Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Don wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his sleeve, his breath steadying as he stood in the center of the cluttered mill.

The scattered screws, wires, and bolts laying at his feet were the evidence of a task he finally completed. He glanced at his watch, noting the time.

'Five minutes and forty-three seconds.'

It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things, but it was longer than yesterday—and that was enough.

"I'm definitely keeping focus longer," he murmured, his voice low and hoarse.

He straightened up, rolling his shoulders as his gaze drifted across the room. The dim light filtering through the perforated roof cast uneven shadows over the hulking, rusted machinery.

His eyes settled on a battered lathe, a rolling mill cylinder lying on its side, and a mangled conveyor belt assembly.

'There's time for one more exercise I guess.' The thought spurred him into motion. His boots splashed in shallow puddles as he walked toward the machines, his posture slightly hunched from fatigue but his steps steady.

He stopped near the lathe, running a hand over its corroded surface.

"Too tired for anything complicated," he muttered, tilting his head back to glance upward. Two towering structures loomed over the far side of the hall, their skeletal frames jagged and rust-streaked.

They looked like remnants of an old storage framework, maybe gantries or silos, their purpose hard to tell.

He stared at them for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Stacking these up there is better. Tests both strength and control."

Don took a deep breath, his glowing eyes narrowing as he readied himself. He extended his reach, focusing on the rolling mill cylinder first. It was bulky and uneven, its jagged edges coated in grime.

With a faint hum, the object trembled, then slowly lifted off the ground.

The moment the weight left the floor, Don felt it—a dull, invisible pressure on his mind. It wasn't unbearable, but it was far from comfortable. The sensation reminded him of lifting something heavy with his arms—not impossible, but every second added strain.

The cylinder hovered unsteadily in the air, swaying slightly as Don adjusted his focus. His jaw tightened, and his brows furrowed as he moved it upward toward one of the towers.

"Keep it steady," he muttered to himself, his voice strained.

Next, he focused on the lathe, its uneven shape making it trickier to balance. The pressure on his mind doubled as he lifted it, the weight bearing down on his senses like a tangible force. He could feel the edges of his focus fraying, the strain creeping into his mind.

The two objects hovered side by side as he maneuvered them upward, inch by painstaking inch. The towers weren't exceptionally tall—maybe four or five meters—but every movement felt like a monumental task.

Finally, a sharp throb pulsed through his skull, and he winced. His nose prickled, and a familiar warmth began to drip down.

"Argh!" Don groaned, his concentration faltering and his hold on the objects slipping.

The rolling mill cylinder crashed to the ground first with a deafening **BOOM**, its impact sending vibrations through the floor.

Loose parts of the lathe followed, breaking off with metallic **clangs** as they scattered across the room.

Smaller shards ricocheted off rusted surfaces, one of them pinging against a steel beam with a loud **ting**.

Don staggered backward, clutching his head as he leaned forward to steady himself. His breaths came in short, sharp gasps, and blood dripped freely from one nostril, staining the floor below.

He didn't bother looking up at the mess. Instead, he stayed there, bent forward with one hand braced on his knee, the other gripping his temple.

"Not surprise there," he muttered bitterly, his voice barely audible over the echoing aftermath.

The total weight of the machines was roughly 900 kilograms—about 2,000 pounds. Far heavier than what he'd attempted last time, and he hadn't even held it as long.

He straightened slowly, wiping his nose with his sleeve. The metallic taste of blood lingered on his tongue, a clear reminder of his limits.

His gaze then drifted to the fallen cylinder and the scattered debris, his expression unreadable. He could only click his tongue in irritation before taking another deep breath.

"Too much, too soon."

Still, despite the failure, there was something satisfying in the attempt itself. Progress wasn't always clean or measured—it was messy, grueling, and unforgiving. And he wasn't done yet.

Not even close.

Don heaved another, deeper sigh, the sound echoing faintly in the hollow expanse of the steel mill. It was a sigh of disappointment, though not entirely unexpected.

He hadn't seriously believed he could succeed—not while already running on fumes from the last exercise.

Still, he couldn't shake the thought that pushing himself like this was necessary.
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His eyes soon drifted to the mess around him—the fallen machines, the scattered debris, the dents left in the floor where the heavier pieces had landed. The scene brought back memories he hadn't wanted to relive, but that always hovered at the edges of his mind: the farm, the mutant, Amanda.

He hadn't forgotten the way his telekinetic abilities had saved both their lives that day. If he hadn't been able to endure the pressure then, to fight back with everything he had, they wouldn't have made it out.

It wasn't an exaggeration to think they'd have died.

And if he could push himself to the point where he could maintain control of this kind of weight for minutes at a time, the possibilities in combat—no, in life—were endless. His powers would be more than just a simple tool.

Don's gaze dropped to the puddle at his feet, the murky surface reflecting a dim and distorted version of himself. A single drop of blood fell from his nose, landing with a faint plop and rippling outward.

He stared at the ripples for a moment longer, then let out another sigh, longer this time.

"That's enough," he said quietly. He knew his limits, and he'd reached them. There was no point in pushing himself until he passed out—what good would that do?

Straightening, he wiped at his face one last time, feeling the metallic taste of blood creeping into the back of his throat. The dizziness was still there, subtle but insistent. Spitting to one side, he turned toward the door.

The rain greeted him immediately as he stepped back out into the open, the sound of it drumming against the ground and the car nearby. Don walked toward his car, his boots squelching in the wet gravel.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, he glanced at the screen. A notification blinked at him: a message from Summer, sent three minutes ago.

———

Hey dummy, mom said to hurry up with whatever you're doing, lunch is ready.

———

The words brought a faint smile to his face. Tucking the phone back into his pocket, he shook his head slightly, muttering to himself.

"Can always count on her to bring me back to reality."

As he reached the car and opened the door, the initial weight on his mind—the frustration, the lingering doubts—seemed to lift, if only slightly. His thoughts were clearer now, even if the fatigue was still heavy.

Sliding into the driver's seat, Don shut the door behind him with a firm **thunk**. The rain continued to streak across the windshield, but he didn't start the car immediately. Instead, he sat there for a moment, his head leaning back against the seat.