A Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller

 

The Ghost and the Children

The rain fell in sheets across Hong Kong's Wan Chai district, turning the narrow alleyways into rivers of neon-reflected water. Mae Ling watched from her apartment window as the city below transformed into a watercolor painting of light and shadow, the kind of night when secrets moved freely through the streets and desperate people made dangerous decisions.

Her phone buzzed with an encrypted message from a number she didn't recognize. The text was simple in its directness: We need to hire the Ghost. We have money. Please help us.

Mae Ling deleted the message immediately, as she did with most unsolicited contacts. Her services weren't advertised, and she certainly didn't take requests from random numbers. The Broker handled all her contracts, maintaining the careful distance between her work and her identity that had kept her alive for fifteen years.

But something about the message lingered. The phrasing. We have money. Not "I have money" but "we." And that word—please. In her line of work, people rarely said please. They demanded, they threatened, they negotiated. They didn't beg.

The phone buzzed again. Another message from the same number: We are children. He hurt us. The police won't help. You are our only hope.

Mae Ling set down her tea, the porcelain cup clicking against the saucer with a sound like a judge's gavel. She had rules about children. Strict rules. She didn't harm them, and she didn't ignore them when they were in danger. The world was full of predators who viewed the young and vulnerable as easy prey, and Mae Ling had built a reputation for making those predators disappear.

She typed a response: How did you get this number?

The reply came quickly: We asked people in the street. They said you help people the law can't protect. We saved money for a year. 47,000 Hong Kong dollars. It's everything we have.

Mae Ling calculated quickly. Forty-seven thousand Hong Kong dollars was roughly six thousand US dollars. Her usual fee started at fifty thousand US and went up from there, depending on the target's security and public profile. Six thousand wouldn't even cover her equipment costs for a standard operation.

But children didn't understand the economics of assassination. They understood only that someone had hurt them, that the system had failed them, and that they had scraped together every dollar they could find in the desperate hope that money could buy them justice.

Where are you? she typed.

St. Margaret's Home for Children. Sham Shui Po district. Can you come tonight?

Mae Ling checked her watch. Nearly midnight. She had no active contracts at the moment, having just completed a job that had left three human traffickers dead on a yacht off the coast of New Zealand. The Broker had promised her a week of rest before the next assignment. She could afford one night to hear what these children had to say.

I'll be there in an hour, she sent. Wait by the back entrance. Come alone—no more than two of you.

She dressed in dark, nondescript clothing—black jeans, a charcoal hoodie, running shoes with good traction. No weapons yet. This was reconnaissance, not an operation. She pulled her hair back into a tight ponytail and grabbed a small backpack containing basic surveillance equipment and a first aid kit. In her experience, conversations with desperate children often revealed injuries that needed immediate attention.

The drive to Sham Shui Po took forty minutes through rain-slicked streets. The district was one of Hong Kong's poorest, a dense warren of aging apartment blocks, street markets, and forgotten corners where the city's most vulnerable residents struggled to survive. St. Margaret's Home for Children occupied a narrow building wedged between a textile factory and a shuttered restaurant, its facade marked by peeling paint and barred windows.

Mae Ling parked three blocks away and approached on foot, scanning for surveillance cameras and potential threats. The orphanage's back entrance opened onto a small courtyard filled with broken playground equipment and overflowing garbage bins. Two figures waited in the shadows beneath a rusted awning, their small forms barely visible in the dim light.

As Mae Ling drew closer, she could make out more details. A girl, perhaps thirteen or fourteen, with long black hair and eyes that held too much knowledge for her age. Beside her stood a boy, younger—maybe ten—with a thin frame and a protective stance that suggested he'd learned early to guard against danger.

"You're the Ghost?" the girl asked, her voice steady despite the tremor in her hands.

"I'm someone who might be able to help," Mae Ling replied, keeping her tone neutral. "What are your names?"

"I'm Mei," the girl said. "This is my brother, Chen. We've been here for three years, since our parents died in a factory fire."

