Unless there's been a work stoppage or the proletariat has risen up and overthrown NUELOW Games management and have seized the means of production, we've just released a Communist-themed d20 System supplement in observance of International Workers Day! Click here to see a preview, learn a little more about the supplement, and perhaps even share your wealth by getting a copy!

Meanwhile, here are a few bits that were cut from the product, because we wanted to keep conversion between d20 System variations simple. These felt too tied to "3.5" or the straight SRD, so we giving them to the people!

Modified Class: The Vanguard (Fighter Variant)

Vanguards are the militant defenders of the revolution, fighting not for personal glory but for collective liberation.

Class Features:

Revolutionary Discipline (replaces Bonus Feat at 1st level)

Choose one of the following:

• Mutual Defense: When an ally within 5 feet of you is attacked, you can use an immediate action to impose a -2 penalty on the attack roll.

• Covering Fire: Allies within 10 feet of you gain +1 to AC.

• Tactical Coordination: Once per turn, you can grant an ally within 30 feet a +2 circumstance bonus on their next attack roll. Cost: 1 SP.

People's Champion (replaces Second Wind; gained at 2nd level)

As a swift action, you regain hit points equal to 1d10 + your fighter level. Alternatively, you can grant these hit points to an ally within 30 feet instead. Once you use this feature, you can't use it again until you rest for at least 1 hour.

Revolutionary Fervor (replaces the name of the standard Fighter ability)

This feature works as the standard Fighter's extra actions but is renamed to reflect the collective power driving your actions.

Vanguard Archetype (at 3rd level): The People's Defender

Shield of the Workers (3rd level)
When a creature you can see attacks an ally within 5 feet of you, you can use an immediate action to become the target of that attack instead.

Inspiring Presence (7th level)
Allies within 10 feet of you add your Class Consciousness modifier to their saving throws.

United Front (10th level)
When you take a full attack action, you can forgo one of your attacks to allow an ally within 30 feet to make one weapon attack as an immediate action.

Revolutionary Tide (15th level)

Once per day, you can call upon the power of collective action. Cost: 5 SP. For 1 minute, all allies within 30 feet gain the following benefits:

• +2 to all attack rolls and saving throws

• Resistance to one damage type of their choice (damage reduced by half)

• +2 bonus on saves against fear and charm effects

Unbreakable Solidarity (18th level)

Once per day, you can activate this ability for 1 minute. During this time, you and all allies within 30 feet cannot be reduced below 1 hit point while at least one other ally in range remains conscious.

Modified Class: The Agitator (Bard Variant)

Agitators use words, art, and culture to raise consciousness and inspire revolutionary action.

Spellcasting: You use the standard Bard spell list, flavored as revolutionary songs, speeches, and propaganda.

Revolutionary Inspiration (replaces Bardic Music)

Instead of standard Bardic Music abilities, you spend 1 SP to grant Revolutionary Inspiration. The die size is determined by your level (as normal Inspire Courage progression: +1 at 1st level, +2 at 8th level, +3 at 14th level, +4 at 20th level).

Class Features:

Raise Consciousness (replaces Bardic Knowledge at 1st level)

You can add your Class Consciousness modifier to any ability check that doesn't already include it. Additionally, you can spend 10 minutes in conversation with an NPC to increase their Class Consciousness by 1. The DM determines whether this increase is temporary or permanent based on the quality of your roleplay.

Song of the Workers (replaces Inspire Competence at 3rd level)
During a rest period of at least 1 hour, you can perform songs of struggle and solidarity. You and any friendly creatures who can hear your performance regain an extra 1d6 hit points per Hit Die spent. This die increases to 1d8 at 9th level, 1d10 at 13th level, and 1d12 at 17th level. Additionally, the party gains 1d4 SP.

Agitator College (at 3rd level): College of the Revolution

Bonus Proficiencies (3rd level)
You gain proficiency with printing presses and disguise kits.

Propaganda Master (3rd level)

You can create pamphlets, posters, and other propaganda materials. Spending 1 hour and 10 gp worth of materials allows you to create propaganda that grants a +2 circumstance bonus on all Diplomacy checks with workers in a specific area for one week.

