Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere
Chapter 391 - 391: The Truth (Part 1)

The pilots didn't miss beat after being given the go ahead. They adjusted heading slightly, the hum of the rotors shifting pitch with the movement.

Don kept his eyes on the valley. The flames didn't spread far. Not as far as he'd expected. But the brightness… that heat, in the tunnels? It would've been catastrophic.

He wondered if he could've survived it in his current state. Probably not. Not cleanly, anyway.

His mind started wandering again. Not far. Just enough to make the trip harder.

The more comfortable he got with his powers—the reflexes, the strength, the way his body responded without question—the more his mind started asking things it wasn't ready to answer.

What happens if I can't win next time?

What happens if I get badly hurt?

What happens when I die again?

He shut his eyes and let the thoughts drift. Just for a second. Just long enough for the hospital to finally come into view.

St. James Superhuman Teaching Hospital wasn't subtle.

The complex looked like a fusion of government budget and private wealth—angled chrome towers, overlapping platforms, reinforced helipads outlined in blue sensor strips. T

he main structure rose wide rather than tall, its top levels shaped like a tiered prism with staggered solar panels catching moonlight instead of sun.

Specialized air traffic moved like clockwork—rescue drones, carrier skiffs, a cargo shuttle. All automated. No room for freelance saviors or street-level vigilantes. This place was meant for the real ones.

Heroes, villains, and everything unfortunate enough to be in between.

They weren't common. Hospitals like this. There weren't many to begin with. Not enough trained staff. Not enough funding. Not enough willingness to handle people who could accidentally melt the walls.

Don felt the jolt as the chopper made contact. **THNK**. The landing skids touched down with weight. The side door opened a second later.

Waiting for him was a small team in white and gray uniforms. No one in a rush. No one anxious.

Professional.

The chief stepped forward first. Older. Chinese-American, hair pulled back into a tight bun. She was short, but stood like the floor owed her taxes. Her eyes moved over Don in one pass.

"Welcome, Mr. Bright," she said, accent thick but confident. "I am Dr. Yuen, chief medical officer. You walk, or we carry?"

Don raised an eyebrow, then stood. His legs hurt, but they worked. "I walk."

"Good," she nodded. "Always start with good news."

The other doctors formed around her—six in total, all in matching jackets with subtle patches indicating specialty.

One of them stepped forward. Young man, late twenties. Mixed Indian descent, hair slicked back, accent unmistakably American.

"Dr. Singh," he said. "Biotech systems and regenerative trauma. I'll be assisting with the extraction."

Another.

A young woman, dark skin and braids pulled into a high bun, British accent crisp.

"Dr. Mensah. Neurological anomalies and meta-response diagnostics."

Then a blonde woman in her thirties, posture straight enough to iron a shirt on. Posh American accent. Eyes clinical.

"Dr. Blair. Genetic mapping and endocrine conflict therapy."

The rest were varied—Latina woman in energy field manipulation, older man from Korea specializing in muscular degradation prevention for overexerted mutants. Everyone had a niche. Everyone looked like they knew exactly what to do.

They were all attractive, in the detached, confident way people became when they'd stopped second-guessing themselves.

Dr. Blair looked like the type who did Pilates and paperwork at the same time. Dr. Mensah's smile barely cracked her face, but her eyes were focused. Dr. Singh had the kind of energy that made people think he jogged recreationally and somehow enjoyed it.

Dr. Yuen clapped once. "Vitals. Basics first."

They led Don through a glass corridor—walls soundproofed, floors clean enough to reflect shapes rather than detail.

"So," Dr. Yuen asked, glancing at her tablet, "what hurts, Mr. Bright?"

He didn't pause. "There's rock fragments in my legs and feet. Some soreness. Headache. Nothing too serious."

Yuen nodded once. "Good. But we scan anyway. Just in case dying is creative today."

Don exhaled. "Sounds like you just want to up the bill."

"Of course," she said, deadpan. "Hospital's expensive. We fundraise with trauma."

He couldn't tell if she was serious or joking. Didn't matter.

"Fine," he muttered. "You're the professionals."

"Excellent," she said. Then, without looking up from her tablet, "Dr. Singh, prep for foreign material extraction. Size and depth unknown."

"Yes, Chief," Singh replied, already peeling off his gloves and replacing them with a fresh pair as he motioned toward a door ahead.

Don followed. He didn't feel like arguing.

Not yet.

———

Roughly an hour later, Don lay across a high-end recovery bed inside one of the hospital's VIP suites—referred to here as "Tier One Critical Comfort Units."

Which basically meant you got silk-trimmed robes and an ocean-facing view while someone examined your organs.

The room was too clean, like it had never actually been used. No smell of antiseptic. No scuffed floors. Just ambient blue lighting tucked into the corners and a wall-mounted screen muted in the background, its brightness dialed down low.