Mae Ling nodded, filing away the information. Factory fires in Hong Kong often weren't accidents, especially in districts like this where safety regulations were routinely ignored and workers had no recourse against negligent employers.

"Tell me what happened," she said. "Start from the beginning."

Mei glanced at her brother, who nodded encouragement. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter, as if the words themselves were dangerous.

"His name is Vincent Lau. He volunteers here twice a month, brings donations, takes pictures with us for his uncle's political campaigns. His uncle is Raymond Lau, the Legislative Council member. Vincent tells everyone he's a philanthropist, that he cares about orphans and disadvantaged children."

The girl's hands clenched into fists, her nails digging into her palms. Mae Ling recognized the gesture—the physical manifestation of rage that had nowhere else to go.

"But when the cameras are off and the staff isn't watching, he takes children to the storage room on the third floor. He tells them he wants to talk privately, to hear their stories so he can help them. And then he—"

Mei's voice broke. Chen stepped closer to his sister, his small hand finding hers.

"He hurt my sister," the boy said, his voice carrying a cold fury that Mae Ling had heard before in the voices of survivors. "He hurt six other girls too. We tried to tell the director, but she said we were lying, that Vincent Lau is a respected member of the community and we were just troubled children making up stories for attention."

"We went to the police," Mei continued, her composure returning. "They took our statements, but nothing happened. One officer told us that making false accusations against the Lau family could get us in serious trouble. Another said there was no evidence, that it was our word against his. The case was closed within a week."

Mae Ling felt the familiar cold anger settling into her chest, the same feeling that had driven her into this profession years ago. The world was full of predators who used their power and connections to prey on the vulnerable, secure in the knowledge that the systems meant to protect the innocent would instead protect them.

"How did you get the money?" she asked.

"We saved everything," Chen said. "Mei works at a noodle shop after school, washing dishes. I collect recyclables and sell them. Some of the other kids helped too, the ones who Vincent hurt. We've been saving for a year, ever since we realized no one else was going to help us."

Forty-seven thousand dollars. A year of child labor, of skipped meals and worn-out shoes, of every small sacrifice adding up to a sum that these children believed could buy them justice. Mae Ling had killed men for far less noble reasons.

"I need to verify your story," she said. "Give me the names of the other victims and any details you can remember about Vincent Lau's visits—dates, times, anything specific he said or did."

Mei pulled a folded piece of paper from her pocket, the edges worn from repeated handling. "We wrote everything down. All the dates we could remember, all the girls' names, everything he said to us. We knew you'd need proof."

Mae Ling took the paper and scanned its contents. The handwriting was careful and precise, the kind of meticulous documentation that spoke to both intelligence and desperation. Six names besides Mei's, ages ranging from eleven to fifteen. Dates going back two years. Specific details about Vincent Lau's methods—how he isolated his victims, the threats he used to ensure their silence, the way he positioned himself as their benefactor and protector even as he violated their trust.

"I'll look into this," Mae Ling said. "But I need you to understand something. If what you're telling me is true, and if I decide to help you, the outcome will be permanent. Vincent Lau won't go to prison. He won't face trial. He'll simply disappear. Are you prepared for that?"

Mei met her eyes without flinching. "We're prepared for him to never hurt anyone again. That's all we want."

"Keep the money," Mae Ling said. "Use it for your education, for getting out of this place when you're old enough. If I take this job, it won't be because you paid me. It will be because what you've told me is true and because someone needs to stop him."

"But we want to pay," Chen protested. "We don't want charity. We want justice."

Mae Ling crouched down to the boy's eye level, seeing in his face the same fierce pride she'd carried at his age, the same refusal to be pitied or dismissed.

"Justice isn't something you buy," she said. "It's something you take when the systems meant to provide it fail. You've already paid more than anyone should have to pay. Keep your money. Build better lives. That's the best revenge against people like Vincent Lau—surviving and thriving despite what they've done to you."

She stood and tucked the paper into her jacket pocket. "I'll be in touch within a week. Don't contact this number again unless it's an emergency. And don't tell anyone about this meeting. Not the other children, not the staff, no one. Understand?"

