Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 382: Uncovering The Truth (Part 7)

The hum of machines filled the Citadel's main control room like a low, constant breath. Smooth. Mechanical. Almost bored.

Gary stood in the middle of it, arms loosely folded, eyes flicking between two monitors that sat just off-center from the curved array dominating the east wall.

One screen displayed the Deadly Damsels auction page—garish and unashamed, its interface dressed in dark reds and glossy blacks.

The latest bid had just ticked upward with a soft ping. 1.4 million. Anonymous handle. No attached message. Just money talking the way it always did—loud and without morals.

The other screen? Less abstract.

Barclay.

Gary leaned slightly forward, narrowing his gaze as the feed played out in grainy, shifting frames. It wasn't a stable signal—the entoptic crawler unit had to crawl after all. But it was enough.

Barclay's voice came through low, but clear enough for context.

"…have them head to the tunnels. Use one of the holes near the south entrance—they won't be noticed there."

The camera caught him gesturing toward a group of four men. Black suits. Gloves. Ear-pieces already flashing green.

"You four—escort the androids. Make sure they get to their locations without fail. If someone sees you?"

A pause followed.

"Take care of them. Dump the body."

Barclay adjusted the sleeve of his coat, brushed nonexistent lint from the cuff.

"There's a chopper waiting for extraction. Once it's done, you won't be on the ground long."

The men nodded.

Gary's fingers tapped lightly against the side of the control desk, not in agitation—but calculation.

Then, Barclay spoke again—this time to himself, quiet, unaware the shadows were still listening.

"…trackers on the Division D team's equipment. The androids will find them easy. The blast radius should take care of the tunnels. And Charles. I'm sure Constantine will appreciate me clearing the board."

A smile. Small. Tired. Poisonous.

The crawler, lodged under the lip of the SUV's bumper, shifted slightly. The camera caught the angle from below, the light framing Barclay's face in half-shadow. Enough to make him look like the mask finally dropped.

Gary's brow creased.

"This is bad," he muttered under his breath, arms tightening across his chest.

He didn't have time to consider next steps.

**Fwoomph**

A soft poof of displaced air breezed his jacket sleeve as Trixie appeared just behind him, stepping in like she owned the room. Her voice cut through the hum of equipment, perky and curious.

"What's bad?"

Gary didn't turn. He didn't need to. He knew her voice too well. And her timing.

Still watching the screen, he answered plainly, "Harold Barclay is sending androids armed with Silvertine into the tunnels. His intent is to destroy the site and everyone in it."

He waited one moment.

"Including sir Don."

Trixie tilted her head. Her tail swayed lazily behind her, one hand on her hip while the other tapped a nearby console with a rhythm that didn't match the gravity of the moment.

"Hm," she said after a second, nodding. "Yeah. That does sound bad."

She didn't look especially concerned. But she rarely did.

She pivoted slightly, stepping around a pile of data drives that hadn't been re-shelved since the last sweep, peering over Gary's shoulder.

"Can you warn him? Or send the minions or something?"

Gary's reply came with a short sigh. Not annoyed. Just resigned.

"I already sent a message. But I haven't received a reply. His device still pings as active. We can assume he's engaged."

He adjusted the screen again, zooming in on the androids being loaded into a covered vehicle. Their movements were slow. Even the handlers looked cautious around them.

"The minions wouldn't arrive in time. Not at their current distance."

He paused. Fingers hovering over the keyboard.

"I'm afraid we'll need to request Madam Elle's involvement."

Trixie stopped tapping.

Her tail twitched once behind her, this time less playful. Her head angled slightly more to the side, pupils narrowing just a hair.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" she asked. "She's a bit… off these days."

Gary nodded. "Yes. I've noticed. I believe her condition may be growing more severe. The episodes are becoming more frequent."

Trixie scratched the side of her head, glancing briefly toward the upper catwalk where ambient blue lighting flickered in pulses.

"Really?" she said. "I mean yeah, she's definitely more violent now, but she's also more… controlled. Unless, y'know… someone pisses her off or tries to hurt Don."

She paused. Blinked. Then.

"…Oh."

Gary nodded again.

"Precisely."

Trixie didn't say anything right away. Her gaze drifted toward the far wall where an old training dummy—badly dented—still stood in the corner. She stared at it for a second longer than necessary. A reminder.

"Alright," she said finally, lifting her chin. "I'll go tell her."

She turned, her boots making soft contact with the floor before stopping abruptly at the door. She looked back.

"You gonna be okay alone with all this?"

Gary exhaled. "I'll manage."

He turned back to the auction screen. 1.5 million now. The number had changed again. Bids kept coming in.

He shook his head.