Don wasn't wearing much. Just briefs, a thin blanket covering his waist. Both legs were exposed—streaked faintly with dried blood and a few lingering flecks of surgical ink. On either side, two doctors worked with steady hands and advanced extraction tools, drawing out embedded fragments one by one.

The tools didn't hum or click. They pulsed. Quiet electromagnetic vibrations. One of them buzzed faintly against his calf—vmmmnk—as a shard came loose and dropped into a sterile tray.

He didn't speak. Didn't flinch either. Just watched the ceiling while the wall-mounted television played the evening news on a low drone in the background.

Dr. Singh leaned in slightly, eyes scanning the scanner's readout as he adjusted the angle of approach. "These fragments... they're unusually deep. He's already started sealing around them. Can't be more than a few hours old though."

Dr. Mensah stood nearby, checking Don's vitals on the digital display. Her fingers tapped along the screen fast. "He was given a regenerative inhibitor beforehand. Good call. If we'd waited longer, we'd be cutting through live tissue just to reach them."

The tray clinked again—tk-chk—another rock dropped.

At the far end of the room, the door slid open with a soft shhhhht, and a nurse entered carrying two more datapads.

"Bloodwork and structural density analysis," she said, handing them to Dr. Blair, who had been leaning against the wall with her arms folded, observing more than intervening.

She took one look at the scans, raised an eyebrow, and walked toward the bed.

"His cellular adaptation is off the charts," she murmured. "He's adjusting in real time. Not just healing. Rerouting damage responses mid-process."

Dr. Yuen finally entered from the side room, still drying her hands with a cloth. Her voice came like an observation rather than praise.

"Definitely one of the best I've seen."

She approached the bedside, looked Don over without sentiment.

"You feel pain?"

Don didn't look at her. "Some. Not a lot."

"Good," she nodded. "Still tells me nerves intact. Still tells me human."

One of the doctors chuckled faintly at that. Probably used to her humor.

Dr. Singh glanced up, speaking while pressing down gently on Don's shin. "He's got some microfractures from blunt impact. Nothing too alarming. But there's heat stress along the outer bone lattice. Possibly from overexertion."

"Possibly?" Don muttered without looking.

Singh smiled faintly. "Your version of overexertion probably doesn't come with warning labels."

Dr. Yuen crossed to the side terminal, inputting something into the system. "Keep scanning. We remove all fragments. Even small ones. No shortcuts."

Don didn't argue. He just shifted slightly to rest his head more firmly against the propped pillow. The screen on the wall continued its coverage—nothing dramatic, just footage on loop. Explosions. Forest burning. Grainy nighttime clips of fire seen from distant rooftops.

The anchor spoke over it with the usual detached urgency. "Authorities have yet to clarify what caused the sudden detonations in the Santos Valley area, though emergency services and several federal agencies have confirmed an active investigation is underway…"

Don watched it all without blinking. The footage repeated. Again and again. Trees lighting up.

But then, a different voice cut in as the segment changed.

"And now, another angle. Footage has surfaced online showing billionaire Harold Barclay ordering the deployment of supposedly armed androids shortly before the explosions. The video, which has already sparked massive debate, appears to show—"

Don's brow lifted slightly.

The screen showed Barclay—standing by the side of the road, gesturing, speaking. Clear audio. Too clear.

He wasn't yelling. He was giving orders. Men in suits. Androids being offloaded. A clear view of the serials. Enough to link to him.

Don's gaze didn't move. But his mind did.

They were going to eat him alive.

No one knew the full story yet, but it didn't matter. People didn't care about full stories. They wanted blood. They wanted a villain. And tonight, Barclay just handed them a target with a silver bow.

Don could already picture the others—Charles, Hathaway, probably even Barclay himself—wondering where the footage had come from. Who leaked it. Why. When. He doubted any of them had answers.

Didn't matter.

This was what the public wanted. A headline. A new theory. A distraction.

Even without evidence, chaos would follow. Not the kind that burns cities—but the kind that hums in forums, loops in algorithm cycles, spreads through inboxes and "breaking story" chyrons.

And if someone pushed it just right… it could become more.

Don didn't smile. But he felt something shift. A little weight off the shoulders.

Maybe this was what the upper circles felt like—watching the ground below shake for someone else while you stayed still. Waiting.

He let the thought fade as another rock came free from his thigh. Chk-thnk

One of the nurses wiped down the site. Another scanned his vitals again.

Dr. Yuen's voice came again, quieter this time. "You're lucky. If the rocks reached deeper, we'd be treating bone loss."

Don didn't respond.

He just turned his head, let it fall slightly toward the other side, and stared at the screen again as the news anchor continued to speculate.

And for once, he didn't mind the noise.

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