Both children nodded. As Mae Ling turned to leave, Mei called out softly.

"Thank you. Even if you decide not to help us, thank you for listening. No one else has."

Mae Ling didn't respond. She simply melted back into the shadows, leaving the two children standing in the rain-soaked courtyard with their carefully saved money and their desperate hope for justice.

* *

Mae Ling spent the next five days confirming what she already knew in her gut. Children rarely lied about abuse—they lacked both the sophistication and the motivation to fabricate such detailed accounts. But her work required absolute certainty. She couldn't afford mistakes, and she wouldn't kill a man based solely on accusations, no matter how credible.

The public records painted Vincent Lau as Hong Kong's most eligible bachelor with a heart of gold—thirty-four, unmarried, a consultant for his uncle's business ventures. His social media was a carefully curated gallery of charity events and smiling children. But Mae Ling had seen this performance before. Predators often hid behind philanthropy, using their charitable work as both cover and hunting ground.

Her contacts in Hong Kong's underground networks provided the confirmation she needed. Vincent had been accused of similar behavior at two other orphanages over the past five years. Both times, the accusations had been quietly buried, the accusers either paid off or intimidated into silence. His uncle's political connections ensured that no investigation ever gained traction.

On the fifth day, Vincent Lau visited St. Margaret's Home for Children. Mae Ling watched from a rented apartment across the street, her camera capturing every moment. He came bearing gifts—new tablets, expensive pastries, envelopes of cash for the director. The staff greeted him like a hero.

Mei and Chen stood in the lineup, their faces carefully neutral as they accepted Vincent's gifts and posed for photos. Vincent's hand lingered on Mei's shoulder, possessive, proprietary. The fear flashed across the girl's face before she buried it beneath a practiced smile.

Then Vincent led a young girl—one of the names from Mei's list—toward the stairs, his hand on her back, his expression one of benevolent concern. The girl went reluctantly, her body language screaming distress that the adults around her either didn't notice or chose to ignore.

Mae Ling's decision crystallized in that moment. She had all the confirmation she needed. Vincent Lau was exactly what the children had described—a predator who used his family's power and his own carefully constructed image to prey on the most vulnerable members of society. The legal system had failed these children repeatedly, and it would continue to fail them as long as the Lau family's influence remained intact.

Mae Ling decided to call the Broker that evening from a secure line, but her finger hovered over the button for several seconds before she pressed it.

She'd been sixteen when she killed her first predator. He was the stepfather of a friend who had been raping her since she was fourteen. The police had done nothing, citing lack of evidence and her family's history of "mental instability." Eventually, she tried killing herself, and she told Mae Ling why as she was recovering in the hospital. So Mae Ling tracked him down, and, under a rarely used dock on Victoria Harbor she shattered both his legs and arms with a steel rod and left him to drown.

That first kill hadn't been clean or professional. It had been rage and grief and a child's desperate belief that she could cut the rot out of the world one predator at a time. Twenty years later, she'd refined her methods, built a reputation, and learned to operate within the careful boundaries that kept her alive and free. But taking on the Lau family meant stepping outside those boundaries. Raymond Lau had the kind of power that could hunt her across borders, that could make her disappear into a black site prison where ghosts like her were forgotten.

She thought about Mei's careful handwriting, about Chen's fierce pride, about forty-seven thousand dollars earned through a year of child labor. She thought about the girl being led up those stairs, and all the girls who would follow if Vincent Lau made it to Vancouver.

The fear was still there, cold and rational in her chest. But it was smaller than the alternative.

She pressed the button.

"I need information on Vincent Lau," she said without preamble. "Everything you have on his schedule, his security, his habits. And I need it fast."

The Broker was silent for a moment. "The nephew of Raymond Lau? That's a politically sensitive target, Ghost. His uncle has connections throughout Hong Kong's government and law enforcement. Taking out Vincent will create significant blowback."

"I'm aware of the complications," Mae Ling replied. "But this isn't a negotiation. I'm taking the job. I just need the information."