Counter-Hegemony (6th level)

When an enemy within 60 feet uses an ability that would frighten or charm allies in that range, you can use an immediate action to make a Charisma (Perform) check contested by the enemy's spell save DC or Charisma check. On a success, the effect is negated for all allies.

General Strike (14th level)

Once per day, you can call for a general strike affecting all workers in a settlement for 24 hours. During this time, workers refuse to work, creating massive disruption for enemies relying on labor, supply chains, or services. The DM determines specific mechanical effects, but typically this imposes a -2 penalty on enemy actions requiring resources or support.

Equipment

Revolutionary Equipment

• Red Flag: 5 gp. A simple cloth banner dyed crimson, it's become the symbol of worker solidarity across the realm. Grants a +2 circumstance bonus on checks to inspire workers and rally the oppressed. Can be used as an improvised weapon (1d4 bludgeoning) that deals an extra 1d6 psychic damage to class enemies—the sight of it strikes fear into the hearts of tyrants.

• Printing Press (portable): 250 gp. A marvel of mechanical engineering, this hand-cranked press can produce dozens of manifestos, pamphlets, and propaganda in a single day. Allows creation of propaganda materials that grant a +2 circumstance bonus on Diplomacy checks with workers and can be distributed to raise Class Consciousness in a community. Weighs 50 lbs and requires a stable surface to operate.

• Worker's Tools (various): Standard artisan's tools, but when used collectively by multiple characters, reduce crafting time by half. These well-worn implements—hammers, wrenches, saws—are the instruments of creation and resistance, more valuable to the working class than any noble's sword.

• Rations, Communal: 5 sp per day for one person. These simple meals—bread, cheese, dried fruit—are meant to be shared. When distributed among the party during a rest period of at least 8 hours, everyone is fed and gains sustenance; the party gains 1 SP per rest period as a reminder that mutual aid strengthens the collective.

• Manifesto: 10 gp. A revolutionary text bound in simple paper, filled with analysis of oppression and calls to action. Grants a +2 circumstance bonus to Class Consciousness checks when consulted, and can be distributed to NPCs to slowly raise their Class Consciousness over time (DM discretion on duration and effect).

Safety Tools for "End of the Line", a new game from NUELOW

NUELOW Games has released a new horror roleplaying game, End of the Line. Once again, there was a discussion about whether or not we should include "safety tools". We came to the agreement that Steve Miller's long-standing policy of leaving such things up to individual groups to figure out such things would once again win out... but we can still put them here on the blog.

SAFETY TOOLS
End of the Line deals with death, trauma, and horror. Use one tools or more of these tools to ensure everyone has fun:

 

 
LINES AND VEILS
Before play, discuss:
   Lines: Content that won't appear in the game at all
   Veils: Content that can exist but happens "off-screen"

Common lines/veils: Harm to children, Sexual violence, Specific phobias, Graphic gore, Suicide

 

X-CARD
Place a card with an X on it in the center of the table. Anyone can tap it at any time, no explanation needed. When tapped, the GM stops the current scene immediately and "rewinds" to redo the scene or "skips ahead" so it happens off-screen.
   No questions asked, no judgment

 

 

OPEN DOOR POLICY
Anyone can leave the table at any time for any reason. They can return when ready, or not at all. No explanation needed.

 

 
CHECK-INS
The Facilitator should check in with players regularly with questions like, "Is everyone okay with where this is going?", "Is this too intense?" and "Do we need a break?"

 

DEBRIEF
After each session, take a few minutes to: discuss what worked and what didn't; share favorite moments; address any concerns; and separate fiction from reality.

If you want more of NUELOW Games' take on safety tools, you should check out Safety Tools: The Roleplaying Game. We guarantee that it's the safest RPG you've ever played! Click here to read more or to get your own copy!

It's the safest RPG ever published, and it's new from NUELOW Games!

You've heard of safety tools, yeah? To see them applied more efffectively, more sensitively, more more than any roleplaying game ever published, you need to get a copy of Safety Tools: The Roleplaying Game.

Because we want the maximum of the gaming public to gain the benefit of this revolutionary RPG, we are offering it under the Pay What You Want program at DriveThruRPG. Click here, and you can get Safety Tools: The Roleplaying Game for free, for $0.50, or whatever else you might want to pay for it!

