Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 393: The Truth (Part 3)

Barclay's balcony overlooked the city like a predator scanning the savanna. The skyline—sharp lines, neon haze, pockets of life flickering—looked as it always did.

But tonight, the smoke out on the horizon broke the picture. Pillars of it, distant and rising. Like black flags marking something he couldn't control.

He paced. Slow at first, then faster. The wood beneath his shoes creaked faintly with each turn—creak... creak... creak—but it barely registered. His phone was pressed tight against his ear, voice low but ragged with heat.

"I don't care what other arrangements you had," he argued, biting down on the last word like it tasted sour. "Gather your brothers. Now."

His fingers twitched as he ended the call, thumb jabbing the screen with unnecessary force. Thnk. The line cut off. He exhaled through his nose, sharp and hard, jaw tightening until the muscles along his neck stood out.

Barclay then stopped moving. The city lights glinted in his eyes, distant but sharp, mocking in a way only lights that didn't care could be.

His phone's screen flickered as he scrolled, the glass reflecting the soft orange of the nearby wall sconce. He brought up the next contact. Victoria. No last name. No title. Just Victoria. His thumb hovered, then tapped.

Brrt... brrt...—the call tried, but it never rang. A flat, cold line flashed across the screen: This number has been disconnected.

His eyes narrowed. The phone felt heavier in his hand.

"Did she have something to do with it?" The thought ran through him like a thin blade. The timing wasn't just bad—it was surgical. First the video. Then the explosions. Now this.

He clenched his teeth hard, the pressure grinding deep into his molars. Barclay wasn't the type to let paranoia make him stupid, but tonight? Tonight felt off. Too many things at once. Too clean.

He forced himself to breathe. In. Out. The air out here smelled like damp stone and expensive landscaping, faint jasmine drifting from the garden below. None of it helped.

His fingers danced across the phone again—contacts, messages, old threads. The usual fixes, the usual shadows he could call.

He'd already spoken to his lawyers, the ones who knew how to wipe things away before they became problems. He'd called the "cleaners" too, the men who knew which graves were worth digging and which ones were better left filled.

He knew the storm was coming. The investigation was inevitable.

But it wasn't the fallout that gnawed at him.

It was the setback.

Barclay didn't lose. Not like this. Not when he was this close.

His phone buzzed in his hand—brrt... brrt...—and the screen lit up with an unknown number. No name. No clue.

He frowned, cautious now, but answered anyway. "Hello?" His voice was clipped, sharp edges barely dulled by the whiskey still lingering in his throat. "Who is this?"

The voice on the other end was smooth as oil on glass—soft, low, familiar in the way a knife's cold handle is in the dark.

"It's me, Mr. Barclay." The tone practically curled around his ear. "Victoria."

Barclay's brow furrowed, the lines on his forehead deepening like a roadmap of frustration. His grip on the phone tightened, the plastic casing creaking faintly under the pressure.

"What is the meaning of this?" he snapped, the question low but cutting. He didn't pin it on her outright—he wasn't that careless. Not yet. Not when the field was shifting under him.

Victoria's reply was smooth, almost amused, like she was commenting on the weather. "You tell me, Sir. I saw the news and thought perhaps someone was making a move on you."

Concern dripped from the words, but the tone? Dry as bone. She might as well have been discussing stock options.

Barclay's lip curled into something close to a sneer. His voice was colder now, more controlled. "Is that why you decided to kill your line, move your money, and not respond to my messages? You have a funny way of showing concern."

He paused. The silence hung for a beat too long.

"Tell me where you are, Victoria."

There was no edge of a threat in his voice—just weight. Heavy. Expectant.

Victoria's reply didn't waver. If anything, it softened, like she was settling into a chaise lounge somewhere far away, a glass of wine in hand.

"I don't think I'll be doing that, Mr. Barclay. If you can't even figure out who made such a move on you, then I'm too exposed for my liking. Take this as a formal resignation."

Her words landed like a cold slap. Barclay's breath hitched, his mouth opening to fire back—but the call cut. Click.

He stared at the phone, the screen blinking back to the home display like nothing had happened. Disconnected.

"That bitch…" he muttered under his breath, voice low and venomous. His thumb mashed the screen again—thnk-thnk—redialing the number, only to be met with a dull automated voice: This number is no longer in service.

Barclay's eyes flashed. His hand twitched once, then he threw the phone over the edge of the balcony in a hard, sudden arc—crk—fwsshhh—watching it vanish into the dark below. The device hit something with a distant, hollow clnk, and then silence swallowed it.

"Fuck!" he yelled, voice raw enough to carry into the night air. His hands dragged up into his hair, pulling it back with a force that left it sticking out slightly, disheveled in a way that didn't match his usual immaculate control.

He turned back toward the table where his whiskey glass sat—half-empty, rim smudged with fingerprints. He picked it up, the liquid swirling faintly in the low light, and knocked it back in a single, unceremonious swallow. The glass thudded back down onto the railing, the sound flat and final.

Just as he exhaled, a guard stepped out onto the balcony—black suit, earpiece, expression tight. His steps were soft, but the door's shhhk gave him away.

