Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere-Chapter 333: Crisis In Santos City (Part 5)

Winter remained outside, her figure still and focused, despite the chaos that had already come and gone.

Five minutes had passed since Medusa, Pantheress, and Egor had made their escape, but she wasn't one to assume a battle was over just because the main players had left. The network was still down, leaving a lingering vulnerability. Until it was back online, she wasn't moving.

Her drone eye tracked the vehicle carrying the fleeing enemies, its interface feeding her real-time telemetry. Their speed, direction, projected route—everything was being recorded.

If necessary, she could monitor them from anywhere, but proximity still had its advantages. More attacks were possible, however unlikely, and logic dictated that staying in position ensured a faster response.

Then, without warning, her HUD flickered. A brief delay, a static distortion, then—ping—the network was restored.

Winter blinked once, then shifted out of her rigid stance. Her system worked fast, immediately transmitting a report. She knew she'd be among the first to do so. Timing was everything—those who caught the exact moment a system rebooted were always a step ahead in information relay.

As her report went through, she tapped out a message to Samantha.

[ The network has been restored and I am currently reporting the incident to the police. Don should now be reachable, but I still advise remaining in the room until the situation is better resolved. If you require food or water to be brought up, please let me know. ]

She sent it without hesitation. Samantha would check it fast—she always did.

———

Upstairs, the moment Samantha's phone buzzed, everyone in the room tensed.

Summer, who had been perched anxiously on the edge of the bed, snapped up. "Is that Winter? Is it safe to go out?"

Samantha didn't answer right away. Her eyes skimmed the message, processing its contents, but her focus immediately zeroed in on one thing: Don can now be reached.

Without another thought, she hit the call button.

———

Back at the stadium, the once-grand ground floor was a wreck. The damage stretched across the space in jagged cracks, shattered fixtures, and collapsed beams. Walls bore deep gashes from stray gunfire and raw force, debris layered across the ruined floor in a scatter.

The bodies were worse. Some lay motionless, lifeless. Others were still breathing, but only barely—shallow, ragged inhales hinting at the pain keeping them tethered to consciousness.

Blood pooled in uneven streaks, smearing the once-polished floors with evidence of the battle that had taken place.

Don stood among the destruction, his chest rising and falling in steady breaths. He turned slightly, angling his ear, filtering out the immediate surroundings to focus on more distant sounds.

The stadium was a mess of noise.

Screams.

Cries.

Children wailing for their parents, voices breaking in panic, some desperate, some angry. Questions were being hurled—What's happening? Who's responsible? What do we do?—but no one had answers. Pleas for help cut through the din, raw and terrified.

There were still attackers in there. That much was obvious.

For any true hero, the next move would be clear—rush in and save the people.

Don, however, was not a true hero.

Right now, he was sore, mentally drained, and not particularly eager to throw himself into another fight. His muscles ached beneath his skin, the lingering strain of his Beastshift ability wearing on him.

But as much as he was concerned for his family, leaving the scene while people were still in danger wouldn't look good. Not for him, not for the image he had to maintain.

Charles stood beside him, noticeably more out of breath, though he masked it well. He hadn't been gifted with Don's unnatural stamina and endurance boosts, which made his performance in the battle all the more impressive.

Before Don could ask for his thoughts, his pocket vibrated.

For a moment, he had genuinely forgotten his phone was still intact.

Charles exhaled, reaching for his own device. "Looks like the network's back."

Don pulled out his phone, giving it a quick once-over. The screen was cracked, fractures splintering from the corners like spiderwebs. The frame bore a few dents, a result of the multiple floors he had crashed through.

Charles's phone, by comparison, was in much better shape. Probably because he hadn't taken the scenic route through layers of concrete.

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Don glanced at the caller ID.

Samantha.

Don barely let the first ring pass before answering the call.

"Hello? Mom, are you alright?"

The relief in Samantha's exhale was almost tangible, her voice shaking slightly as she spoke. "Yes, sweetie… we're fine here. Please tell me you're okay? The house got attacked, but Winter handled it. I was so worried—"

Don cut her off before she could finish. A cold unease crept into his gut.

"Attacked?" His grip on the phone tightened. "By Green Thorns?"

"I-I'm not sure, sweetie," Samantha admitted, her uncertainty clear. "Winter told us to wait upstairs while she handled it. She says it's safe now and has called the police, so please—just get here if you can. The city isn't safe right now."

That much was obvious. The air in the ruined lobby still smelled like blood and gunpowder.

Don was about to respond when he and Charles instinctively turned his head toward the entrance.

**CRASH—**

The wrecked glass doors splintered further as a figure flew through them, a red blur landing in the debris with ease. Redstar.

Don raised a curious brow but kept his voice even. "I'll be there as soon as it's safe enough to head out. I have to go for now—let me know if anything else happens." His tone remained clipped, distant. "Love you."

He ended the call without waiting for a response.

It wasn't personal—if he were alone, he would've let some emotion slip, reassured her properly. But he wasn't alone. Showing too much concern for his family in front of Charles? That was basically admitting to a weakness. And with Redstar hovering in earshot, listening in with her own enhanced hearing? That was another set of eyes on him, judging.

Better to keep things controlled. Professional.

Redstar drifted forward, moving past the shattered entrance as armed men in tactical gear flooded in behind her, spreading out in tight formation. Their weapons weren't raised, but their stance was rigid, eyes scanning every inch of the room. A practiced sweep.

Behind them, two figures entered at a slower, more steady pace.

The first was a man—early 30s, white, fit but weathered. His crisp dark suit sat neatly against a strong frame, the kind of build that came from years of fieldwork rather than gym sessions. His hair was cropped short, a few strands of gray already forming at the temples.

Beside him walked a woman, just as composed but exuding a different kind of authority. Tall, curvy, with deep brown skin and a sharp, severe expression that made it clear she tolerated very little nonsense. Her short-cut hair framed a face that rarely softened. Everything about her stance, from the precise way she moved to the exacting way she surveyed the room, screamed no-nonsense.

The response team didn't distract Redstar. She'd seen it all before—emergency teams flooding in, securing sites, sweeping areas littered with bodies. To her, this was just another post-incident routine. Her gaze flicked between Don and Charles, scanning them briefly before shifting to the fallen.

Even in just a few seconds, she could read the fight. The precision in the injuries, the efficiency in the takedowns. And more than that—how intact Don and Charles were.

For two young men, practically boys in her eyes, their condition was impressive. No severe injuries, no obvious signs of exhaustion beyond what was natural. That alone said more than words ever could.

But she didn't say anything.

Instead, without a word, she simply hovered higher and flew up through the wreckage Don had left in his wake.

Don watched her go, expression unreadable. He couldn't tell what she was thinking. Approval? Suspicion? It didn't matter—not right now.

His focus shifted to the two agents who had stopped just two feet away.

The man spoke first, flipping open his badge. "FBI. I'm Agent Nick Hathaway, and this is Agent Margaret Defoe."

Defoe mirrored the action, her badge held steady as she studied them.

Hathaway gave them a firm, assessing look before continuing, "Do you mind having a word with us?"