Now, you may be wondering, "Are the clowns at NUELOW being serious?" Well...

Safety Tools: The Roleplaying Game is a loving parody, but many feel safety tools are genuinely important! Use them in your real games—just maybe not all of them all the time. Find what works for your table, communicate openly, and remember that the goal is for everyone to have fun together.

Now go forth and adventure—safely! And do it with Safety Tools: The Roleplaying Game!

Eyewear Bikinis for the d20 System

Eyewear is a brand of bikinis for women who are tired to saying "my eyes are up here," as it puts eyes just where the "male gaze" often focuses.

A few rare models of the Eyewear bikini line are magical, and they are made available to the Witchkind and others who are aware of the secret magical world that exists along side the mundane one. If, of course, they can pay the asking price (or provide equally valuable favors).

EYEWEAR -- The Basic Model

Comes in red with blue eyes, or black with green eyes. The enchanted variety provides with wearer with a +4 bonus to Search and Spot skill checks.

EYEWEAR -- The Charmer

This bikini provides the benefits of the Basic Model, and the addition of a +4 bonus to Bargain and Diplomacy skill checks.

EYEWEAR -- The Sharpie

This bikini provides the benefits of the Basic model, plus +2 to Bargain skill checks. Additionally, when the wearer is in water deeper than 4 feet, she can summon a random type of carnivorous sea creatures that will attack her foes for 2d6 rounds or until slain.

1d6         Creatures summoned

1-2          Piranha Swarm

3-4          1d3 Barracudas   

5-6          1d2 Sharks                  

dfsaafa

"The Spice Girl" -- a thriller from NUELOW

The Spice Girl

By Steve Miller

The sodium streetlights cast sickly orange pools along Riverside Avenue, but between them stretched gulfs of darkness so complete they seemed to swallow sound itself. May pressed herself deeper into the recessed doorway of the shuttered pawnshop, her breath coming in shallow gasps that fogged in the October air. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out her phone, the screen's glow painfully bright in the surrounding blackness.

She dialed the number she'd memorized but never thought she'd actually use.

One ring. Two rings. Pick up, pick up, pick up—

"May?" The voice on the other end was warm and alert despite the late hour. Familiar in a way that made May's chest tighten with something between relief and guilt.

"He's back," May whispered, her voice cracking. "He's back and he's following me. I saw him outside the restaurant when my shift ended. I tried to lose him on the subway but he—" Her words tumbled over each other, panic sharpening each syllable. "He was waiting at my stop. He knew. He somehow knew which train I'd take."

"Where are you now?" Her tone shifted, became focused, tactical. "Exact location."

"Riverside, just short of 23rd. I ducked into a doorway but I can see him. He's across the street, just... standing there. Watching. I think he's waiting for me to move." May's hand shook so badly she nearly dropped the phone. "It's been three months. Three months of emails, texts, showing up at my work, following me home. The restraining order didn't do anything. He doesn't care."

"Call the police. Right now. I'll stay on the line with you."

May let out a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "They won't get here in time. You know they won't. And even if they do, what then? They'll take a report. Maybe they'll talk to him. Maybe they'll even arrest him this time, though they didn't the last three times I called. And then what? He'll be out in hours, and he'll be even angrier."

That's when he moved until he was standing directly under a streetlight. Her breath caught in her throat—shallow, useless. She could see his face now, that face, the one that used to make her feel safe. The one that had learned to smile while his hands tightened around her wrist. Around her throat.

"He's coming," May breathed into the phone. Last time he grabbed me, he said—" Her voice fractured. "He said if he couldn't have me, he'd make sure no one could. I saw it in his eyes, Mira. He meant it."

"Listen to me carefully." The voice on the line cut through the panic like a blade through silk. "Do you trust me?"

"Yes." The answer came without hesitation.

"Then stay visible. Keep moving around corners. I'm on my way, and I'll handle the rest. But tell me what you're wearing--"

---

Derek Hutchins felt the familiar heat coursing through his veins—that intoxicating cocktail of rage and desire that had become his constant companion over the past three months. Ever since May had tried to leave him. As if she had that right. As if she could just walk away from what they had, from what he'd given her.