Another pause. The Broker had worked with Mae Ling long enough to recognize when her mind was made up. "Give me twenty-four hours. And Mae Ling? Be careful with this one. The Lau family doesn't forgive, and they don't forget."

"Neither do I," Mae Ling said, and ended the call.

The information arrived the next morning in an encrypted file. Vincent Lau maintained a predictable schedule during the week but became more erratic on weekends, when he frequented various nightclubs and private parties. He employed no personal security, relying instead on his family name and his uncle's reputation to keep him safe. His apartment building had standard security measures—cameras, a doorman, electronic locks—but nothing that would pose a serious challenge to someone with Mae Ling's skills.

The file also included something unexpected: evidence that Vincent Lau was planning to leave Hong Kong. He'd purchased a one-way ticket to Vancouver, departing in two weeks. The Broker's notes suggested that Vincent's uncle was arranging for him to relocate permanently, likely in response to growing whispers about his behavior. The Lau family was protecting their own, moving Vincent out of reach before any accusations could gain traction.

Mae Ling felt a cold satisfaction at this discovery. Vincent Lau knew he was in danger, or at least his uncle did. They were trying to spirit him away to safety, to let him start fresh in a new city where his reputation hadn't yet caught up with him. Where he could find new victims who didn't know to be afraid of him.

She wouldn't let that happen.

Mae Ling spent the next week preparing. She studied the layout of Vincent's apartment building, identifying entry and exit points, camera blind spots, and potential complications. She acquired the tools she would need—a suppressed pistol, lock-picking equipment, a change of clothes for afterward. She established her alibi, ensuring that she would be seen at a restaurant across the city at the time of Vincent's death.

But most importantly, she gathered evidence. Using her surveillance footage and the information from Mei's list, she compiled a comprehensive dossier on Vincent Lau's crimes. Photos of him with his victims, timestamps matching the dates the children had provided, financial records showing payments to the orphanage director that coincided with his visits. She couldn't bring Vincent to justice through the legal system, but she could ensure that his crimes were documented and exposed after his death.

On the night she'd chosen for the operation, Mae Ling sent an encrypted message to several journalists she'd worked with before—people who specialized in exposing corruption and abuse of power. The message contained a link to a secure server where the evidence would be automatically uploaded twelve hours after Vincent Lau's death. The journalists would receive the full dossier, complete with documentation of the police's failure to investigate and the Lau family's efforts to cover up Vincent's crimes.

Vincent Lau would die, and his reputation would die with him. His uncle's political career would be damaged, possibly destroyed. And the children he'd hurt would have the satisfaction of knowing that the world finally knew the truth about their abuser.

Mae Ling entered Vincent's apartment building at two in the morning, when the night doorman was making his rounds of the parking garage. She bypassed the security cameras using a technique she'd perfected years ago—a combination of timing and blind spots that made her effectively invisible to the building's surveillance system. The electronic lock on Vincent's apartment door took less than thirty seconds to defeat.

Inside, the apartment was exactly what she'd expected—expensive furniture, modern art, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. The kind of place that screamed wealth and privilege, where someone like Vincent Lau could live in comfort while his victims struggled to survive in overcrowded orphanages.

She found him in the bedroom, asleep in silk sheets, his phone charging on the nightstand beside him. Mae Ling stood in the doorway for a moment, watching him sleep, thinking about the children whose lives he'd damaged and the ones he would have hurt if she hadn't intervened.

Vincent stirred, some instinct warning him of danger. His eyes opened, and for a moment he stared at Mae Ling in confusion, his sleep-fogged brain struggling to process the presence of a stranger in his bedroom.

"Who—" he began, but Mae Ling was already moving.

She crossed the room in three swift steps, her hand clamping over his mouth before he could scream. The suppressed pistol pressed against his temple, and she saw the moment when confusion transformed into terror.

"Vincent Lau," she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of judgment. "You've hurt children. You've used your family's power to escape justice. That ends tonight."

His eyes widened, and he tried to speak against her hand. Mae Ling eased the pressure slightly, allowing him to gasp out words.

