Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 491: Be Afraid Of The Dark I (Part 1)
Predator stopped.
The tendrils remained in place for a moment, then slithered back into the dark—shffft~—melting into the walls as if the room itself swallowed them.
Kasanda dropped.
His body hit the concrete with a dull thud~, echoing once before fading. His chest rose and fell in uneven jerks.
Blood pooled beneath his knees, dripping from fresh punctures along his thighs and arms. His face was half-covered in grime and red streaks, one eye swelling shut.
He tried to lift himself. Couldn’t. The muscles in his arm gave a weak tremor before folding.
Still—he didn’t look away from Predator. His one good eye stayed fixed forward, not at the figure exactly, but past it. Searching the dark. Searching for Abraham.
Predator’s shape solidified—a ripple pulling the black together until he stood whole. Gold traces slid faintly across the skull pattern of his mask, the faintest glow brushing his outline.
He stared down at Kasanda, silent.
’Still trying to protect his boss...?’ The thought brushed through him, dry and detached. ’It goes beyond money then.’
Without any visible gesture, the tendrils moved again. They swept out from the dark behind him, coiling upward.
Kasanda flinched at the movement, bracing for another hit—but instead, something was carried within the coils.
Abraham.
His attire was torn, dirt smeared across his chest, but he was otherwise unharmed. The tendrils released him from midair, dropping him unceremoniously in front of Kasanda.
Thmp~
Abraham grunted as he landed, coughing.
At the same time, the tendrils restraining Han loosened their grip. They peeled away from his limbs and vanished into the ceiling, leaving him to collapse forward with a harsh exhale.
His knife clattered away across the floor—clink~—as he grabbed his shoulder and cursed under his breath.
Kasanda’s hand twitched. Despite the tremor, despite the open wounds still knitting closed with slow regeneration, he reached out toward Abraham—protective, reflexive.
"Stay... back," he rasped.
Abraham turned, shaking, eyes adjusting to the faint light spilling from Predator’s mask. The glow caught the edges of Kasanda’s ruined form—blood, torn fabric, bruised muscle. Then his gaze shifted to Han, who sat hunched, panting like a man dragged through hell.
Abraham’s throat worked in a dry swallow. His breath hitched once, twice. Then he forced himself to look up—at Predator.
The mask met his stare with nothing. No emotion. No hint of life behind it.
Abraham’s composure cracked instantly. His chin dropped, shoulders curling inward as his eyes darted to the floor. His voice shook when he spoke.
"I—I’ll pay any amount," he stammered, hands trembling as he pressed them together like a man praying. "Anything you want... please... just let us go..."
His voice faded on the last word, nearly drowned by the sound of his own breathing.
Predator’s eyes brightened for a moment—faint, ghostlike.
"You will be contacted." 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎
The tone was calm, mechanical, almost bored. The words left no room for argument.
Then his gaze slid to Kasanda.
"If you want to keep your lives," he said, "you will stay here."
And with that, he was gone.
No sound of steps. No trace of movement. Just the air pulling inward—whrrr~—as his shape dissolved into the dark.
The absence hit like pressure lifting from a chest.
Han slumped fully against the floor, head tipping back as his arm fell limp at his side. "Holy hell..." he muttered, breath scraping his throat.
Kasanda exhaled hard through his nose, still half on the floor. His healing was slow but steady—holes closing, bones realigning with muted cracks.
Abraham didn’t move for several seconds. Then, slowly, he shifted onto his knees, one hand gripping the floor to steady himself. His breathing came in stutters, the sound raw, almost childlike.
He risked a look up the room again—empty. Only darkness.
The relief that followed was thin. Fragile.
Even with Predator gone, the air still felt wrong. The shadows still seemed too deep. Every drip of blood, every creak from the walls, made all three men flinch.
None of them spoke after that.
Not because they didn’t want to—
Because they weren’t sure the thing had truly left.
———
Above the lower levels, the mansion had turned into a graveyard.
Smoke hung thick in the halls, coating every breath with ash and iron. The air carried the heavy stench of burnt concrete, blood, and melted wiring.
Somewhere deeper in the structure, beams groaned under their own weight.
Bodies lined the floor—guards, servants, even the few androids that had managed to resist before being torn apart.
The minions moved between them in quiet rhythm, boots crunching over broken glass, their shadows dragging long in the flicker of dying fires.
Their tactical suits, once immaculate, were now stained dark with blood and soot. Some had rips across the shoulders where shrapnel had grazed them; others limped as they worked, their hands shaking but steady enough to keep moving.
A few knelt beside corpses, searching through pockets and belts for data cards, weapons, anything worth taking.
At the center of it all stood Gary.
He was impossible to mistake—tall, composed, his balaclava still drawn high. The dim light caught faint streaks of dust across his chest plate, the smudge of dried blood under his collar.