She thought she could hide from him. Thought a piece of paper from some judge would keep him away. Thought changing her phone number and blocking him on social media would erase him from her life. But she was his. She'd always been his, from the moment he'd first seen her laughing with her coworkers at that bar, her dark hair catching the light, her smile bright enough to stop his heart.

He'd made her his, and she would remember that tonight.

He watched her slip out of the doorway and start moving quickly down Riverside, her shoulders hunched, her pace just short of a run. The sight sent a thrill through him. She was afraid. Good. She should be afraid. Fear would teach her what kindness and patience hadn't—that she belonged to him, that she would always belong to him.

Derek followed, keeping to the shadows on his side of the street, matching her pace. He'd gotten good at this over the past months. Knew how to move quietly, how to anticipate her routes, how to read her body language. He knew when she was about to look over her shoulder (she did, twice, but he was ready, already melting into a doorway). He knew when she was about to break into a run (not yet, but soon—he could see the tension building in her frame).

At the corner of 23rd and Riverside, she turned right, moving faster now. Derek smiled and quickened his own pace. She was heading toward Riverside Park. Probably thought she could lose him in the maze of paths that wound through the trees and around the old fountain. Probably thought the darkness would hide her.

The joke would be on her.

He rounded the corner just in time to see her crossing the street toward the park entrance, nearly running now. Derek's smile widened. His hand slipped into his jacket pocket, fingers closing around the folding knife he'd bought specifically for tonight. He'd hoped it wouldn't come to this. Hoped she'd finally understand, finally submit, finally accept that they were meant to be together.

But if she wouldn't accept it willingly, he'd make her accept it. One way or another, tonight would end with May understanding exactly who she belonged to.

Derek jogged across the street and into the park. The old-growth trees blocked out most of the ambient light from the street, creating a darkness so complete he had to slow down, let his eyes adjust. He could hear footsteps ahead—quick, light, feminine. May, trying to escape.

Not this time.

He moved deeper into the park, following the sound. The path curved around a dense stand of oaks, and there—he caught a glimpse of her, maybe thirty yards ahead, moving toward the old fountain at the park's center. The fountain had been dry for years, surrounded by benches that the homeless used during the day and drug dealers used at night. At this hour, it would be deserted.

Perfect.

Derek closed the distance, his breathing steady despite the exertion. He'd been working out more these past months, building his strength, preparing for this moment. He was faster than her, stronger than her. She had to know she couldn't outrun him.

She reached the fountain and stopped, her back to him, her shoulders rising and falling with her rapid breathing. Derek slowed to a walk, pulling the knife from his pocket. The blade snicked open with a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet park.

"May," he said, his voice carrying across the space between them. "Did you really think you could run from me?"

She didn't turn around. Didn't move at all.

"I've been patient," Derek continued, moving closer. "So patient. I've tried to make you understand. Tried to show you that we belong together. But you keep fighting it. Keep fighting me." He was ten feet away now. Five. "That ends tonight."

He reached out to grab her shoulder, to spin her around, to show her the knife and watch the fear bloom in those beautiful dark eyes—

She moved.

It happened so fast Derek's brain couldn't process it. One moment she was standing still, the next she'd pivoted on her left foot, her right leg sweeping up in an arc that connected with his wrist with devastating precision. The knife went flying, clattering across the concrete. Before he could react, she'd stepped inside his guard, her elbow driving into his solar plexus with enough force to empty his lungs.

Derek staggered back, gasping, trying to understand what was happening. May didn't know how to fight. She was a waitress, for God's sake, she—

A fist crashed into his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Then another blow, this one to his ribs, and he felt something crack. He tried to raise his hands to defend himself, but she was everywhere at once—striking with her fists, her elbows, her knees, each blow precise and devastating.

A kick to his knee sent him crashing to the ground. He tried to crawl away, tried to get up, but a foot planted itself in his chest, pinning him to the concrete. He looked up, vision blurring from pain and shock, and saw her standing over him.

But something was wrong.

Her face was May's face—the same dark eyes, the same high cheekbones. But the expression was all wrong. May's eyes had always been soft, kind, even when she was afraid. These eyes were hard. Cold.

