Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

On a remote road, far in the southern outskirts of the city, a huge truck hauling a large container rumbled down the narrow stretch of asphalt.

The road snaked its way through rugged mountains and hills, with jagged cliffs and rocky outcroppings flanking it on either side.

The truck wasn't alone. A few old, rusted SUVs and several motorcycles escorted it, their engines roaring as they kept pace.

As the convoy approached a toll booth in the distance, one of the SUVs broke formation and drove ahead, pulling to a stop at the barrier. The rest of the vehicles came to a halt behind it, their passengers coming out—men armed with old, battered rifles and shotguns, dressed in tattered, dirty clothes that looked as though they hadn't been washed in days.

One of them, a burly guy with a scruffy beard and a red bandana tied around his neck, sighed as he leaned against the truck's trailer. He looked over at his companion, a wiry man with sunken eyes and a grim expression. "Ain't this a bit overkill?" he muttered, scratching the stubble on his chin. "Movin' like this just makes us an easier target."

The wiry man, already in a foul mood, spit to the side and grumbled, "Ask Ash about it, not me. That broad's makin' us work our asses off all day 'cause of what happened to Grimm."

The guy with the bandana nodded, folding his arms. "Yeah, no kiddin'. The guys under Victor are probably havin' an easier time. Bet they're at Deadly Damsel right now, drinkin' it off, while we're out here, miles away from the city, doin' a run in the middle of the goddamn day."

"Shut it," the wiry man hissed, glancing around nervously. "You gotta be careful what you say—Ash's got ears everywhere lately."

The bandana guy waved him off, muttering, "Whatever." His then gaze drifted to the toll gate up ahead. "What the fuck's takin' so long?"

At the front of the line, the driver of the lead SUV—a burly man with a grizzled beard and tired eyes—sat behind the wheel, frowning as he repeatedly slammed his fist on the horn.

**Honk! Honk! Honk!**

The sound echoed off the mountains around them.

Annoyed, he turned to his passenger, a lanky man with a tattooed neck and a shotgun resting in his lap. "Didn't Ash say this would be a straight trip? That the booth guys were already paid off? We're gonna miss our window if this shit keeps up."

The tattooed passenger shrugged, indifferent. "I dunno, man. Want me to check it out?"

The driver grunted, nodding. "Yeah Marcus, go see what's holdin' them up."

With a sigh, the tattooed man grabbed his shotgun and swung the door open, stepping out onto the road. He walked toward the toll booth, squinting in the bright sunlight as he climbed the concrete steps.

"Hey! Lift the gate!" he shouted, pounding on the side of the booth as he approached. Through the dirty glass window, he could see a man in a security uniform slumped over the desk, his face pressed against his forearm, as if he had fallen asleep.

The tattooed man turned back toward the SUV, cupping his hand around his mouth. "This fucker's sleepin'!" he yelled.

The driver leaned out the window, scowling. "Where the hell are the others?"

"I don't see no one else," the tattooed man answered back.

"Shit," the driver muttered under his breath, his stomach twisting with unease. "I don't like this… I'm callin' Ash." He reached for the radio mounted on the dashboard, his fingers just brushing the receiver.

That's when he heard it—a voice, deep and echoey, like it was coming from all around him. "That won't be necessary."

Before the driver could even turn his head to see where the voice came from, a black hand, wreathed in thick, swirling mist, reached around from behind and clamped over his mouth.

**Whoosh.**

His eyes widened in horror, bulging as the cold mist began seeping into his body, snaking through his nostrils and down his throat. He gasped for air, but the mist filled his lungs, suffocating him from the inside.

**Crack.** His lungs ruptured with a sickening pop, and the man's body twitched violently as the life drained out of him.

His grip on the steering wheel slackened, his fingers slipping from the radio.

The black hand released him, and his lifeless body slumped forward, his head hitting the dashboard with a dull **thud**.

Behind the SUV, there was nothing—no sign of anyone there. Only a faint, swirling mist that slowly dissipated into the shadows of the back seats, as though whatever had killed the driver had simply vanished.

A few seconds after the man in the driver's seat was killed, the man at the booth—Marcus—turned back toward the SUV, wanting to call out, "Hey Earl! I think something is—" He stopped mid-sentence, squinting.

Earl was slumped forward, just like the man in the booth.

Marcus's heart immediately skipped a beat, the unease creeping up his spine. "Earl, are you alright?" he shouted, walking forward with his shotgun drawn, his knuckles white from how tightly he gripped it.

Each step felt heavier as he approached the SUV. He turned his head and called out again, this time toward the guys further back, "Hey! I need some help here!"

The men by the trailer glanced over, exchanging confused looks. They weren't sure what was happening, but they immediately became more alert.

A few of them moved to guard the truck, while four others, weapons in hand, made their way toward Marcus and the SUV.

"What's the problem, Marcus?" one of them asked, his eyes darting between Marcus and the SUV.

Marcus pointed his shotgun toward Earl's limp form inside the vehicle, his voice tight. "I think Earl's dead… or something. The guard in the booth's the same way." His breath quickened. "Man, I don't like this."

The others exchanged glances, gripping their weapons instinctively. "Think it's one of those freaky mystical creatures?" one of them asked, his voice low. "Like the ones they got up in Shantytown?"

In a world where superhumans and mystical creatures were common knowledge, the suggestion wasn't far-fetched. Even for those who were skeptical, the strange, eerie atmosphere hanging around them now was undeniable.

Marcus swallowed hard. "I think we should just head back and—"

Before he could finish, the sound of the truck's engine roared behind them. **Vrrrrrrmm!** The truck lurched forward, its heavy wheels grinding against the gravel. Marcus whipped his head around, eyes wide. "What the—?"