Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 418: It Doesn’t Always Pay To Be Loyal (Part 1)

Strass wasn’t sure how much time had passed.

All he knew was the weight. Heavy. Full-body. Like he’d been filled with sand and left to rot in the sun.

His limbs were numb, tingling faintly, with the kind of sluggish static that came with coming down from something. His head swam.

He groaned.

Movement felt like suggestion, not action. When he finally managed to open his eyes, he saw nothing. Darkness, full and unrelenting.

He shifted his head—barely—and felt it.

Cloth. Rough against his skin. He was bagged.

His breathing was shallow, uneven. The air around him tasted faintly metallic.

Then... music.

It drifted in from somewhere ahead. Warm, slow. Scratchy from age. A low-soul croon bleeding out of a speaker that had seen better decades.

"You see me... standing there..."

It was Sam Cooke. Older track. The kind you don’t play unless you’re in the mood to remember someone.

The rhythm was slow, swaying—equal parts lullaby and lament. The vinyl scratch beneath it sounded like whispering regrets.

Strass’s gut turned.

Then came the voice.

Calm. Measured. Infuriatingly polite.

"For all your terrible qualities, I must admit, Mr. Strass..." the voice said. "You do have a fine vinyl collection."

Strass’s stomach sank. And everything in his body, sluggish as it was, told him this was bad.

But maybe... maybe this was just the aftermath of too much whisky. He’d blacked out before. Maria had called the ambulance once, back when the stress first started. Maybe this was just another spell.

His lips twitched as he tried to speak. The words barely escaped.

"Who... who are..."

Then he trailed off. Mouth dry. Tongue leaden.

"It seems," the voice replied, "you need a little assistance waking up."

PFFT—

The sound of a silenced shot rang through the air.

Then the pain.

White-hot and immediate—his shoulder lit up like it had been dipped in fire. The numbness fled instantly, chased out by panic and adrenaline. He yelled, more reflex than thought. "Argh!!"

His body tried to react, to stand—but his legs didn’t obey. His arms jerked behind him, useless. Only then did he realize he was bound.

Knees on concrete, wrists tied behind his back, ankles fixed together. The shot hadn’t just hurt—it had reprogrammed his entire awareness.

He fell. Hard. His face smacked the floor, dust kicking up around his mouth. It got into his nose, into his eyes.

He coughed. The taste was familiar.

So was the smell.

"This is..." he rasped, "my house..."

The recognition crawled over him like ants. The scent of the dust. The specific dryness in the air. He knew this place. He lived above it.

"My basement... where’s my family?!"

He tried to shout, but his voice came out half-slurred, more begging than demanding.

He twisted, trying to shift positions, but all he managed was rolling partway onto his wounded shoulder. Pain flared again, blunt and nauseating.

"Argh—!"

"Raise him," the voice said.

Two sets of hands—efficient, unhurried—grabbed him by either side. They lifted him like luggage, straightening his back and positioning him upright again.

"Unbag him. Lights, please."

The bag got yanked off.

Whffft—

Strass blinked hard. The light was a single bulb hanging from a cord above him, adjusted deliberately to spotlight the circular clearing in the basement center.

Everything else was shoved to the edges—old gym equipment, a broken water heater, dusty storage bins. The junk that made up the chaos of a homeowner’s forgotten projects.

And across from him, seated near a vintage vinyl player, was Gary.

Pristine suit. Unbothered expression. Posture straight. He looked like he belonged in a high-end hotel lobby, not in a suburban torture room.

"I hope you don’t mind," Gary said, voice still polite. "We moved a few things to achieve a more fitting setting."

Strass didn’t answer. He was too busy looking at the record spinning beside Gary.

"But I digress," Gary continued. "Time is of the essence, Mr. Strass. So I won’t waste yours."

He leaned slightly forward.

"I want information on Harold Barclay. Everything related to him. Personal dealings. Backchannel communications. Blackmail infrastructure. All of it."

Strass stared at him.

His shoulder pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat. His arms burned from the strain of being forced upright. His tongue felt thick.

Gary’s voice remained level. No menace. Just civility with edges.

"I hope," he said, "we can be civil about this. I’d like to avoid resorting to more aggressive methods."

Strass’s stomach clenched the second the name left Gary’s mouth.

Barclay.

Of course it was about him.