Despite the ruin around him, he looked as though he were still giving a briefing in some glass tower.
A tablet flickered in one gloved hand as his gaze swept the corridor, the faint blue glow reflecting off his eyes. His other hand rested behind his back, posture straight even as another muffled collapse shook the mansion’s frame—crkkk~.
Minions moved past him in twos and threes, carrying long duffle bags over their shoulders. The weight inside clinked faintly—metal against metal.
Gary nodded once as the last of them reached the rear exit.
"If that’s everything," he said, his voice calm through the fabric, "then begin retreat on the agreed route. I shall deal with the bodies of your comrades and meet with you afterward."
He paused, glancing at the scattered corpses around them. "Please... do not let their sacrifices be in vain."
The nearest minions straightened, fists touching their chests.
"Suii," they answered in unison.
Then they were gone—boots thudding down the back corridor, fading one by one until only echoes remained.
Gary exhaled, a soft sigh muffled beneath the mask. His gaze swept the blackened walls once more before he turned toward the grand hallway leading to the main entrance.
He walked slowly, hands clasped behind him, his steps delicate. Flames flickered along the edges of the carpet, eating their way through blood soaked fabric.
Shattered chandeliers hung like melted ribs from the ceiling, the crystals still faintly glowing as they cracked and fell—plink~ plink~
Every surface bore scorch marks. Ash drifted down like grey snow. The air pulsed with heat and the sour tang of burnt paint.
Gary moved through it unbothered, the soles of his boots leaving faint prints in soot.
When he reached the main doors, what remained of them was little more than two jagged frames clinging to their hinges. The rest had been blown outward. He stepped through the gap.
Outside, the night looked worse.
To his right, the Escalades they’d arrived in sat half-buried under broken stone and splintered masonry. One still burned from the engine block, the faint pop of fuel tanks crackling every few seconds—fssh~ fssh~
To his left, the Richmond Defenders lay in ruin. Some of their men were pinned beneath slabs of fallen concrete, arms and torsos jutting out from the debris.
Among them were a few of Gary’s own—minions with crushed helmets or torn vests.
Movement stirred in the rubble.
Injured minions dragged themselves out, coughing, one pulling another by the arm. Those still standing helped them to their feet, giving quick slaps to shoulders before continuing toward the treeline where the convoy route began.
But not all were helped.
Two minions crouched beside a fallen comrade, checked his pulse, then exchanged a brief look. One drew his sidearm, muttered something too quiet to catch—then fired.
Pop~
The sound was flat, final. The other gave a short nod before they both moved on.
Even in carnage, order held.
By the time Gary reached them, the survivors had begun arranging the dead in a loose line along the gravel path. Some knelt to pull tags, others murmured broken suiis as they passed. When they noticed him approaching, they stepped aside, clearing a narrow path.
Gary stopped at the head of the line. The bodies were burned beyond faces—armor melted, hands stiff, a few still faintly smoking.
He didn’t lower his balaclava. But beneath it, his eyes softened just enough to show something human.
"Begin retreat," he said quietly.
He reached to his sleeves, unfastening the clasps at his wrists. The gloves came off with a slow pull. His fingers were pale beneath, faintly lined.
He extended his arm.
At first, nothing happened. Then his hand began to glow—dimly, like heat building behind glass. The light grew brighter, spreading in pulses until it flooded his palm in pure white.
The glow rippled outward.
The bodies along the line answered it—each one flickering as if something deep inside them responded. A faint hum filled the air. Then white light bled through the tears in their suits, tracing veins, pooling beneath the skin.
Gary’s arm trembled once, the glow on his hand flaring higher.
But then—A rumble shook the ground near the left flank.
The wreckage over one of the Defenders shifted, dust spilling down. Then a fist punched upward through the debris—thunk~—followed by a low, guttural grunt.
Rager.
His arm was torn open in several places, flesh blackened from burns, but he was alive. He hauled himself up inch by inch, each pull scattering rubble.
The nearby minions didn’t stop moving. Gary didn’t pause either.
He kept his hand raised until the light reached its peak. The white glare swallowed the bodies whole. For a second, the entire courtyard glowed as if caught in midday sun—then it all collapsed inward.
The corpses lost their shape, deflating into empty uniforms. Blood, flesh, even bone—gone. Only the torn fabric remained, fluttering faintly in the heated wind.
Gary’s light dimmed with it. The last shimmer faded from his fingers. He lowered his hand, flexing it once.
Beneath the balaclava, his features shifted. Wrinkles eased, smoothing back into skin that looked a decade younger. The gray that had crept into his brows darkened, returning to deep brown.
He rolled his sleeve back down, glancing toward the horizon where the retreating line of minions was already moving.