"Is everything okay, sir?"

Barclay didn't turn. He kept his gaze fixed on the city, the smoke still curling on the horizon like a promise he couldn't keep.

He set the glass down with a little too much force—clnk—then waved a hand toward the darkness.

"Just fine," he muttered. His voice had cooled again, but the words were edged. "Make sure someone finds my phone down there… and destroys it."

The guard nodded once—clean—and turned back inside. Barclay stayed where he was, fingers tightening on the glass rim like it might shatter under his grip.

Out beyond the city, the smoke kept rising.

And Barclay watched. Silent.

———

The next morning…

Don woke up beneath the weight of plush blankets—warm, too soft, the kind of comfort that felt like it had strings attached.

The faint glow of early morning filtered through the tinted glass, casting a dull gray across the hospital suite's polished surfaces. The clock on the wall ticked past six, inching toward seven, though time felt more like a suggestion here than a rule.

He pushed the covers off with a quiet exhale, the fabric folding in on itself with a muted fwhmp. The sheets had the sterile crispness of a five-star clinic—thread count so high it felt almost clinical.

His body felt lighter. The aches had dulled, leaving only a faint hum in his legs where the rocks had been. The catalytic gel had done its job. Maybe too well.

'I should get out of here.' He wasn't the type to linger. This place, with its soft lights and quiet machines, wasn't built for someone like him.

And Samantha—he knew the kind of spiral she'd be in by now, wondering what had happened, if he was even alive.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, the floor cool underfoot. The bag of his attire from the other night sat in the chair nearby, the fabric darkened with dried blood, streaks of green slime, and torn seams. The smell of it—burnt ozone, sweat, a faint iron tang—still lingered, even sealed in plastic.

He took a quick shower, the water running hot enough to sting against healing skin, steam curling up around the glass panels. Drip... drip... drip... He kept it short. No time for reflection in the steam.

Charles's bag was still there—a plain black shirt, brown pants, and, of course, those damn white Crocs.

Don dressed quickly, running a hand through his damp hair, pausing for a second at the mirror. The reflection staring back looked the same, but the eyes… those had picked up something new.

'Too much black,' he thought briefly, tugging at the shirt. 'Maybe I should go shopping with Samantha again.' The thought came unbidden, a faint flicker of normalcy. Him, her. The others. Maybe a day at the boardwalk, maybe a movie that didn't end in blood.

'Focus.' The moment wouldn't last long.

He grabbed his phone from the plastic bag and slid it into his pocket. The device felt heavier than it should, like it had absorbed the weight of the night.

The door slid open behind him—shhhk—and Charles stepped in like he owned the place, still draped in his silver robe, Crocs tapping softly on the polished floor.

His expression was the same mix of casual confidence and mild amusement, but Don caught it—a twitch in the fingers, a slight flex in the wrist when Charles reached for the plate balanced on the tray a nurse carried behind him. He moved like someone used to hiding discomfort.

"Oh good, you're awake," Charles said, voice light, almost too light. He nodded at the nurse, gesturing her forward like a maître d' at an overpriced restaurant.

The nurse smiled, professional and polite, as she approached Don with a plate—bacon, eggs, toast, the kind of breakfast that smelled too good for a hospital wing.

She placed it gently on the bedside tray, murmured a soft "enjoy," and exited with a subtle nod, the door shhhhkt closed behind her.

Charles sipped at the glass of juice he'd taken from the tray, fingers wrapping around it with more care than confidence. The slight wince didn't match the grin on his face.

Don sat on the edge of the bed, plate in hand, the smell of bacon curling around him. He took a bite, the food grounding in a way that felt necessary.

Charles cut into his bacon with the slow movements of someone who enjoyed the performance of eating as much as the meal itself. The fork scraped softly against the plate—clnk—before he added the bacon to his eggs.

"The media's been having a field day with Barclay," Charles said, almost conversational, like they were discussing the weather.

Don glanced up mid-bite, chewing slowly. "What are they saying?"

Charles chuckled, a sound that rolled low and amused in his throat. He looked like a man watching a fire he'd set, hands warming over the heat.

"They're saying enough to cause the right people to start asking questions," he said, voice easy but layered. "My source tells me the Agency's dragging Barclay in for an emergency meeting today—video, incident, all of it on the table."

Don nodded once, lips tightening slightly around the edge of his fork. "Finally. Some good news."

"Indeed." Charles took another sip, eyes half-lidded as he spoke. "The FBI's sniffing around him too. They'll be busy for a while. That buys us time."

Don paused, setting his fork down for a second, brow lifting. "Do you already have a plan?"

Charles's grin flickered—sharp, but not unkind. Like a fox catching the scent of something worth chasing.

"I think you might like what it entails," he said, voice low, the edge of a promise in it.

Don studied him, the weight of the night still settling in his chest. There was something both comforting and unsettling in the way Charles could spin things. A grin like that could lead to salvation or ruin.

Or both.

He chose to lean in for now, curiosity stronger than caution. His voice even, but the undercurrent unmistakable.

"Enlighten me."