Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1544 Infiltrating Investigator Hiratsuka Shizuka
Light, carrying the chill and scrutiny of the morning, poured in through the crack; along with it came the constant, provocative stinging from the rose's sharp thorns.

Light and thorns, in a way she couldn't resist, seeped into the depths of her soul, which she was trying to close off, stirring up the undercurrents beneath the calm.

A suitor?
The thought had barely surfaced when Hiratsuka Shizuka ruthlessly extinguished it. Absurd! Utterly absurd!

The reasoning was as clear as a formula in her lesson plan:

First, would a true suitor be so secretive and elusive, leaving not a trace? This doesn't make sense for any pursuit.

Second, is it fear of rejection? Shyness? In modern society, there are countless ways to leave a message without having to face the person directly—a card, an anonymous text message, a message on a social media account… Any method is more reasonable and sincere than this purely physical, silent “delivery.”

Third, two days in a row! The same place, the same time (obviously before she arrived at school), the same huge bouquet, the same... utter silence!

This was not a clumsy attempt to curry favor; it was more like a meticulously planned, one-sided performance, a "drama" with unclear motives targeting her, "Hiratsuka Shizuka."

The flower sender hid in the shadows, like a director high above, coldly observing her "protagonist's" reaction. This was by no means affection; it was more like... toying with her.

"Don't let me catch which prankster student is behind this!"

Hiratsuka Shizuka practically spat out those words through clenched teeth, her voice low yet brimming with the force of a storm.

She clenched her fists behind her back, the knuckles making a clear, heart-stopping cracking sound from the excessive force, her knuckles turning bluish-white.

The fresh scratches stung my clenched fist, but the pain felt like a wake-up call.

She slowly loosened her clenched fist, her gaze falling on her bleeding fingertips. That bright red color eerily echoed the shocking color of the flower petals on her table.

The pain calmed her down and made her more resolute. She was no longer someone who passively waited for the mystery to be revealed. Taking a beating passively was not her style, neither in the dojo nor in life.

In the morning light, she squinted slightly, her eyes no longer wide with anger, but with the sharp and focused gaze of a hunter locking onto its prey. That unclaimed red was no longer a mere provocation or puzzle in her eyes; it had become a coordinate, a challenge, a target that had to be brought to justice.

Shizuka Hiratsuka decided to stop waiting. She would take the initiative and expose this coward who dared to tease her. Whoever it was, they would have to pay the price for this "silent rose."

She pulled out a tissue and expressionlessly wiped the blood and flower juice from her fingertips, her movements calm to the point of being cold. Her gaze swept over the messy table—scattered petals, red marks on the lesson plan paper, and crumbs in the cracks of the keyboard.

She didn't clean up immediately, but left the chaotic scene as it was. This scene might be the beginning of the clues. She needed to remember every detail.

The office door opened, and the first colleague walked in, greeting her with the usual, "Good morning, Hiratsuka-sensei! Oh, you received flowers again? They're so beautiful! Who sent them this time? A mysterious suitor?"

Hiratsuka Shizuka turned around, her face already displaying her usual slightly impatient yet impeccable expression—a "mask" she often wore when facing students or colleagues at school—a mixture of rudeness, indifference, and a strong sense of professionalism.

"morning."

She gave a muffled reply, her voice steady and devoid of any emotion. She didn't answer the question about the flowers, but simply waved her hand dismissively, as if shooing away an annoying fly. "Who knows which idle prankster played this? So annoying."

She cleverly avoided the word "pursuer," directly characterizing it as a "prank," and rationalizing her frustration.

Her colleague was taken aback by her attitude, gave an awkward laugh, and walked to her seat, muttering under her breath, "Hiratsuka-sensei is still so fierce..."

Hiratsuka Shizuka ignored her. Her mind was no longer on pleasantries. She sat back in her chair, leaning slightly forward, resting her elbows on the table, and crossing her hands under her chin.

His gaze, however, was as sharp as a hawk's, silently sweeping across the office door and windows, recalling the subtle differences that might have existed when he entered the office yesterday and this morning.

Which school janitor is the first to clean? Who has spare keys for each office? What is the cleaning schedule? Where are the CCTV cameras located at the main entrances and exits of the teaching building?

Each problem points to a potential loophole, a gap that needs to be plugged, or a path leading to a suspect.

Shizuka Hiratsuka, the formidable "Iron Fist Leftover Woman" of Soubu High School, has undergone a subtle transformation in her identity.

She was no longer just a confused and somewhat embarrassed "victim" troubled by anonymous gifts.

She shed her veneer of helplessness, revealing a more resilient and aggressive core—a persistent, calm investigator with rich social experience and keen observation skills (and perhaps even some unknown "methods").

Her classroom is her domain, and her office is her core fortress.

Someone has crossed the line, seriously challenging her authority and privacy.

This can no longer be explained by a simple "prank" or "adolescent restlessness"; it is an invasion that needs to be ended.

The afternoon school bell, like a pebble thrown into a calm lake, stirred up ripples of excitement throughout the campus. Students surged towards the school gate like a tide, filled with the joy of liberation.

Hiratsuka Shizuka mingled among them, her steps steady, her face bearing the same slightly stern expression as always. In her hands, she conspicuously held two bouquets of bright red roses, the ribbons fluttering gently in the breeze, as if deliberately displayed.

She walked toward the iconic red Aston Martin Vantage in the parking lot, its sleek lines reflecting a cool sheen in the setting sun.

The engine let out a deep, powerful roar, and the sports car merged into the traffic, quickly disappearing on the main road leading to her villa in downtown Chiba.

However, after only three intersections, in a blind spot of the surveillance cameras, Hiratsuka Shizuka suddenly turned the steering wheel.

Like a nimble red cheetah, the sports car silently glided into a narrow, secluded one-way street, coming to a stop close to the shadow of the roadside wall. The engine shut off, and the car instantly fell into a tense, expectant silence.

She did not get out of the car immediately.

(End of this chapter)