Rager’s roar echoed faintly behind him, half pain, half rage.
Gary didn’t look back.
The last trace of white light faded from Gary’s hand just as the rubble behind him gave a violent tremor.
BOOOM~
Chunks of concrete burst upward, scattering like shrapnel. One slab the size of a car door hurtled through the air, followed by the crumpled body of a Defender, armor bent inward from the impact.
Rager’s arm shot out of the wreckage, veins bulging under scorched skin. With a furious roar, he tore himself free, flinging pieces of debris in every direction.
The blast wave swept through the courtyard, kicking up dust and embers.
Minions near Gary staggered back, some diving behind the burned-out Escalades. Others were already turning toward the retreating path, shouting to one another as they ran.
"Suii, suii—!"
But Gary didn’t move.
He stood in the center of the storm, his brows knitting as fragments of stone and metal whirled toward him. His posture never changed, hands still resting behind his back. For a split second, it looked as if he intended to take the wreckage head-on.
Then the debris stopped.
Everything mid-flight—stone, metal, and broken concrete—froze in the air. The dust hung still, like time itself had held its breath.
Gary’s eyes narrowed once and he turned toward the mansion, muttering in a low tone, "thank you Milady."
The wreckage shifted.
Without warning, the pieces shot backward with brutal force—CRACK~—slamming straight into Rager just as he managed to rise fully from the crater.
The impact drove him down hard, the ground splitting under the weight as his body vanished again beneath the debris.
The echo of the strike rolled through the courtyard, fading into the night.
Gary exhaled quietly, eyes flicking as he gazed at the mansion’s dark outline.
Behind him, the surviving minions had regrouped. Some crouched near the line of vehicles, lifting machine guns and firing short bursts into the rubble—tat-tat-tat~—while others hauled open doors on the still-working Escalades.
"Suii, suii!"
Rounds sparked off debris where Rager had fallen, the air filling with the acrid sting of gunpowder. Gary turned from the sight and walked toward one of the running Escalades, its headlights cutting faint lines through the smoke.
He slid into the back seat without a word, the door closing with a muted click.
Behind him, Rager stirred again.
With a growl, he shoved aside the shattered concrete and rose to his feet, dirt spilling off his shoulders. His massive frame looked more animal than man, blood streaking across his chest, his frown stretching wide despite the dust.
But he wasn’t alone.
More figures were emerging from the wreckage of the Defender convoy—each built like Rager, armored in black tactical plating, their movements heavy but sure. They brushed the dust from their arms and faces, scanning the courtyard with alertness.
"Where the hell—" one muttered, his voice low.
Their eyes locked on the Escalades at the far end. The engines roared louder—vrrmm~—the red brake lights flaring through the haze.
Then something changed.
Rager’s grin faltered.
His body jerked once, unnaturally.
Then—
His boots left the ground.
The others stepped back instinctively.
Rager’s body rose into the air as if caught by a crane. His limbs flailed for a second before an unseen force yanked him sideways.
"Rager!" one of them shouted.
Too late.
He was pulled violently across the courtyard, his face dragging through the dirt, leaving a deep trench. The sound of bone scraping concrete tore through the air—grrkkk~—before his body was flung forward into the side of the mansion.
CRASH~
A new hole opened in the wall, bricks and dust pouring out in a cloud.
The men from the Defenders stared in stunned silence. None of them spoke for several seconds.
"What the hell was that..." one finally muttered.
But before anyone could make sense of it, the Escalades revved.
Engines roared, tires kicked up dirt, and the convoy surged toward the rear exit. Some minions clung to the sides or the roofs, their boots striking sparks against metal as the vehicles tore down the ruined driveway.
Vrrrmm~!
Within moments, the line of black cars vanished into the tree line, leaving only smoke and echoing gunfire behind.
The surviving men from Defenders watched them disappear.
A man stepped forward from near one of the overturned vehicles—the same one who had been in the passenger seat of the lead car earlier. His uniform bore the rank insignia of a senior field captain, his face streaked with dust but composed.
"Sir," one of the men called out, "do we pursue?"
The captain frowned, eyes narrowing toward the road where the Escalades had gone. He shook his head once.
"One team only. The rest stay here. Our priority is securing Mr. Richmond." He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder, gaze turning toward the mansion’s damaged entrance. "Hopefully, he’s still alive. Let’s move."
"Sir!!"
The men responded in unison, breaking formation.
One team sprinted toward a Defender that still had its engine humming, piling in as it reversed hard and sped after the escaping convoy. The rest advanced toward the mansion, boots crunching over gravel and scattered brass casings as they formed up near the shattered doorway.
The fires still burned along the walls, throwing their shadows long and thin across the courtyard.
And somewhere inside, something waited.