"You should have paid attention to the emails," she said, her voice similar to May's but with a harder edge, a different cadence. "The ones warning you to leave my sister alone. The ones explaining exactly what would happen if you didn't."

Derek's vision swam. Sister? May didn't have a—

Movement in his peripheral vision. He turned his head, ignoring the spike of pain the motion caused, and saw another figure approaching. Walking calmly, unhurried, her silhouette backlit by the distant streetlights.

As she drew closer, Derek's mind finally caught up with what his eyes were seeing.

Two of her. No, there were two of them. Identical. Twins.

The second woman—the real May, he realized with a sickening lurch—stopped a few feet away. Her face was pale, her eyes red-rimmed from crying, but there was something else there too. Something like relief. Like hope.

"Hello, Derek," May said quietly. "Hello, Mira."

The woman standing over him—the one who'd beaten him with the efficiency of a trained fighter—glanced at her sister. May's chin lifted slightly, a nod so small it was almost imperceptible. Permission. Confirmation. They were in this together.

Mira smiled. It was the smile of a predator who'd cornered its prey.

"May got all the sugar in the family." She reached into her purse. "I got all the spice."

She pulled out a pistol. Even in his dazed state, Derek recognized the cylindrical suppressor attached to the barrel.

"And in my line of work," the woman continued, her voice conversational, almost pleasant, "I rarely do anything nice."

"Please!" Derek's voice cracked, rising to a shriek. "Please, I'm sorry, I'll leave her alone, I swear, I'll never—"

The gun came up, steady as stone.

"You should have left her alone three months ago," Mira said. "You should have left her alone when she asked. When she begged. When she got the restraining order. When I sent you those emails explaining exactly what I do for a living and exactly what would happen if you continued to stalk my sister."

"I'll disappear!" Derek was sobbing now, all pretense of control gone. "I'll move away, I'll never contact her again, please, you don't have to—"

"You're right," Mira said. "I don't have to. I want to."

The gun barely made a sound—just a soft cough, like someone clearing their throat. But the acrid smell hit May instantly, sharp and chemical and wrong, burning the back of her throat like swallowed acid. Her ears rang with a high, piercing whine that seemed to swallow all other sound. Even though she wasn't holding the weapon, she felt the recoil in her chest—a phantom kick that made her stumble backward, her body responding to violence she wasn't committing.

Derek's body jerked. The dark stain spread across his shirt.

"You were warned," Mira said softly, and fired again. And again.

May's hands were shaking so badly she couldn't feel them anymore. Her vision tunneled, the edges of the world collapsing into a pinpoint, and then—just as suddenly—it sharpened with terrible, nauseating clarity. She could see everything. The exact moment the light left his eyes. The way his mouth opened and closed like a fish pulled from water. The small spray of blood that caught the streetlight.

Each muffled shot drove deeper into her skull, the ringing intensifying until her teeth ached and her legs felt hollow beneath her. She wanted to look away but couldn't. Wanted to scream but had no air.

Her stomach lurched, bile rising to mix with the chemical taste coating her tongue. Her skin prickled with cold sweat despite the summer heat. The world went white at the edges. Her breath came in gasps that tasted of copper and her own terror.

May stood frozen, staring at Derek's body, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The smell of the suppressor hung thick in the air around them, coating her tongue.

Mira returned the gun to her purse and pulled out her phone, typing rapidly.

"Cleanup crew will be here in twenty minutes," she said, her voice brisk and professional. "We need to be gone in ten."

May kept staring at Derek's body. "Is he—"

"Yes." She put a hand on her sister's shoulder, her touch gentle despite the violence she'd just committed. "It's over, May. He can't hurt you anymore."

May turned and buried her face in her sister's shoulder, her body shaking with sobs that were equal parts relief and horror. Mira held her, one hand stroking her hair, the other still holding the phone.

"I know this isn't how you wanted it to end," Mira said softly. "I know you wanted the system to work."

May nodded, wiping her eyes. "What happens now?"

"Now you go home. Take a shower. Get some sleep. Tomorrow, you go to work like normal. If anyone asks, you'll say you went straight home and was there the rest of the night, alone. I'll make sure of it. Your phone's GPS will show you never left your apartment."

"And Derek?"

