Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1543 It can't be
It brazenly took the place of yesterday's bouquet, just as intense, just as grand, just as... silent.

The wrapping paper seemed to have changed; it was a more understated dark green matte paper, which made the red even more dazzling.

An unnamed fire suddenly and unexpectedly surged up from the deepest part of my heart!

The flames came so swiftly and so intensely that they instantly burned away all her remaining drowsiness, as well as the shyness and confusion she had barely managed to suppress after tossing and turning all night, leaving not a trace of smoke behind.

Her chest felt like it was filled with scalding hot coals, each breath a burning pain. Her ears burned, her fingertips were icy cold.

With a desperate, cornered resolve, Hiratsuka Shizuka abruptly stood up from her chair, the movement so forceful that the chair legs scraped against the floor with a screeching sound.

Without hesitation, she rushed to the table, leaning forward and bracing her hands on the edge, her knuckles turning white from the effort. Her eyes were sharp as knives, fixed intently on the arrogant red.

There was no hesitation, no tentative probing.

Her right hand, with an almost violent outburst, reached directly into the center of the bouquet. Her fingertips roughly parted the layers of delicate, dewy petals, as if digging, or even tearing.

The petals were crumpled and squeezed, and the deep red sap stained her fingertips, sticky and cold.

She was searching with an almost obsessive anxiety, as if beneath those layers of petals lay a declaration of war, or a belated confession explaining the absurdity of it all.

Roses, these seemingly beautiful creatures, are never docile.

They use silence to conceal their sharp defenses.

Under her reckless invasion, the thorns hidden deep within the leaf stems launched a merciless counterattack.

"hiss--"

A subtle but distinct stinging sensation came through.

She instinctively wanted to pull her hand away, but her anger made her stop in her tracks.

Several thin, fresh red scratches appeared on the sides of her left index and middle fingers. Fine beads of blood quickly seeped out, gathered, slid down along the skin texture, and dripped onto the dark green wrapping paper, spreading into several darker little flowers.

"Damn it! Who did this?!"

A suppressed growl escaped from between her clenched teeth, her voice hoarse and dry from suppressed anger, sounding particularly jarring in the empty office.

The stinging pain in her fingertips was sharp and direct, but what she found even more unbearable was the turmoil of emotions churning within her:

Anxiety gnawed at her reason like countless ants; a sense of being fooled and scrutinized under the spotlight spread through her heart; but the heaviest feeling was the immense powerlessness she felt in the face of the unknown and this silent provocation, like a cold tide that almost overwhelmed her.

The movements of rummaging became faster and harder, losing all rhythm. The delicate petals groaned silently under her rough fingers as they were crushed and torn off.

The bright red fragments, like dismembered butterfly wings, scattered across her spread-out math lesson plan paper, into the gaps of the black mechanical keyboard, and even stuck to the barrel of her usual red correction pen. They were like drops of congealed blood and tears, or silent mockery, embellishing the cold order of her daily work.

However, apart from the silent, hostile, and thorny stems, and the cloyingly sweet fragrance that almost overwhelmed her, so intense it was dizzying and even nauseating, the depths of the bouquet remained empty.

There were no cards, no notes, not even a hinting symbol. Not a single word, not a single clue to follow.

Only this arrogant, recurring, glaring red!
Like a huge and arrogant riddle, it silently hovered before her, mocking all her futile struggles. This red, as if alive, carried a scorching heat, brutally burning her vision.

Just then, footsteps began to approach from afar in the corridor outside the office, accompanied by the usual morning greetings and laughter of colleagues, tinged with weariness.

That familiar voice was like a bucket of cold water, suddenly poured onto Hiratsuka Shizuka's boiling anger.

She froze!
Almost instantly, she abruptly stopped her nearly destructive actions. She took a deep breath, a long, trembling breath, as if trying to inhale all the loss of control.

She tried to straighten her back, which always seemed a little casual, and tightened her jawline.

She quickly and somewhat disheveledly hid her hands behind her back, her fingers clenched tightly together, her nails almost digging into her palms, hands scratched by thorns and stained with sap and blood. She could even feel the faint throbbing of the wounds on her hands behind her back.

She forced herself to refocus her gaze on the second uninvited guest in front of her.

Her gaze was incredibly complex, no longer simply filled with anger, but a mixture of surprise, scrutiny, an indescribable wariness, and even a hint of... attraction that she herself was unwilling to admit.

It's like gazing at a wildfire that arrives unexpectedly, unpredictably, and inextinguishably. This flame is beautiful yet dangerous, carrying an aura of destruction.

This unclaimed flower, this silent question, this gift (or provocation) of unknown origin and purpose, has once again barged into the orderly yet gray world she has constructed for herself, with an attitude that brooks no refusal and no questioning.

It hung stubbornly above her drab life, its scorching heat and sharp thorns like an unresolved exclamation mark, awaiting an answer that might never be found.

The morning light outside the window had fully illuminated the room, pouring in golden rays and generously covering the entire desktop.

The magic of light unfolds at this moment: the shadows of two bunches of roses are clearly projected onto the cold terrazzo floor, overlapping and merging with each other, stretched long and distorted, finally converging at the corner to form a huge, dark, and undeniable red mark.

The marks were like two solidified, silently burning flames, or two wounds that could not heal, deeply imprinted on this morning.

The unsolvable mystery and the scorching petals remained suspended. Their very existence was the most direct challenge to Hiratsuka Shizuka's so-called "fortress of solitude."

She once thought her heart was impenetrable, strong enough to withstand all worldly intrusions and keep out those emotions that she was neither good at nor willing to touch.

Yet at this moment, this unclaimed, abrupt, and thorny red, like a precise chisel, easily carved a hidden and winding crack in the seemingly solid barrier.

(End of this chapter)