"I still need to finalize the acquisition. Sir Don's plans for the establishment require discretion."

Trixie smirked faintly. "Right. Can't build a kingdom if the floorboards are on fire."

Then—fwoomph—she vanished again.

Gary remained, alone now, hands returning to the console. His eyes scanned the screen one more time before whispering to no one.

"Come back alive, sir. Or we're all in trouble."

———

The corridor to Containment Wing C was dead silent, save for the distant hum of recycled air moving through ancient vents.

The lights overhead pulsed faintly every few seconds—enough to show the way, but never enough to make it comfortable. The Citadel wasn't designed for comfort.

Elle moved down the hall at a measured pace. Her boots made soft sounds against the metallic floor, each step swallowed quickly by the sterile stillness of the space.

Her outfit—black turtleneck, matching cargo shorts, leggings, boots—fit her like a second skin, trim enough to flaunt her frame, but chosen more for utility than vanity. Petite, sure. But the kind of petite that made others jealous.

She stopped in front of Cell 17-B.

Energy dampeners lined the frame, casting faint ripples over the doorway where a reinforced transparent barrier kept the inside visible.

The cell beyond wasn't extravagant—just a cot, a single sink, a fold-out toilet unit, and a wall-mounted monitor displaying a static Citadel seal.

The lights above cast a sickly white hue, always too bright, never warm. The walls were slate gray, the kind that didn't invite imagination. Utilitarian, like everything else here.

Pantheress crouched in the middle of the floor—barefoot, shoulders forward, head low but eyes alert. Her fingers lightly touched the ground, knees spread just enough for balance. She didn't move. Didn't blink.

She'd tried escaping once. Woke up groggy and still drugged and tried anyway. Her claws had scratched faint lines into the walls, her muscles burned from the effort.

But the dampeners here were old and relentless. They didn't just sap her powers—they made her feel heavy. Off. Like something inside her had been unplugged and badly rewired.

Now, she watched.

Waited.

For him.

For Predator.

But the figure that appeared on the other side of the barrier wasn't him.

It was her.

Elle.

Pantheress's gaze shifted, following the curve of Elle's silhouette as she came to a stop just inches from the barrier. She stood still—arms at her sides, posture stiff as always, gaze flat and bright.

Those amber eyes. Pantheress hated those the most.

The room didn't change, but it felt like it did.

Colder.

The first time Elle had shown up like this, Pantheress had lunged at the barrier. Snarled. Bared teeth. Scratched threats into the floor tiles.

Elle didn't react. Not even a blink. Just stared.

And then, with a voice like still water.

"You're only alive because Predator wants you alive. When that ends… I'll rip you apart."

It should've been laughable. Elle wasn't tall. She wasn't thick. She wasn't loud. Just… quiet. Petite. Like something you could pick up and throw.

But her presence?

It never felt small.

Pantheress shifted slightly now, easing her weight back, but didn't rise from her crouch. She didn't speak. She'd stopped bothering after the third visit.

Elle's gaze didn't change. Not even a twitch.

They stood like that—statue and prisoner—until…

**Poof**

A puff of pink smoke flared into existence at Elle's right. Trixie appeared beside her with zero ceremony, hands on her hips, tail flicking behind her like she was tapping out an impatient rhythm.

She didn't look at Pantheress. Didn't even glance.

"Hey Elle," she said casually, her voice bright. "Gary says Don might be in big trouble and needs us to help."

That was all it took.

Elle's head turned fast. Not twitchy. Just fast.

The stiffness dropped out of her body in a single breath, like the name alone had flipped a switch somewhere behind her ribs.

"What happened?" she asked. Not tense. Not panicked. Just focused.

"Barclay's sending androids into the tunnel network," she said. "Armed. And Gary said they've got Silvertine, whatever the fuck that is, but apparently it's very bad."

Elle's fingers twitched once. Then went still again.

Pantheress was watching the entire exchange with narrowed eyes. She didn't move from her spot, but her ears twitched, picking up the change in tone. She'd never heard Elle sound gentle before. Not like that.

"I see," Elle murmured, looking back at the cell.

Not at Pantheress.

Through her.

She turned back to Trixie. "And Don?"

"Gary couldn't get a reply out of him. His signal shows he's still moving though, so odds are he's fighting."

Elle nodded once.

Pantheress's brow furrowed faintly. She didn't like not being the center of attention. Not from Elle. Not from any of them. But that sense of dread was back.

Worse than before.

Elle's posture shifted—not dramatically, but enough. Her shoulders dropped. Her eyes unfocused for a breath, as if they were recalibrating.

Trixie noticed it too. Her tail slowed.

"You good?" she asked carefully.

Elle didn't answer. She just turned toward the exit and started walking. No words. No delay.