Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere
Chapter 392 - 392: The Truth (Part 2)

The procedure had dragged on for hours—not due to complexity, but because the medical team insisted on meticulousness.

Each shard of rock was extracted with the precision of a jeweler, the nurses and doctors moving with a care that bordered on obsession.

Once the final fragment was removed and the wounds cleansed, they stepped back, revealing legs already beginning to mend, courtesy of the catalytic gel accelerating cellular regeneration.

Dr. Yuen approached, her expression as unreadable as ever.

"Operation successful," she said in her characteristic clipped English. "No rock left. But you stay overnight. We watch your body patterns. Make sure you not turn into plant or something."

A couple of nurses chuckled, their laughter a touch too eager.

Don didn't respond, his eyes fixed on the television mounted on the wall. The news continued to loop footage of the earlier explosions, the screen dominated by the image of Harold Barclay. He barely registered Dr. Yuen and her team's departure, her footsteps fading into the corridor.

The room was quiet, save for the hum of medical equipment, the retreating footsteps and the low murmur of the television. Then, the screen flashed a new banner: "Breaking News." The anchor, visibly animated, leaned forward.

"We've just received reports of an operation tonight in the Santos Valley area," she announced. "Authorities attempted to locate the nest of the plant-based parasite responsible for the recent 'green thorn' incidents."

The medical staff, mid-departure, paused, their attention drawn to the screen. Some glanced at Don, their expressions a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

"What was intended as a reconnaissance mission quickly escalated," the anchor continued. "The team entered the tunnels beneath the wooded area and failed to report back. This prompted intervention from the FBI and the Santos Hero Department."

Don's gaze remained steady, his face impassive.

"Among those on-site were elite hero program candidates Don Bright and Charles Monclaire IV, both currently suspended. Details are scarce, but it's confirmed that a significant confrontation occurred, resulting in multiple casualties and injuries."

Behind the anchor, bodycam footage played—grainy, chaotic scenes of the tunnel incursion. Don noted the edits, the omissions. Probably for the best.

The anchor's voice overlaid the footage. "Agent Defoe, one of the FBI operatives involved, had this to say:"

A clip played, Defoe's voice measured. "It was an absolutely catastrophic situation, but we're relieved to have neutralized the threat. I advise the public to remain cautious, but know that brave individuals risked—and lost—their lives to keep the city safe."

The clip ended, and the anchor resumed. "No official comment has been released by Harold Barclay or the Agency regarding the trending video footage."

Don's lips curled into a faint, sardonic smile. A hero, they'd now call him. He leaned back, the hospital bed creaking beneath him.

**Thud** **Thud**

Footsteps echoed from the hallway. Don turned his head toward the door.

Charles stood there, grinning, clad in briefs, a silver robe, and white Crocs. A silver designer bag dangled from one hand.

Charles paused there for a moment then stepped in, posture loose, eyes half-lidded like he'd just strolled in from a spa retreat rather than a disaster site.

The silver robe draped over his shoulders shifted as he moved, the faint shimmer catching the muted lighting from the ceiling panels. His bag swung slightly at his side—a designer piece that looked out of place in the clinical environment, the sort of accessory that said wealthy boredom more than utility.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the mood changed. Subtle, but it shifted like an unseen wind. The doctors in the room—Dr. Yuen, Dr. Singh, Dr. Mensah, the others—turned as if compelled by some unspoken cue.

Their postures straightened. Shoulders squared. Hands fell still. Like students caught mid-whisper by the headmaster. Even the subtle background noises—the soft vmm of monitors, the faint ping of readouts—seemed to quieter.

Dr. Yuen was the first to move. She approached Charles with a step that was both practiced and a little too fast, wiping her hands on a cloth before tucking it into her coat pocket. Her face broke into a wide, almost artificial smile, her words tumbling out in her usual clipped cadence.

"Ah! Sorry, sorry we not receive you, Mr. Monclaire," she said, her voice lilting in a strange mix of formality and streetwise charm. "Didn't know you here already!" She gestured vaguely toward the doorway as if to prove her point.

The tone carried that same odd undercurrent—like a sketchy vendor trying to sell a knockoff watch with a wink.

Charles didn't even glance at her properly. He waved off the apology like brushing lint off a sleeve, the grin he gave them wide enough to show teeth.

"Think nothing of it. You know me," he replied smoothly, voice light with a confidence that didn't quite match the bruises still faintly visible along his arms and neck. "I wouldn't dare harm this temple of mine I call a body."

