For a moment, he stood there, silent and calculating. Then, without looking at Don, he added quietly, "It doesn't matter. Going forward, if we encounter any more of them…"

Charles turned his head slightly, silver eyes meeting Don's gaze with a cold focus. "Do what you feel is necessary. I'll handle any red tape."

Don didn't respond immediately. His expression shifted ever so slightly, just enough to show the thought running through his mind. 'Necessary,' huh?

It was permission. Unofficial, unspoken, but clear as day. Charles wasn't just saying win. He was saying end it.

And Don got the feeling Charles wouldn't lose sleep over what that entailed.