"Please," he whispered, his voice cracking with genuine fear. "Please, wait—there's been a mistake. I don't know what you've been told, but—"

"I've been told nothing," Mae Ling said. "I've watched you. I've documented you."

Vincent's breathing quickened, his mind visibly racing behind his eyes. She could see him calculating, adjusting his approach. "Then you know I'm a philanthropist. I help those children. Someone must have misrepresented—"

"Save it."

He flinched at the coldness in her voice. A beat of silence passed, and then his strategy shifted. The fear in his eyes took on a different quality—more desperate, more personal.

"Okay. Okay, listen." His words came faster now. "I'll pay you. Whatever you want. My uncle has money, connections. We can make you rich. We can make you disappear—new identity, anywhere in the world you want to go. Just name your price."

Mae Ling said nothing. The silence stretched between them like a wire pulled taut.

"Five million US," Vincent said, sweat beading on his forehead. "Ten million. I can have it transferred within hours. You could retire, live anywhere you want. No one would ever find you."

Still, Mae Ling didn't respond. She watched him the way she'd watched him through her camera lens—with clinical detachment, cataloging every micro-expression, every tell.

Vincent's composure began to crack. His eyes filled with tears, his body trembling. "Please. I'm sick," he said, the words tumbling out with what sounded like genuine anguish. "I know that. I've known for years. I need help."

He paused, watching for any reaction. When Mae Ling's expression didn't change, he pressed on.

"I was going to get treatment in Vancouver, I swear. Real therapy. My uncle found a clinic, specialists who deal with... with people like me. I can change. I want to change." His voice broke convincingly. "Please, I can change."

"Did the children beg you?" Mae Ling asked softly. "When you took them to that storage room, when they asked you to stop—did you listen?"

Vincent's mouth opened, closed. She saw him recalibrating again, trying to find the angle that would work. "You don't understand. The situation was more complicated than—"

"Did. They. Beg?"

His jaw tightened. For just a second, something cold and calculating flashed across his face—the predator recognizing that his performance wasn't working, irritation breaking through the fear. Then he smoothed it over, reaching for a different mask.

"They misunderstood," he said, his tone shifting to something almost reasonable, as if explaining a simple miscommunication. "I was trying to help them, to mentor them. These are troubled kids from difficult backgrounds—they don't know how to interpret affection appropriately. I never meant for them to feel—"

Even as the words left his mouth, Mae Ling could see he didn't believe them himself. It was pure reflex now—the practiced lie he'd told so many times it came automatically, even with a gun to his head. Even knowing it wouldn't work.

"Stop." Mae Ling's voice cut through his explanation like a blade. The gun pressed harder against his temple. "I've watched you with them. I've seen the way they flinch when you touch them. I know exactly what you are."

Vincent Lau went very still. She watched something shift in his eyes—the final mask falling away. For a moment, she saw something that looked almost like relief cross his face. The fear was still there, but it was joined by something else now. Resignation. Exhaustion. And underneath it all, something that might have been relief.

When he spoke again, his voice had changed entirely. No more pleading, no more negotiation, no more performance. Just a hollow flatness, like a man who'd been running for so long that he'd forgotten what it felt like to stop.

"Then you know more than most people," he said quietly. "My uncle's been grooming me for politics since I was twenty. I was supposed to be the respectable face of the family—marry some politician's daughter, have photogenic children, smile for the cameras while pretending to be something I'm not."

He let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "He found out about my... interests... three years ago. Paid off the first family, made the problem disappear. Told me I needed to be more careful. Not stop—just be more careful." His eyes met hers, empty of everything except weariness. "Vancouver was supposed to be a fresh start, another cover-up. Another decade of pretending."

He closed his eyes. "At least this is honest."

Mae Ling felt her finger tighten on the trigger, but something made her pause. This was the truth, finally—not the predator's manipulation or the philanthropist's mask, but the broken human underneath who'd chosen to feed his sickness rather than fight it. Who'd hurt children because he could, because the system let him, because on some level he'd been waiting for someone to stop him permanently.

