Kryptonians: Man of Steel

Chapter 1549 Hiratsuka Shizuka: I am already dead

"Squeak—squeak—creak—squeak creak creak—"

The piercing, sharp, and teeth-grinding noise, like the groan of metal on the verge of breaking under immense stress, or the final cry of an animal being choked, abruptly echoed in the deathly silent office.

This voice was the only proof of her existence, the only way she could use her last bit of strength to try to stabilize her body, which was being battered by the internal storm like a candle in the wind, and to suppress the shame and anger that were about to erupt like boiling lava and completely burn away her reason.

Every scratch is a fierce battle between will and instinct.

The subtle vibrations from her fingernails rubbing against the tabletop traveled through her finger bones, wrist bones, and arm bones all the way to her booming head, bringing a brief, almost masochistic sense of clarity.

However, it was all in vain.

The words on that card were like maggots clinging to the bone, like a curse that seeped into the marrow, like a burning brand imprinted on the soul.

Even as she painfully closed her eyes, trying to block out the despairing visual afterimage, the elegant yet cold flames of the printed text burned even more clearly on that dark curtain.

They twist and dance in the darkness, combining to form the most viciously mocking images: her slightly parted lips as she sleeps, her disheveled hair clinging to her cheeks, even her slightly furrowed brows that might be due to an uncomfortable posture... Every detail is infinitely magnified and distorted in the imagination, becoming "purity" and "peace" for the other party to play with in their eyes.

Those eyes, seemingly able to see through everything, were now staring at her defenseless state with a maddening, playful "appreciation" behind her tightly closed eyelids.

"The highest happiness in the world? Unthinkable to lose?"

This idea was like the last straw that broke the camel's back, or like a spoonful of boiling oil being poured into an already boiling boiler.

"What did he take me for?! A collectible to satisfy his perverted voyeuristic desires?! A plaything for him to obtain 'happiness'?! Losing me? Losing the chance to continue spying is what he can't bear?! Damn it! Damn it! Damn it a million times!"

“Huff…Huff…”

Heavy, hot breaths escaped uncontrollably from her nose and mouth, forming a thicker white mist in the cold air.

The "steam pressure" inside the body has exceeded the upper limit of all instruments.

The piston's hammering turned into a frantic barrage, and the boiler emitted a strained, disintegrating metallic groan.

She could feel the blood vessels under her skin throbbing wildly, as if they were about to break free of their restraints at any moment.

The edges of my vision began to darken, blurring and swaying like a lens going out of focus, but the words "burning" on the card remained as clear as if they had been carved with a knife.

Just then, an even more terrifying, subtle, and unspeakable thought, like a cold, venomous snake, silently burrowed into the cracks of her chaotic, burning consciousness:
Taking a shower... I was on watch last night... didn't come home all night... didn't even wash up...

Last night, she was completely focused and on edge while staking out that bastard. Coupled with the chill in the office after the heating was turned off, she did... sweat.

Exhausted, I fell asleep and woke up to this scene.

In other words, during that damned silent intrusion, standing here, looking down and "admiring" her "unguarded sleeping face," her "pure and breathtaking" appearance...

The closed office was filled with the smell of her sweat, which she hadn't washed all night.
The devastating impact of this thought instantly surpassed the shame and anger brought about by the words on the card itself.

"boom--!"

Hiratsuka Shizuka felt as if her brain, no, her entire mental world, had been completely destroyed by an ultimate explosion caused by overpressured steam.

The fuse called "shame" finally melted and vaporized completely.

All the raging energy within his body suddenly stopped, cooled, and solidified at that moment.

The overloaded old steam engine, after emitting a silent, deafening groan, stopped all its pistons moving, all its valves rusted shut, and the scalding steam instantly condensed into icy, despairing droplets, filling every corner of her body. The shaking stopped.

The harsh noise of scratching at the table disappeared.

His heavy breathing also weakened.

She stood frozen in place, her hand still gripping the edge of the table tightly, her knuckles still pale, but it was merely a physical fixation devoid of soul.

The color drained completely from his face, leaving only a deathly pale ashes.

His pupils dilated slightly, staring unfocused at a point in the void, his eyes as empty as the cold, rusty walls inside an abandoned boiler.

It’s over.

It's all over.

It wasn't just that her sleeping face was seen, or that her defenses were breached... In front of that guy, she completely and without reservation exposed her most wretched, most undignified, and most... "smelly" side.

The allure of women?

All of this vanished completely in that bastard's senses last night, in the breath she exhaled and the sweat that seeped from her as she slept soundly, turning into a joke that smelled of sweat, looked slovenly, and was casually observed and recorded.

An unprecedented, chilling sense of despair, a hundred times more intense than the cold in the office, instantly overwhelmed her.

The burning shame and anger that had previously consumed her was now completely extinguished by the icy water of despair, leaving only lifeless ashes and bone-chilling cold.

She felt as if she were already dead.

It wasn't the physical demise, but something more essential, something more core—that proud and somewhat languid self that was "Hiratsuka Shizuka"—that was utterly crushed, vaporized, and dissipated into the cold air in that silent mental storm triggered by a card and the final, fatal blow from the smell of sweat.

Now, what occupies this body is merely an empty shell, hollowed out by immense shame and despair, a shell called "social death."

She needs to escape.

immediately! immediately!
She fled the battlefield that had witnessed her complete collapse, fled the office that resonated with an atmosphere (in her perception) that symbolized her utter defeat.

Take a bath.

This thought was stronger than ever before, almost becoming the only command in her remaining consciousness.

It was as if only scalding, surging water could wash away the invisible, suffocating sense of filth woven from the gaze of others and one's own imagination.

Only then can the sharp noise and burning words in the overloaded brain be temporarily drowned out.

Talent... attempts to salvage a sliver of shattered dignity from that chilling abyss of despair.

Ask for leave.

I must ask for leave.

She couldn't imagine facing any student or colleague in her current state.

(End of this chapter)