Supervillain Idol System: My Sidekick Is A Yandere

Chapter 666 666: Alpha-Squad Seven (Part 6)

Eventually the designated building appeared ahead.Two stories tall.

Commercial structure.

Maybe an old warehouse before the district collapsed.

Steel bars covered the lower windows while reinforced shutters protected parts of the entrance.

The surrounding sightlines were tighter here too. Fewer elevated firing positions. Multiple exits.

Webb had chosen carefully.

Don pressed himself beside the front door and checked the surrounding street once more before speaking into the comms.

"I'm at the building."

"Good," Webb answered immediately. "Inside. Staircase near the back. Second floor."

Don pulled the door open carefully and stepped inside.

Dust and age hit him first.

The warehouse floor was cluttered with abandoned pallets, broken shelving, and rusted equipment covered beneath stained tarps.

Weak emergency lights cast thin pools of illumination across the darkness every several meters, leaving large sections swallowed in shadow.

Even moving carefully, his footsteps echoed.

He found the staircase near the rear wall moments later.

Metal.

Old.

Rust flaked loose beneath his boots while the steps creaked softly under his weight.

Don climbed slowly with the rifle raised toward the darkness above him.

Every sound tightened his nerves further. The scrape of his own boots. The groan of old metal. The distant hum of generators somewhere outside.

Webb's voice guided him again.

"At the top there's a hallway. Left side. Second door on your right."

Don reached the second floor landing.

Turned left.

Counted doors.

Stopped outside the second one.

The door sat slightly open.

Darkness beyond it.

No movement.

No sound.

Keen Eye stayed quiet.

Nothing visibly wrong.

Still—

Something tightened low in his stomach.

Don pushed the door open slowly and stepped inside with the rifle raised.

Small office space.

Empty now.

No furniture besides an overturned filing cabinet near the far wall. Dust covered most surfaces untouched. A single window overlooked the street below.

Webb wasn't there.

The realization hit a fraction too late.

'He said he was inside.'

He started turning—

Then… an operative dropped from the ceiling.

Fast.

Lean black armor crashed downward from the broken ceiling tiles overhead while a combat knife flashed immediately toward Don's throat.

The man had wrapped himself around the exposed support beams above the room, hidden flat against the darkness until the exact moment Don entered.

Don twisted sideways on pure instinct.

The blade missed his throat by inches.

Instead it carved through the sleeve of his borrowed uniform and sliced deep into his forearm.

Pain hit instantly.

Hot.

Sharp.

Blood spilled warm across his skin.

Don ignored it completely.

His free hand snapped upward and caught the operative's wrist before the second stab could land.

The operative reacted immediately.

No hesitation.

His knee slammed hard into Don's thigh, knocking his balance sideways before he twisted his captured arm violently free and reversed the knife into a backhand slash aimed straight toward Don's face.

Don jerked backward barely in time.

The blade traced across his cheekbone close enough that he felt heat burst across the skin beneath his left eye.

Too close.

He shoved the operative backward hard enough to slam him into the wall.

THUD~

The operative rebounded instantly.

One foot hit the wall behind him before he launched himself forward again with a brutal kick aimed directly at Don's chest.

Don raised his injured arm to block.

Pain exploded through the sliced muscle as the impact drove him backward two full steps across the office floor.

The operative pressed immediately afterward.

Knife low.

Then high.

Then low again.

Controlled violence. Tight movements without wasted effort.

Don blocked what he could and took what he couldn't.

A shallow cut opened across his ribs.

Another sliced along his left forearm.

Blood started running freely down both arms now.

'He's faster than me.'

The operative lunged again.

'Better with the knife.'

Another slash came toward Don's throat.

'But not stronger.'

Don changed tactics instantly.

Instead of avoiding the next strike—

He caught it.

The blade punched directly through his palm.

White-hot pain ripped through his hand hard enough to blur his vision for half a second.

But his fingers still closed around the operative's wrist.

Trapping it.

The operative hesitated.

Only slightly.

Still enough.

Don drove his forehead forward.

CRACK~

The operative's visor spiderwebbed beneath the impact while his head snapped backward violently. His grip loosened instantly.

Don ripped the knife free from his own hand.

Blood sprayed across both of them.

Then he reversed the blade and slammed it upward beneath the operative's helmet.

Deep into the throat.

The sound was wet.

Final.

The operative went limp immediately afterward, body sagging while Don still held his wrist upright for half a second longer.

Then Don released him.

The corpse collapsed heavily across the dusty office floor with the knife still buried deep beneath the jawline. Blood spread outward beneath the body in slow dark streams.

Don stood over him breathing hard.

His injured hand dripped steadily onto the corpse below while his cut palm throbbed violently with every heartbeat.

His left eye stung where the knife had nearly reached it.

He touched the cut along his cheekbone carefully.

Close enough.

Too close.

'Almost.'

Don slouched briefly against the office doorway afterward while his injured hand hung uselessly beside him. The rifle remained clutched in his other hand through the sling.

Blood dripped steadily from his palm onto the floor.

Each drop sounded louder now that the room had gone still.

His breathing turned ragged again.

Uneven.

The adrenaline was fading enough for exhaustion to start creeping in beneath it. His legs felt heavier now. His arms slower.

He crouched briefly beside the corpse and grabbed the knife handle with his good hand.

Then yanked it free.

Not gently.

The blade came out wet and dark beneath the low emergency lighting.

Don tightened his grip around the handle before raising it toward the doorway.

Waiting.

Then he heard them.

Footsteps.

Fast.

Controlled.

His fingers tightened harder around the knife while his injured arm struggled to raise the rifle hanging against the sling.

Pain burned through his palm and forearm together, but his body still coiled tight regardless.

No more running.

The footsteps grew louder in the hallway.

Closer.

Don's jaw tightened while he forced his breathing steady again through sheer effort alone.

Then the door began to swing open.