Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1542 The Unclaimed Rose and Hiratsuka Shizuka

Hiratsuka Shizuka remained stiff in the back of the swivel chair, her back arched like a mast resisting an invisible pressure, her gaze fixed on the bouquet of flowers—the bright red petals, gilded by the setting sun, hung heavily on the edge of the desk, like a huge, scorching question mark, silently burning her supposedly indestructible "older man" shell.

The astonishment and confusion that settled in her eyes were veins that thirty years had not been able to bury completely; a long-lost shyness was forcibly pried open and awakened, mixed with a desolate examination of the absurdity of her own fate, flowing silently in her eyes.

A suffocating silence filled the office. A gentle evening breeze rose outside the window, howling and rattling the window frame, but it could not shake the stagnant air.

The rose is silent, and so is the person.

This intense, unyielding red hangs suspended above the drab backdrop of her life.

That unexpected bouquet of roses ultimately became an undeniable secret.

Such a grand bouquet of red could not possibly fit into any inconspicuous corner; even if discarded, it would be like a boulder thrown into calm water.

Moreover, deep down, Hiratsuka Shizuka couldn't bear to give it up.

She could only stand helplessly in the center of the storm.

Wow! Teacher Jing!

The young female teacher, Yuki Matsumoto, leaned over, her voice filled with a sweet, amused laugh. "Wow! Tell me, which mysterious knight is it?"

The math teacher across from him, Nakamura, adjusted his glasses, his eyes behind the lenses sharp as counting rods: "Mr. Hiratsuka, these flowers... aren't cheap. The other person seems quite serious."

He analyzed it slowly and methodically, as if he were solving a complex probability problem.

Hiratsuka Shizuka subconsciously scratched her slightly haphazardly styled hair, her fingertips still carrying the faint, cool fragrance left from touching the flower petals.

She opened her mouth, but her throat was dry and tight, and the voice that came out was weak and unfamiliar to herself: "...I don't know. There isn't even a card."

A stronger sense of dread and suspicion churned within her: Who would send flowers? Was this a carefully orchestrated, malicious joke targeting her, this "old woman desperate to get married"?

The students' private banter about her seamless switching between "quiet and cute" and "invincible with an iron fist" felt like countless tiny needles pricking her taut nerves.

The news spread like wildfire among students faster than gossip circulated in the office.

During lunch break, several girls crowded around a corner in the corridor, their voices trembling with excitement:
"Did you hear? Hiratsuka-sensei received a huge bouquet of roses! Bright red ones!"

"Really? A 'Iron Fist' teacher? Could it be a student prank?"

"No way! Xiaolin from the next class said she saw it with her own eyes, the packaging is super high-end! It feels... like they're really serious about it!"

"Wow! Is Ms. Jing really going to find a boyfriend? I really want to know who it is!"

These whispered discussions, like a buzzing swarm of bees, seeped into every nook and cranny.

When Hiratsuka Shizuka carried a stack of notebooks through the corridor, the previously noisy sounds would suddenly fall silent, and countless eyes would be fixed on her back, filled with curious inquiry and good-natured teasing.

She could only quicken her pace, straighten her "uncle" spine, and try to suppress the uncontrollable heat rising on her cheeks, but her heart felt like it was being scratched by cat claws, filled with embarrassing awkwardness.

The school bell rang, the noise subsided, and the office gradually emptied.

The golden rays of the setting sun slanted in, casting a warm, twilight hue over the mountain of notebooks on the table, the worn-out paperweight, and even the lonely ashtray.

Hiratsuka Shizuka sat alone in the halo of light, her fingertips hesitating before finally gently touching the outermost petal of the rose bouquet. Beneath the velvety touch of the petal lay a strange coolness.

However, beneath this cool velvet lies a thorny truth.

Deep within the bouquet, a carefully trimmed yet stubbornly upright thorn bit her as her fingertips brushed against it.

A sharp pain instantly pierced through my fingertips, and a drop of bright red blood quickly congealed on my fingertip, like a miniature, equally stubborn red rose.

She instinctively pulled her hand back, put her injured fingertip in her mouth, and the metallic sweetness of rust filled her mouth.

This insignificant sting, the throbbing sensation of being pricked by a clumsy thorn, a mixture of sweetness and grievance, suddenly pierced through the thick dust of time, carrying a strange sense of familiarity, and struck her hard.

A long-overdue bittersweet feeling suddenly welled up in her nose. She took a deep breath and forced that untimely vulnerability back into the depths of her chest.

She picked up the bouquet almost roughly.

The thorns on the flower stem pierced through the wrapping paper and the thin fabric of her shirt, leaving a subtle yet noticeable stinging sensation on her arm.

The pain strangely brought her to her senses.

She strode out of the deserted school building, as if carrying a burning secret, an indefinable trophy, or perhaps just an object that needed to be dealt with immediately to prevent it from disturbing her world.

Back in her simply furnished, almost drab apartment, Hiratsuka Shizuka rummaged through drawers and cupboards, finally finding a dusty glass vase deep inside the closet—its neck slender and its body etched with outdated vine patterns.

This bottle, like her faded memories of youth, has been forgotten for far too long.

She turned on the tap and vigorously rinsed away the dried water stains and accumulated grime from the inside of the bottle. The water gushed out, as if washing away a past she didn't want to look back on.

Only after the bottle regained its clarity did she carefully insert the bouquet of red roses one by one.

The addition of water revitalized the seemingly wilted flowers, allowing them to release an increasingly rich, even slightly aggressive, fragrance in the small living room.

She placed the vase on the coffee table, then curled up on the sofa, gazing for a long time in the darkness at the intense, untimely red.

The neon lights of the city outside the window flowed silently on the petals, changing into mesmerizing colors.

That huge question mark pressed down heavily again: Who? Why? A prank? Or... some possibility she dared not think about? Chaotic thoughts, like tangled vines, grew wildly in her mind, keeping her awake all night.

The next day, Hiratsuka Shizuka walked into school with heavy dark circles under her eyes.

Those unanswerable questions from last night are still buzzing in my head, like a swarm of bees that I can't get rid of.

She pushed open the office door, her steps unsteady, her gaze instinctively falling on her desk—as if struck by a silent bolt of lightning, she froze on the spot.

On the table, there was yet another bunch.

Bright red and glistening, fully blooming.

Fresh dewdrops even rolled on the petals, refracting tiny sparkles in the morning light.

(End of this chapter)