She glanced at the body, her expression neutral. "Derek will disappear. Someone will file a missing person's report. The police will investigate. They'll find nothing. Eventually, he'll just be another statistic, another person who vanished without a trace." She squeezed May's hand. "And you'll be free."

They walked out of the park together, two identical women holding hands, moving through the shadows. Behind them, Derek Hutchins lay cooling on the concrete, his eyes staring sightlessly at the stars.

By the time the sun rose over Riverside Park, there would be no trace that he'd ever been there at all.

--

If you enjoyed that story, you can find more of the same in The Last Laugh and Other Stories! Currently available at a discout!

A new Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller

 

Ghost of Hong Kong: One of Many

The Peninsula Hong Kong's presidential suite commanded a view that had seduced emperors and moguls alike—Victoria Harbour spread below like a carpet of liquid obsidian, studded with the reflected lights of skyscrapers that pierced the night sky. Inside, the suite's floor-to-ceiling windows framed this spectacle with the precision of a master painter, while recessed lighting cast amber shadows across furniture that cost more than most people earned in a year.

Michael Mak stood at the window, a crystal tumbler of Hendrick's Orbium balanced in his manicured fingers. The gin caught the light, refracting it into pale blue fragments that danced across his Patek Philippe watch. He was forty-three, handsome in the way that wealth and careful maintenance could manufacture, his tailored Tom Ford suit fitting him like a second skin. His reflection in the window showed a man completely at ease, a predator in his natural habitat.

Behind him, the woman he'd brought back from the hotel bar moved with deliberate grace. She'd introduced herself as Lily—a name as disposable as tissue paper, they both knew. Her Mandarin carried the soft edges of someone educated in international schools, her English flawless and unaccented. She was perhaps thirty, with the kind of beauty that turned heads on the street but didn't photograph well enough for magazine covers. Real beauty, Michael thought, not the manufactured perfection of models and actresses.

"You have excellent taste," she said, her voice carrying just enough warmth to seem genuine. Her fingers worked the zipper of her black Versace dress, the sound like a whisper in the suite's hushed atmosphere.

"In gin or in women?" Michael asked, not turning from the window. He could see her reflection, a ghost image superimposed over Hong Kong's glittering sprawl.

"Both, perhaps."

The dress fell at her feet, revealing a body that spoke of discipline and purpose. Black lace underwear, the expensive kind from La Perla, contrasted against skin that held the faintest golden undertone. Black stockings with seams that ran straight as plumb lines up the backs of her legs. She stepped out of her heels with practiced ease, reducing her height by three inches but losing none of her presence.

Michael turned then, his eyes traveling over her with the assessment of a connoisseur. His gaze caught on the scars—a thin white line along her left ribcage, another across her right shoulder blade, a third that disappeared beneath the lace at her hip. They were old, healed with the kind of care that suggested professional medical attention, but unmistakable in their origin. Violence had marked this woman, and she'd survived it.

The scars made her more interesting. Perfect skin was boring, the canvas of someone who'd never truly lived. These marks told stories, hinted at depths that the carefully constructed persona of "Lily" tried to conceal. Michael felt his pulse quicken, not with desire but with something darker, more primal.

"The bedroom," he said, gesturing toward the suite's master chamber with his tumbler. "Why don't you finish undressing there? Then you can help me with these." He tugged at his tie, loosening the Windsor knot.

She smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "As you wish."

The bedroom was a study in understated luxury—a king-sized bed with Egyptian cotton sheets, more windows overlooking the harbour, and furniture in dark woods that absorbed light rather than reflected it. Lily walked to the bed, her movements unhurried, while Michael set his gin on a side table and moved to the antique dresser that stood against the far wall.

"You know," he said conversationally, pulling open the second drawer, "I've always appreciated a woman who knows what she wants. No games, no pretense. Just honest transaction." His fingers closed around the handle of the knife—a Benchmade Adamas with a seven-inch blade, the kind of weapon that spoke of serious intent rather than casual violence.

He turned, the knife held low and ready, expecting to see surprise or fear in her eyes. Instead, he found her watching him with an expression of almost clinical interest, her body already shifting into a defensive stance that spoke of training far beyond any self-defense class.

