Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Don and Miss Claire stood near the VIP entrance, where an usher had directed them at Dean Sanchez's instruction.

The area was quieter compared to the main stadium, but the muffled roar of the crowd could still be heard in the background. The large doors behind them gleamed, with modern architecture marking the exclusive section of the stadium.

Moments later, Dean Sanchez appeared, walking down a red carpet flanked by two bodyguards.

The bodyguards were large, muscular men dressed in black suits with dark sunglasses. Their rigid postures made them look more like statues than humans, moving only to keep pace with the Dean.

Despite his attempts to appear composed, it was obvious Dean Sanchez was rushing—his steps quickened as he approached Don and Miss Claire, his forced smile a little too wide.

"Miss Claire, Don," Dean Sanchez greeted them, trying to sound pleasant, though there was an edge of nervousness in his voice. "I'm so pleased you're here. First of all, allow me to apologize for—"

Before he could finish, Miss Claire cut him off, her voice smooth but dismissive. "Spare us the sophistry," she said, waving a hand in front of her as if brushing away something unimportant. "We're here to do business, not listen to fake apologies."

Dean Sanchez blinked, clearly taken aback by her bluntness. He stuttered for a moment, "Uh, well, ha… I see," he mumbled, forcing an awkward smile as he nodded. "Of course, of course."

Miss Claire barely gave him another glance, instead turning her attention to Don. "My client also needs to join the evaluation," she said, her tone firm. "We can talk properly afterward. Unless you're not interested at all?"

Dean Sanchez's face tightened, his thoughts a mess. 'If I let him take part in the evaluation without declaring for SHU, he could just use this to boost his image and leave for another university. But if I turn him away now... the Chairman will have my head. Damn it, this is all that woman's fault! I hope she gets cancer!'

On the surface, Dean Sanchez forced another smile and nodded his head multiple times. "Of course, of course," he said quickly, gesturing to one of the guards. "You there, what are you waiting for? Lead Mr. Bright to the changing room."

The guard, momentarily confused, nodded swiftly. "Of course, sir," he replied before turning to Don. "This way, sir."

Don nodded but held up a hand. "One moment." He pulled out his phone and sent a quick message to Samantha, letting her know he'd be on soon. He then handed the phone over to Miss Claire.

"Could you keep this for me?" he asked.

Miss Claire accepted the phone with a nod. "Not a problem," she said, before adding, "All the best out there."

Dean Sanchez, eager to move things along, gestured toward Miss Claire. "This way, Miss Claire. I've already had someone prepare a seat for you in the viewing room. Will you be wanting...?" His voice trailed off as they walked, his attempts to make small talk sounding awkward and forced.

Don shook his head at the sight, thinking, 'He's really desperate to keep things smooth.' Turning to the guard, Don said, "Lead the way."

---

Meanwhile, at Samantha's workplace, she sat in the conference room surrounded by her colleagues.

The room was modern and sleek, with glass walls that allowed a view of the bustling office outside. A man at the front of the room was presenting a detailed report, his voice steady as he went over projections and data points.

Samantha listened carefully, but her focus was interrupted when her phone buzzed loudly against the wooden table. The vibration sounded harsh in the otherwise quiet room.

She subtly reached for her phone, lifting it off the table to glance at the screen. It was a message from Don. 'He must be about to go on,' she thought, a small smile forming on her lips as she read the text.

However, the moment she looked down at her phone, one of the women sitting around the conference table narrowed her eyes.

The woman's neat black hair was tied in a tight bun, and her sharp, angular features made her frown look even more severe. She wore a tailored navy blue suit, and her arms were crossed in front of her.

"Is something the matter, Samantha?" the woman asked coldly.

The man at the front stopped speaking, and everyone's eyes turned toward Samantha. She frowned slightly, feeling the pressure of the room's attention.

"Sorry," Samantha cleared her throat. "It's a message from my son, and—"

Before she could finish explaining, the same woman cut in, her tone condescending. "It doesn't matter. This is an important meeting, and—"

But before the woman could finish speaking herself, the man seated at the head of the table spoke up. He was an older man, with salt-and-pepper hair neatly combed back and kind, but firm, eyes behind a pair of glasses.

His well-fitted suit showed a sense of authority, and the way he carried himself made it clear he was used to being in charge.

"That's enough, Isabella," he said calmly but with a clear edge to his words. "What if it's something important? Samantha clearly has something on her mind, and as her colleagues, it's insensitive to just assume otherwise. Don't you think?"

Isabella's face tightened, a deep frown crossing her sharp features. She glanced at the man, then nodded stiffly. "Of course, Mr. Thompson," she said through clenched teeth.

Mr. Thompson nodded at Samantha, his calm demeanor encouraging her to continue. "Go on, Samantha. What were you saying?"