The room laughed. Too hard. Too fast. Dr. Yuen, Dr. Singh, even Dr. Blair—the one who hadn't smiled once during the entire procedure—let out a tight chuckle that bordered on nervous. The kind of laugh you give when you're not sure if the joke's funny but you know you should laugh anyway. Like their paychecks depended on it.

Only Dr. Yuen seemed unfazed, tapping her tablet once as if checking a stock price. Charles's grin didn't waver, but his eyes tracked them with a casual flick—just enough to catch the cracks behind the professional polish.

Then, as if dismissing a class, he added, "If you don't mind, could we have the room for a moment?"

Dr. Yuen's response was immediate. A nod, too quick to be natural. "Yes, yes, of course. Not a problem." She spun on her heel, gesturing sharply at the others like a conductor cutting off a symphony.

They shuffled out in a parade of nods and murmured goodnights, footsteps a mix of hurried and overly polite as they moved toward the exit. The door shhhhhted shut behind them, sealing the room in a heavy, sterile quiet.

Charles exhaled sharply through his nose the moment they were gone, like the weight of pretending had finally slid off his shoulders. He glanced around the room, eyes flicking over the equipment, the faint hum of machinery, the smell of antiseptic that clung to the walls like damp fog.

"A bunch of greedy vultures," he muttered, voice low, almost bored.

He let the bag drop onto the chair beside Don's bed with a soft thud, the straps sliding off the armrest in a lazy fall. Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, "Brought you a change of clothes."

Don's gaze hadn't moved from the TV, where the news cycle kept spinning its web—footage looping over and over of the explosions, the burning trees, the androids being offloaded. Harold Barclay's name plastered in bold beneath the scrolling banner.

Charles's eyes locked onto the screen too, his grin fading into a neutral stare. "I see you're up to date with everything," he said, crossing his arms. His tone was casual, but his fingers drummed once on his sleeve—restless, calculating. "I managed to negotiate with Agent Hathaway into agreeing to put the story out early. You know, to deflate the heat before it chokes us. Though I didn't expect the Barclay piece. Or the explosions."

Don turned slightly, just enough to glance at Charles out of the corner of his eye. His expression barely shifted, but there was a faint lift at the edge of his mouth—a twitch of wry disbelief, perfectly feigned.

"And here I thought that was your doing."

Charles chuckled, low and amused. The sound had an almost metallic ring to it, like the blade of a knife dragged lightly across glass. He shook his head, slow, the silver fabric of his robe shifting with the motion.

"I wish," he replied, and for a brief second, Don couldn't tell if Charles actually believed that or not. There was no certainty in the grin—just an ease that was practiced, maybe too smooth. The man had layers, and Don wasn't inclined to peel them back tonight.

Charles didn't linger on the thought. His gaze returned to the screen, a flicker of something unreadable passing through his expression before he spoke again.

"It could've been my brother's doing. Maybe the explosions to get rid of us. And this leak… to get rid of Barclay."

Don absorbed that. 'Sounds like a ruthless guy.' The thought drifted in without resistance. 'Well, he's the FBI's problem now.'

But then Charles's voice shifted, the lightness evaporating as he stepped away from Don's bed, heading toward the door. His robe shifted faintly as he moved, the hem catching slightly on the edge of the chair before pulling free.

"No," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else. His hand paused on the door panel, fingers hovering over the sensor. He didn't press it.

"That would be letting him off too easily," he added, voice lower now, weight settling in. He glanced back over his shoulder, and the expression on his face wasn't a smile anymore. It wasn't even a smirk. It was colder. Focused.

"I want him and everything he cares for buried. Just like he intended for us."

Don blinked. It wasn't the words that surprised him, but the when. He'd expected Charles to let the matter go, to brush it off with the same half-laugh he gave to everything else. But this? This had teeth.

Don didn't hesitate, though. His tone was level. Unbothered.

"I don't mind delivering some poetic justice."

Charles's lips twitched faintly at that. Almost a smile, but not quite. A quiet acknowledgment. Then he stepped back, turning toward the exit for real this time.

"We'll talk more in the morning. Seven."

The door shhhked open at his gesture, the soft hiss of air marking his departure. Charles didn't look back. The silver robe swayed behind him, Crocs slapping lightly against the floor as he disappeared into the hall.

Don's gaze lingered on the door for a moment longer, his thoughts slipping back to the news on the screen. His reflection stared back at him faintly, distorted by the glass.

He leaned back into the pillows, eyes half-lidded, letting the weight of the moment settle on his chest like a second blanket.

The monitor beside him continued its quiet beep… beep… beep, the sound steady. Detached. Just like the world outside.