Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1541 Hiratsuka Shizuka dares not accept

That has always been a gift for gentle, charming women with flowing skirts.

And what about herself? She glanced subconsciously at her blurry reflection in the glass window: messy hair, a body wrapped in a loose white coat and an old suit, and the outline of a cigarette pack bulging in her pocket was clearly visible—a complete tomboy.

The bouquet of roses landed on her desk like a key in the wrong lock—absurd, laughable, and utterly baffling.

Hiratsuka Shizuka abruptly stopped, her body frozen in place.

She subconsciously raised her hand and rubbed her eyes, then rubbed them again, as if that would crush and erase the absurd scene before her.

The deep red petals, full and silent, bloomed in the afternoon sunlight that slanted in and was cut into blocks by the window frame. Each petal shimmered with an almost unreal velvety sheen, so intense it seemed about to drip.

The bouquet was neatly wrapped in a clean white crepe paper. There was no card, no clue whatsoever about the sender's identity. Only the silent, aggressive red, carrying the fresh scent of dew, barged into her territory filled with the smell of smoke and dust.

She slumped into the creaking swivel chair, the cool touch of the chair back penetrating her thin sportswear.

His fingers instinctively reached for the cigarette pack in his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and put it between his lips. The crisp "click" of the lighter was particularly loud in the silence.

The pungent smoke, when inhaled, strangely brought a sense of calm.

Amidst the swirling smoke, countless embarrassing moments from blind dates, as if pierced by the sudden arrival of this rose, rushed into my mind.

At every matchmaking event, she was always politely (sometimes not so politely) "asked" to leave by the organizer or matchmaker, usually on the grounds that "Ms. Hiratsuka's personality is too...unique".

Those scenes flashed through her mind like fast-forwarded shots from an old movie, distorting and twisting: the clear trajectory of the other person's eyes changing from amazement to astonishment to avoidance; the awkward smile on the introducer's face, a mixture of regret and impatience; the organizer's insincere, monotonous "I'm sorry, Ms. Hiratsuka, perhaps... it's not quite appropriate."

Each time she was "invited" out, she would straighten her back, her high heels clicking loudly, and arm herself with louder laughter and a stronger smell of smoke, as if this could completely extinguish the faint flame of "desire" deep in her heart.

Smoke billowed, its pungent aroma subtly permeating the air. Each time, her meticulously crafted, delicate features were shattered by her own "uncle-like" soul the moment she opened her mouth to speak.

Those men wanted a gentle, understanding woman, but she, Shizuka Hiratsuka, was like a bottle of strong liquor, a stubborn rock with sharp edges.

She thought she had long since grown accustomed to the desolation of this single life, to playing drinking games with the bar owner, and to the clinking of glasses when she was alone.

But this uninvited bouquet of roses, like a pebble thrown into stagnant water, stirred up ripples that spread outwards, disturbing the corners she had deliberately buried and almost forgotten.

It turns out that longing hadn't truly died; it was just covered by a thick layer of self-mockery and ashes.

It lay dormant, like roots buried deep underground, suddenly awakened by this unfamiliar bouquet, bursting forth with a long-lost, almost painful throbbing. My fingertips unconsciously brushed against a silky, cool petal, the touch so delicate it was startling.

A distant, dusty image flashed before her eyes without warning—in her teenage years, she would secretly linger in front of the romance novel section of bookstores, her fingertips tracing the gorgeous covers adorned with roses and embraces, her heart inexplicably racing, her cheeks slightly flushed. The thrill described in those books, surrounded by flowers and love letters, was once her secret longing.

and after?
Later, this aspiration was shattered by reality time and time again, like a glass vessel broken on the ground, leaving only sharp shards.

So she simply used a thick "mature man" shell to wrap up and hide her remaining, fragile girlish heart.

She took a deep drag of her cigarette, the acrid smoke choking her throat and triggering a violent cough that bent her over, a few tears welling in her eyes. She forcefully stubbed out the cigarette, the movement sharp as if to sever those inappropriate, weak thoughts. Yet her gaze involuntarily fell once more upon the bouquet of roses. That pure, passionate, unreserved red, bathed in the slanting rays of the setting sun streaming through the window, radiated an almost sacred light, clashing sharply with the lingering smell of cigarette smoke on her fingers, the chalk dust scattered on the table, and the lingering "middle-aged" aura emanating from her.

who is it?

"What an international joke!"

An unnamed fire suddenly shot from the soles of her feet to the top of her head, burning her cheeks.

Frustrated, she grabbed the top stack of composition books from the table and slammed them onto the empty chair next to her, the papers rustling as if in protest.

The appearance of this bouquet of roses was a bitter irony of all her miserable past!
Which bastard? Which blind fool played this prank? Was it one of those bored colleagues? Or a student she reprimanded and who still holds a grudge?

Like a caged beast, she paced back and forth in the narrow gap between the desk and the wall, her heels tapping impatiently on the floor. Yet her gaze, as if drawn by an invisible magnet, repeatedly and uncontrollably fell back to the bouquet of roses.

That red was so dazzling, yet so... alluring.

A mixture of mocking anger, offended embarrassment, and a faint, almost imperceptible, throbbing feeling—like a spark buried deep in ashes—that she herself was ashamed to admit, churned and surged within her chest.

She took a deep breath, trying to calm the tangled mess, but only inhaled more of the cloyingly sweet scent of roses, mixed with the stale smell of tobacco embers in the ashtray, creating a strange and suffocating atmosphere.

She hesitated, her fingertips reaching for the bouquet again, but at the last second before touching it, she jerked back. The movement was as quick as if she'd been burned, yet also carried an almost fearful hesitation. Suddenly, she dared not touch it.

She feared this illusory gift would shatter at the slightest touch, and even more so, she feared this futile, weak flame of hope that she herself found laughable and pathetic. For her, who was already accustomed to desolation, hope was sometimes more chilling than despair.

The golden rays of the setting sun slanted in, flowing across the tabletop. The bouquet of roses stood quietly in the halo of light, its redness becoming even more breathtaking, like a drop of congealed, enormous blood, or a silent, burning heart.

(End of this chapter)