Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere
Chapter 405 - 405: The Truth (Part 12)

Meanwhile at SHQ, the double doors of the main chamber clicked shut behind Harold Barclay, their heavy brass fixtures muffling the echoes of murmured voices within.

Barclay didn't look back. His steps were paced as he moved down the wide hallway, its polished floors reflecting the overhead lighting in muted waves.

On either side of the corridor stood stone effigies of former Directors and celebrated heroes, a silent, unmoving audience carved from granite and pride. Portraits of those who'd shaped the city's heroic legacy lined the walls, painted with an artistry that turned each face into a myth.

Their gazes followed Harold Barclay as he walked, each step a reminder that no one stayed untouchable forever.

He stopped midway between two statues, the one on his left depicting Aegis Valor in his ceremonial armor, the right a young heroine who'd died on a crucial mission. He ignored them both, reaching into his blazer to pull out a folded cloth. His palm was damp.

**Swipe** **Swipe**

He wiped it harshly, like the sweat was personally insulting him. The scowl on his face deepened with each pass, the cloth rumpled by the effort.

Footsteps approached from behind, steady and unhurried. He heard them but made no move to acknowledge the presence. Not until a voice followed.

"You should have just told the truth, Harold."

Barclay closed his eyes for half a second, jaw tightening before relaxing into something more neutral. He tucked the cloth back into his blazer with precise fingers, smoothed the fabric out like it mattered, and finally turned his head.

Director Graham—no, former Director Graham—stood a few paces behind, hands clasped lightly in front of him. Despite being out of office, the man still wore the same charcoal suit and half-smile that had once made him seem invincible in a room full of suits with something to prove.

"I did," Barclay said evenly. "Or would you have preferred fiction?"

His tone was civil, but the words were strained at the edges. He turned his body slightly, enough to face Graham properly, posture rigid with just enough relaxation to appear composed to a passing observer.

"You're not Director anymore. My matters shouldn't concern you."

Graham took a step closer, eyes glancing over the same statues Barclay had ignored. He scoffed lightly—not in derision, but in that tired way older men do when disappointment starts to feel routine.

"It doesn't concern me personally," he replied, voice calm. "But what does is the institution's name being dragged through every gutter in this city because of your… judgment."

He gestured vaguely toward the chamber behind them, then lowered his hand, voice tightening.

"We're already on thin ice with the federal offices trying to push contracts through. They want the young blood—clean records, fresh faces. And now this? Scandal, mystery explosions, a grainy video, and your name stamped across half of it?"

Barclay's face barely moved, though his eyes sharpened at the phrasing. He replied quietly, but without apology.

"What did I do exactly? Speak truth? Say what I saw?"

Graham frowned. His usually warm and composed expression cracked for a second.

"You played the board," he said, stepping even closer. He was taller than Harold, broader too. In the hall's lighting, his figure cast a faint shadow across the base of the statues. "And if we didn't need to keep up appearances for the sake of every last recruit in the system, your career would've already been over."

His voice was still low, still polite, but this time the warmth had left it entirely.

"So here's what you'll do," he continued. "Make up a story. Say you made an error in judgement. Blame a third party, claim faulty androids, whatever fits. Then resign. Quietly. With what's left of your name intact."

Barclay laughed once, short and cold.

"That's generous," he said as he turned away, adjusting his cuffs with careful precision. "I'll keep your advice in mind. Now if you'll excuse me, I have better things to do than hear your lectures."

He didn't wait for a reply. His footsteps echoed down the hall, receding past murals of public victories and forgotten losses.

Graham didn't follow. Instead, he turned to one of the statues—the one of the young heroine—and stared at it for a long moment.

"What a mess," he muttered to no one.

Just a man speaking to stone.

———

Meanwhile, at the same time elsewhere…

The Deadly Damsels strip club looked different in daylight. Without the red glow of night to smooth over the cracks, the imperfections stood out.

The carpet was threadbare in places, especially near the corners. The once-gleaming tile beneath the bar was scuffed and cloudy.

One of the overhead lights near the stage flickered, not in a dramatic way, but in that annoying, slightly stuttering way that suggested it had been ignored for months.

The main floor held four dancing stages, each with two poles—chrome-finished, still catching the light with greasy glints. The central stage was larger, its three poles surrounded by lounge chairs that had seen better decades.

The bar was wide and dark, the wood chipped at the edges where customers had leaned in too many times with elbows and desperation. Behind it, shelves of cheap liquor stood like a mismatched army—some bottles dusty, others clearly new and not yet opened.

Upstairs, a velvet rope and narrow staircase separated the second floor from the main level. No one could see what went on up there from the ground floor—a design choice born from either class or paranoia, depending on who you asked.

Today, it was mostly staff gathered. A few bar girls lounged near the bar—some dressed down, others clinging to outfits one notch above lingerie.

One chewed gum while checking her reflection in her phone. Another leaned over a table, talking to a dancer about rent.

The dancers themselves were in a similar split—some casual in sweatpants and hoodies, others half-dressed like they never left the night before.

And then there were the Hell Riders—or what was left of them.

About eight of them remained, a shadow of what had once been a respectable mid-tier biker gang. They still wore the leather and patches, but with one of their leaders gone, Victor, the swagger was gone. These weren't the survivors. They were the ones who had nowhere else to go.

Ash sat at the bar, elbows on the counter, staring past everyone toward the main stage. She wore a sleeveless black tank and ripped jeans. Her black hair was tied back in a rough ponytail, and her eyes, green and tired, stayed fixed on the woman speaking at the stage.

Madam Lily stood like she owned the place—technically she still did, at least for a few more hours.

She wore a custom-tailored black and red Hanfu dress, the kind that pulled eyes whether it was meant to or not.

The design clung to her figure just enough to suggest elegance without slipping into parody, and the way the sleeves hung gave her every gesture a theatrical flair.

Her face was powdered with pale foundation, her eyes ringed in red with a clean brushstroke wing—careful and controlled. Her lips were painted a deep cherry, matched by the painted tips of her nails.

She was undeniably beautiful, in that unapproachable, untouchable kind of way. Her black hair was wound into two perfect buns, held together by a red ribbons.

In her right hand she held a folded fan, which she occasionally tapped against her palm as she spoke.

"I'm sure you're all aware by now," she began, her voice carrying with trained grace, "that we'll be getting a new owner."

Some of the girls glanced at each other. A few of the Hell Riders muttered under their breath.

"I know it's sudden, my darlings," Lily continued, eyes moving across the room like a teacher taking roll, "but I felt this place could use a change. And more importantly—" she tapped her fan once, thwack "—a fresh injection of money."

Ash scoffed, muttering under her breath. "She acts like we had a fucking choice."

She crossed her arms and leaned back on the stool, the vinyl creaking beneath her weight.

Lily continued her speech, something about improvements, perhaps better contracts, tighter security. Ash wasn't listening.

Then the front door banged open.

A man in a cracked leather vest stumbled in, slightly breathless. One of the Hell Riders, though Ash didn't recognize the face—new blood, maybe. It didn't matter, her mind couldn't stop thinking about Predator.

"Madam Lily!" he called out, slightly too loud for the room. "There's someone here to see you. Some old lady. Says she's from the black market. Something about papers."

Lily's fan stopped mid-motion.

For just a second, her eyes flicked toward the door with a sliver of unease, but it passed quickly. She smiled again, the same rehearsed one from before.

"Please," she said, folding her fan slowly, "do bring her in."

As she stepped down from the stage, her gaze slid toward Ash.

Ash met it without flinching, arms still folded, jaw set.

She didn't need to speak. Her frown said plenty.