It didn't change what she had to do. But it made her understand that Vincent Lau wasn't a monster—he was a man who'd chosen to become one, again and again, until there was nothing left worth saving.

"The children you hurt saved for a year to hire me," Mae Ling said. "They gave up everything they had because they believed that money could buy them justice. I'm here because they were right."

She pulled the trigger twice, the suppressed shots barely louder than a cough. Vincent Lau's body went limp, his eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling—perhaps relieved, perhaps terrified, perhaps nothing at all.

Mae Ling checked his pulse to confirm death, then methodically wiped down every surface she'd touched. She left through the same route she'd entered, disappearing into the Hong Kong night like the ghost she was named for.

Mae Ling didn't go home immediately. She walked instead, letting the pre-dawn air wash over her as the city slowly stirred to life. Street vendors were setting up their stalls, the smell of congee and fresh bread mixing with exhaust fumes. An old woman practiced tai chi in a small park, her movements fluid and unhurried. Normal people living normal lives, unaware that one predator fewer walked among them.

Her hands were steady. They always were, during and after. It was only later—sometimes days later—that she'd feel the weight of what she'd done. Not regret, exactly. More like a profound weariness, the accumulation of all the lives she'd ended in the name of justice that the law couldn't or wouldn't deliver.

She wondered, sometimes, what her grandmother would think of her now. She'd raised her to believe in systems, in order, in the rule of law. She'd died believing those systems worked--well, most of the time. Mae Ling had lived long enough to learn otherwise.

By the time she reached her apartment, the sun was rising over the harbor, painting the water in shades of gold and pink. She showered, washing away any trace of Vincent Lau, and then she waited.

* *

The news broke on the second day.

Mae Ling watched from her apartment as the story unfolded across every screen in the city. Vincent Lau, prominent philanthropist and nephew of Legislative Council member Raymond Lau, found dead in his apartment. Cause of death: homicide. And then, within hours, the evidence began to surface.

The journalists she'd contacted had done their work well. Vincent's crimes were laid bare in meticulous detail—the victims' names, the dates, the systematic failures of both the orphanage administration and the police. Social media exploded with outrage and grief. Candlelight vigils appeared outside St. Margaret's Home for Children. The police commissioner gave a press conference, his face tight with barely concealed anger, promising a full investigation into why the initial complaints had been dismissed.

By the end of the week, the orphanage director had been arrested for accepting bribes. Three police officers were suspended pending review. And Raymond Lau had resigned from the Legislative Council, his political dynasty crumbling under the weight of public fury.

Mae Ling watched it all with a mixture of satisfaction and melancholy. Vincent Lau was dead, yes. His crimes were exposed. But there would be others. There were always others.

On the seventh day, her phone buzzed with a message from an unknown number. She almost deleted it automatically, but something made her open it first.

Thank you, the message read. We saw the news. We can sleep now.

Mae Ling stared at the words for a long moment. She thought about Mei's careful handwriting, about Chen's fierce pride, about seven children who had paid a year's worth of suffering and sacrifice for the justice they'd been denied.

She typed a brief response: Use the money wisely. Build good lives. That's the best revenge.

After deleting the conversation, she stood and walked to her window. The city sprawled below her, vast and indifferent, full of victims and predators and people just trying to survive. Somewhere out there, Mei and Chen were sleeping peacefully for the first time in years. Somewhere out there, other children were reading the news and wondering if it was safe, finally, to tell their own stories.

And somewhere out there, other predators were reading the same news and wondering if they might be next.

Mae Ling poured herself a cup of tea—jasmine tonight, delicate and calming—and settled into her chair. Her phone would ring soon. The Broker would have a new assignment, another target who'd escaped justice through wealth or power or connections. Another opportunity to balance the scales when the system failed.

She was the Ghost of Hong Kong, and she would continue her work as long as there were children who needed protecting and predators who needed stopping. It wasn't a perfect form of justice. It wasn't even clean. But in an imperfect world, it was the best she could offer.

She sipped her tea and watched the lights of the city flicker like stars.

Sometimes, that was enough.