Samantha smiled professionally. "Thank you, sir," she said, clearing her throat before addressing the room. "My son is doing his evaluation at SHU today, and he was just telling me that he's about to go on."

As Samantha spoke, Isabella narrowed her eyes in clear suspicion but remained silent until Samantha had finished.

Then, with a smirk, she leaned forward slightly. "You couldn't come up with a better excuse, Samantha?" Isabella's voice was sharp and full of disbelief. "I have a nephew who goes to SHU, so I know today they're only evaluating students in the city's Elite Hero Program. You expect me to believe your son is among them? Please."

The room grew tense.

Mr. Thompson didn't immediately say anything but looked thoughtfully at Samantha, as if weighing Isabella's words.

A few people around the conference table exchanged glances, some nodding in agreement with Isabella. One of the men said, "That's true, only the Elite Hero Program students are being evaluated today."

Others, however, voiced a different opinion. "Maybe her son is in the program. Who are you to dismiss her without proof?" one person countered.

Another shook his head. "Oh, please. If just anyone could join that program, my son would be in it too."

Samantha's frown deepened, but she remained composed. "My son just isn't anyone," she said firmly, her voice calm but resolute. "If you don't believe me, that's fine. But please don't insult me by calling me a liar."

Her words cut through the murmurs in the room, and the tension grew as everyone turned their eyes back to Mr. Thompson, awaiting his response.

Samantha, feeling the growing discomfort, turned to him directly.

"Sir," she began, "may I step out to stream my son's evaluation?"

Mr. Thompson leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing as he considered the request. 'I've never seen Samantha this passionate about something,' he thought to himself. 'She's not a liar, I'm sure of that... but this might be a good opportunity to win her over. She doesn't make that easy.'

After a brief moment, he maintained his gentle smile and stood up, gesturing for the room to calm down. "Alright, that's enough," he said, his voice authoritative but relaxed. "We've already covered the main points of the meeting. Why not take a little break and watch the evaluation?"

He smiled. "I'd also like to see what our city has to offer this year. After all, don't forget, we're a partial sponsor of SHU."

Isabella, visibly irritated, narrowed her eyes further. "Sir, I don't think it's appropriate to—"

But before she could finish, several men around the table nodded in agreement with Mr. Thompson, clearly curious about the evaluation. Isabella clicked her tongue in frustration, crossing her arms as she glared at the table.

Mr. Thompson nodded toward the man operating the projector. "Can you set up the stream?"

The man hesitated. "Uh, one moment, sir," he said, quickly typing on his laptop and searching for the live broadcast. After a few clicks, he turned back. "I've found the stream, but it's charging 2.99 credits."

Mr. Thompson waved his hand dismissively. "Pay it."

The man grumbled under his breath but complied, entering the payment details. A few seconds later, the stream appeared on the large presentation screen, showing a wide view of the stadium.

The camera panned around, capturing the field and the crowd in the stands. The vibrant energy of the event was evident, even through the screen.

Isabella raised an eyebrow, her tone irritated as she asked, "So, where's your son?"

Before Samantha could answer, the commentators' voices filled the room.

"Apologies for the delay, folks," the first commentator said, his voice lively and full of anticipation. "We've just gotten word that a late entry will be coming out soon. If you've been keeping an eye on social media, you probably already know him."

Samantha leaned forward slightly, her eyes glued to the screen as she listened intently.

"We don't have any official details on his powers," the second commentator continued, "but rumors say his fist packs a *mean* punch. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Santos City's very own Central Mall Hero, Dooooon Bright!"

The camera zoomed in as Don emerged onto the field, casually waving at the crowd.

He wore the standard training suit that all students wore during physical courses, a no-frills black uniform designed for flexibility and practicality.

Compared to the flashy costumes of the other candidates, Don's appearance was remarkably ordinary—no dazzling features, no vibrant colors, no signature emblems.

His short black hair and calm demeanor made him look like any regular student.

In the conference room, the shift in atmosphere was immediate. The people who had been skeptical now looked confused, exchanging glances, as if trying to reconcile Samantha's earlier claim with the ordinary-looking boy on the screen.

A few of them muttered quietly, their expressions ranging from curious to envious.

"Well, that's her son, alright," one of the men said, raising an eyebrow. "Samantha Bright, right? It's the same name."

Another person muttered, "He looks pretty... normal, doesn't he?"

Despite the murmurs around her, Samantha's focus never wavered. Her eyes were glued to the screen, and a warm, proud smile spread across her face as she watched Don make his way onto the field.

As the camera zoomed in on Don, the crowd in the stadium cheered, though the volume wasn't as deafening as it had been for the earlier students.

Still, Don's presence seemed to create a sense of anticipation among those watching—especially those who had followed his previous actions on social media.

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