It wasn’t surprising—not really—but that didn’t make it welcome. Barclay was the kind of name you whispered behind closed doors, never typed, and certainly never volunteered to strangers in suits. Especially strangers like this.

He didn’t know Gary. Didn’t know these men. But he knew Barclay.

Not deeply. But enough.

And that was the problem.

The difference between being afraid of the man and being afraid of crossing him was a narrow, jagged line. Strass had no idea which side of it these people stood on. And frankly, he didn’t want to find out.

But he had no leverage.

A mutt like Strass didn’t bite his master unless he was starving. And even now, wounded, bound, and forced to kneel like some criminal in his own goddamn basement, his instincts screamed at him to stall.

So he did.

"You got the wrong guy," he muttered. "I’m just a detective with the city’s department. What would I be doing with a suit like Barclay?"

Gary’s face didn’t shift.

He still looked like someone’s well-mannered grandfather.

"I see," he said simply.

He turned his head slightly, eyes glancing past the boundary of light that formed a rough circle in the basement’s center. Shadows moved at the edges. Strass squinted, but couldn’t see who was there.

Gary sighed. "Bring the boy."

That changed everything.

Strass stiffened, panic scraping at the edges of his drug-dulled nerves. There was movement in the dark—heavy boots across concrete, the muted scuff of friction.

Two minions stepped into the light. Tall, broad-shouldered. Their faces were hidden behind matte black masks—expressionless, insect-like. Even in the dim glow, they radiated menace in a way Gary never could.

Between them, dragged by the arms, was a young man.

Barely twenty. Wearing a football jersey, jeans, worn sneakers. His arms were bound behind him, ankles tied. A blindfold covered his eyes, a thick gag muffled his cries.

But Strass didn’t need to see the face.

"That’s my son!" he cried, struggling instinctively. "Leave him out of this!"

He lunged—tried to, anyway. Two more sets of hands clamped down on his shoulders, one right over the bullet wound. He cried out in pain but didn’t look away.

The minions hauling his son reached Gary and dumped the kid onto his knees. Unceremonious. Disrespectful.

"Suiii. Suiii," one of the minions muttered under his breath, voice distorted by the mask.

They positioned the boy in an execution pose. Knees down, head bowed forward.

Gary stood.

Strass’s gut sank deeper. The bluff was dead. His plan to play dumb had collapsed like a soaked card tower.

"Okay—look," he stammered. "I’m just an information guy. That’s it. I feed Barclay intel about the department. That’s all. I’m just a dirty cop, alright? I’ll tell you everything, just—"

Gary removed the gag from the boy’s mouth, fingers careful, almost gentle.

The kid gasped the moment it was free. "Dad! Please—tell them whatever they want to know! Don’t let them hurt us, please! Please, Dad!"

Gary smiled faintly. Not warmly.

"You see?" he said, glancing back at Strass. "Even your delinquent son knows better in this situation. Unfortunately for him, the father doesn’t."

His hand went to his inner jacket pocket. Pulled something small and wooden.

Click.

The wood telescoped out, metal unfolding from within—a pocket knife. Clean. Elegant. Too refined for what was about to happen.

"No, please!" the boy sobbed. "Dad, tell them! Tell them what they wanna know!"

Strass’s eyes went wide. "Okay, wait—I’ll tell you—"

Gary moved.

No pause. No flourish.

One swift, efficient stroke.

Shhk—

The knife cut deep. The boy’s throat split open.

Blood sprayed forward in an arc, some of it catching Strass across the cheek and neck. Warm. Sticky. Alive.

The minions let go.

The boy dropped, collapsing like a puppet with its strings cut. His body convulsed, twitching, writhing. Hands bound, he clawed at nothing. Legs kicked aimlessly. Red poured from his neck in thick ropes, pooling on the concrete like ink.

"Jackie!!" Strass screamed, voice ragged.

He lunged again. The hands held him tighter. One minion gripped his head, forcing it forward, making sure he watched.

His son gargled something—words drowned in blood—then coughed. Choked. Flopped once more.

Then went still.

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A/N: Hey everyone — just wanted to say I appreciate your patience. I’m always a bit slower with Chapters that focus outside of Don. It takes a bit more effort to capture those other voices and still keep the plot moving in the background.

I haven’t been as consistent this month as I’d like, but a few of you have stayed consistent with your support, and that really means a lot. Hope you’re enjoying the ride so far. Keep those Power Stones and Golden Tickets coming — they help more than you know.