Michael lunged, the blade arcing toward her midsection in a strike designed to open her from hip to sternum. She moved like water, her body flowing around the attack with minimal wasted motion. Her left hand caught his wrist, redirecting the blade's momentum while her right drove into his solar plexus with enough force to drive the air from his lungs.

He stumbled back, reassessing. The fear he'd expected to see was absent, replaced by something far more dangerous—professional competence.

"I love it when they fight back," Michael said, his voice carrying genuine pleasure despite the pain radiating from his chest. "Makes it so much more satisfying."

She didn't respond, didn't waste breath on words. Her silence was more unnerving than any threat could have been.

Michael came at her again, this time with more caution, the knife weaving patterns in the air between them. He'd trained in Kali, had spent years learning to make a blade an extension of his will. The knife became a silver blur, forcing her to give ground, to retreat toward the windows.

She blocked with her forearms, accepting minor cuts to protect vital areas. Blood welled from a slice across her left forearm, another along her right bicep. The pain didn't register on her face, didn't slow her movements. She was counting his patterns, Michael realized, learning his rhythm.

When he committed to a thrust aimed at her throat, she was ready. Her right hand caught his wrist again, but this time she twisted, using his momentum against him. Her left elbow drove into his face, crushing his nose with a wet crunch that sent blood streaming down his chin. Before he could recover, her knee found his groin with surgical precision.

Michael folded, agony exploding through his body, but he kept hold of the knife. He slashed wildly, forcing her back, buying himself seconds to recover. His vision swam, tears mixing with blood, but he could still see her circling, patient as a shark.

"Who are you?" he gasped, the question emerging through broken teeth and blood.

"You should have stuck to murdering street-level sex workers," she said, her voice carrying no emotion, just statement of fact. "At least then I wouldn't be here to kill you."

Michael laughed, the sound bubbling through the blood in his throat. "You're here because of them? For those worthless—" He lunged again, rage overriding caution.

She caught his knife hand in both of hers, her fingers finding pressure points that made his grip spasm. The blade clattered to the floor, and before he could react, she'd swept his legs out from under him. He hit the hardwood with bone-jarring force, the air driven from his lungs for the second time.

She was on him instantly, her knee on his chest, her hands around his throat. Not squeezing, not yet, just holding him in place while she retrieved the knife with one hand. The blade pressed against his carotid artery, the pressure just shy of breaking skin.

"How many?" she demanded, her face inches from his. "How many of the high-end escorts have you killed?"

Michael tried to laugh, but it came out as a wet gurgle. Blood bubbled at his lips, his broken nose making breathing a struggle. "You think I'm some pathetic predator? Some common serial killer?" He coughed, spraying blood. "I've only killed three of your precious high-end whores. Three! Hardly worth the effort, really."

The knife pressed harder. "Three? The pimps counted at least a dozen missing."

"Oh, there are more than a dozen." Michael's eyes gleamed with something like pride despite the pain. "But those weren't all me. I have standards. I only take the expensive ones, the ones who think they're better than what they are." He wheezed, his breathing labored. "The cheap ones, the street trash, the ones nobody reports missing—other members handle those. They enjoy the easy prey."

Her hand stilled. Her mind raced, recalculating. "Other members?"

"The Society," Michael whispered, watching realization dawn on her face with satisfaction. "You thought you were hunting one man killing expensive call girls? We've been operating for years. Dozens of us, maybe more. Some prefer the high-end escorts like I do. Others..." He coughed again, blood flecking his lips. "Others work the streets, the massage parlors, the cheap brothels. The ones where no one cares enough to hire someone like you."

"How many?" she demanded, the knife pressing harder.

"Dozens. Maybe hundreds." Michael whispered, his eyes beginning to glaze. "We've been operating for centuries. You've killed one man, but the Society..." He coughed, blood spraying across her face. "The Society is eternal."

For a moment, she couldn't breathe. The air in the suite had gone thin, or maybe it was her chest constricting, her ribs suddenly too tight around her lungs. The scope of it hit her like a physical blow—not a killer, but a symptom. Not an ending, but a beginning. Her hand trembled against the knife handle, not from fear but from something hotter, something that burned through her veins and made her want to scream.

How many women? How many bodies that would never be found, never be mourned, never be avenged because no one thought they mattered enough? The weight of it pressed down on her shoulders, made her jaw clench so hard her teeth ached. She'd spent weeks tracking this bastard, had risked everything to get into this room, and he was just one. One man in a network of predators who'd turned murder into a fucking membership club.

Her vision sharpened, the edges of everything going crystalline and bright. The rage that flooded through her wasn't the hot, explosive kind—it was cold, methodical, the kind that didn't burn out but settled into bone and sinew and became part of you. One man's death meant nothing if the organism lived on. But now she knew what she was hunting. Now she had a purpose that extended beyond this room, beyond this night, beyond every contract she'd ever taken.

She drove the knife home, the blade sliding between his ribs with the precision of someone who knew exactly where to strike. Michael's eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a silent scream as his lung collapsed. He tried to speak, to laugh one more time, but only blood emerged, thick and dark, choking him from the inside.

The woman who called herself Lily—though that wasn't her name any more than Michael Mak was his real name—watched him die with the same clinical detachment she'd shown throughout the fight. She'd seen men die before, had killed more than she cared to count, and each death was the same. The light fading from their eyes, the final spasms as the body fought against the inevitable, the moment when they became just meat and bone.

When Michael's chest stopped moving, she stood, her body protesting the abuse it had taken. The cuts on her arms burned, shallow but numerous. She'd have scars to add to her collection, more stories written on her skin. The Ghost stories.

 

She moved through the suite with practiced efficiency, wiping down surfaces she'd touched, collecting the few items she'd brought with her. The dress went into her bag, replaced by dark jeans and a black hoodie. The expensive lingerie stayed on—it would be disposed of later, burned along with any other evidence that might connect her to this room.

The knife she left in Michael's chest. Let the police wonder about that, about why a wealthy businessman had been killed with his own weapon in a luxury hotel suite. They'd investigate, of course, but they'd find nothing. The Ghost of Hong Kong didn't leave traces.

She paused at the window, looking out over the city that had become her hunting ground. Somewhere down there, women were dying. Street-level sex workers, the kind society pretended not to see. And there was a Society dedicated to killing them.

A Society. Not one man, but an organization with structure, hierarchy, resources. The patterns had told her as much—too many victims, too many methods. But hearing Michael confirm it changed everything.

She thought about the bodies in dumpsters and back alleys, the ones who'd simply vanished. Migrants, working illegally, with no family to report them missing. They were ghosts before they died, invisible to everyone except the men who killed them.

Would anyone pay her to hunt the Society? Street prostitutes didn't have money for assassins. The people who might care couldn't afford her rates. She could work pro bono—she'd done it before, taken jobs that satisfied something deeper than greed. But every hour spent hunting the Society was an hour not spent on paying work.

She checked her watch. Three hours until dawn. Time to reach out to information brokers, to apply the methods that had worked against other organized groups. Time to hunt.

The Ghost of Hong Kong slipped out of the suite, moving through service corridors, avoiding cameras, fading into the night like smoke.

Somewhere in this city, the Society was operating, confident in their invisibility, secure that no one cared about their victims. They didn't know yet that someone was coming for them.

--

If you enjoyed this story, check out fifteen more in The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology!

A New Feat for d20 System Games: Last Words!

In NUELOW's classic ROLF!: The Rollplaying of Big Dumb Fighters, there's a skill called Strategic Bleeding. Basically, characters with that ability get one final "screw you" toward whoever or whatever is killing them by bleeding all over them, ruining their clothes and just making a mess in general.

With the Last Words feat, we bring the same sort of vibe to d20 System games!

LAST WORDS [General]
You can curse your killer with your dying breath.
   Prerequisites: Cha 13
   Benefit: When the character is killed by a creature, his or her last action can be to place a minor death curse on the killer. The curse has a duration of 1d4 weeks and imposes a -2 penalty to all ability scores. The breaking condition is determined by the GM but should be related to making amends for the character's death.
   Special: This feat activates automatically when the character dies, and instantly grants a free standard action. This action can only be used for dramatically (or even melodramatically) proclaiming the curse on your killer. This free action cannot be used in any other way.

(This feat is presented under the Open Game License and it may be reproduced in accordance with those terms. Copyright 2026 Steve Miller.)