This is a tale of a legendary assassin. You can find many more about her in The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology.
The Ghost in the Fire
The luxury high-rise known as Azure Heights pierced the Hong Kong skyline like a shard of crystalline ambition, its forty-eight floors of premium condominiums housing some of the city's wealthiest residents. At three in the morning, the building slept in air-conditioned silence, its inhabitants dreaming behind reinforced glass and electronic security systems that promised absolute safety.
Mae Ling moved through that silence like smoke through still air.
The Ghost of Hong Kong—a name whispered in certain circles with equal parts fear and respect—had bypassed the building's elaborate security with the ease of long practice. The night guard would wake in four hours with a splitting headache and no memory of the woman who had pressed a pressure point behind his ear. The security cameras looped footage from the previous night, showing empty corridors where Mae Ling now walked with measured, silent steps.
She wore black tactical clothing that absorbed light rather than reflected it, her slight frame moving with the fluid economy of a predator. Her target occupied the penthouse—all of the forty-eighth floor, a sprawling monument to wealth acquired through the suffering of others. Chen Wei-Tang, known in less polite company as the Viper, had built his fortune on human misery. His trafficking network stretched from rural China to the brothels of Southeast Asia, a pipeline of stolen lives and broken dreams that generated millions in monthly revenue.
Mae Ling had spent two months documenting his crimes, following the trail of disappeared women and children, interviewing the few survivors who had escaped his organization's grip. The evidence was overwhelming, damning, and completely useless in any court that mattered. Chen had purchased his immunity through careful bribes and strategic blackmail, his connections reaching into the highest levels of law enforcement and government.
The legal system had failed. Mae Ling would not.
She reached the forty-seventh floor via the emergency stairs, her breathing controlled and steady despite the climb. The stairwell door opened silently—she had oiled the hinges during a reconnaissance visit two days prior, posing as a potential buyer touring the building. Every detail mattered in her profession. Any oversight could prove fatal.
The penthouse elevator required a special key card, but Mae Ling had no intention of using it. Instead, she moved to the service access panel concealed behind an abstract painting in the forty-seventh floor corridor. The panel opened to reveal a maintenance ladder leading up to the penthouse level's mechanical systems. She climbed with practiced efficiency, her gloved hands finding purchase on the metal rungs.
The penthouse spread before her like a temple to excess when she emerged into its lower level. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of Hong Kong's glittering harbor, the city lights reflecting off the water in patterns that would have been beautiful if Mae Ling had allowed herself to appreciate such things. She didn't. Beauty was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous.
The interior design favored minimalist luxury—white marble floors, contemporary furniture in muted tones, abstract art that probably cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. Mae Ling moved through the space with her senses fully engaged, cataloging exits and potential threats, her hand resting near the suppressed pistol holstered at her hip.
The penthouse was empty.
Not just unoccupied—empty in a way that suggested deliberate absence. No personal items cluttered the surfaces. No clothing hung in the master bedroom's walk-in closet. The refrigerator contained nothing but bottled water and champagne. The entire space felt staged, like a showroom rather than a residence.
Wrong, Mae Ling thought, her instincts screaming warnings that her conscious mind was only beginning to process. This is wrong.
The massive television screen mounted on the living room wall flickered to life with a soft electronic chime. Mae Ling's hand moved to her weapon, but she didn't draw it. Not yet.
Chen Wei-Tang's face filled the screen, his features arranged in an expression of smug satisfaction that made Mae Ling's jaw tighten. He sat in what appeared to be a comfortable office, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, his expensive suit perfectly tailored to his stocky frame.
"Ghost of Hong Kong," he said, his Cantonese flavored with the accent of mainland China. "I'm honored that you've come all this way to visit me. Unfortunately, I won't be able to receive you in person. You understand, I'm sure—one can't be too careful when dealing with professional killers."
Mae Ling remained motionless, her mind racing through possibilities and contingencies. Pre-recorded message. He knew she was coming. The question was how much he knew and what preparations he had made.
"I've been aware of your interest in my business affairs for some time now," Chen continued, swirling his drink with casual arrogance. "Your reputation is impressive, I'll admit. The ghost who walks through walls, who strikes without warning, who has never failed to eliminate her targets. Quite the legend. But legends, I've found, are just stories we tell ourselves. And stories can have unhappy endings."
He leaned forward, his smile widening. "You're trapped, Ghost. This building is about to become your funeral pyre. Even now, fire is spreading from the ground floor upward, following a path I've carefully prepared. The bamboo scaffolding that surrounds Azure Heights—ostensibly for renovation work—has been soaked in accelerants. The fire will climb faster than you can descend. The emergency systems have been disabled. The alarms won't sound. And by the time the fire department arrives, you'll be ash, along with everyone else unfortunate enough to live in this building."
Mae Ling's blood turned to ice. Everyone else. Hundreds of residents. Families. Children. Sleeping peacefully while death climbed toward them through the night.
"I want you to know," Chen said, his voice dropping to a intimate whisper, "that this is personal. You've cost me money, Ghost. You've killed my associates, disrupted my operations, made me look weak in front of my competitors. This is the price of your interference. Your death, and the deaths of everyone in this building. It's a lesson to anyone else who thinks they can challenge the Viper."
The screen went dark.
Mae Ling was already moving, her professional detachment shattered by the magnitude of Chen's revenge. She sprinted to the penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the building's exterior. The bamboo scaffolding wrapped around Azure Heights like a skeletal embrace, the traditional construction method still common in Hong Kong despite the building's modern design. From her vantage point forty-eight floors up, she could see the orange glow beginning to spread at the structure's base, flames licking upward along the bamboo poles with terrifying speed.
The accelerants Chen had mentioned were doing their work. The fire climbed with unnatural velocity, consuming the dried bamboo and spreading across the building's facade in a pattern that suggested careful planning. This wasn't random arson—this was calculated murder on a massive scale.
Mae Ling's training took over, years of survival instincts kicking in to wall off the panic and horror. She had perhaps ten minutes before the fire reached the upper floors. Maybe less. The building's residents were sleeping, unaware of the death climbing toward them through the night. No alarms sounded. No sprinklers activated. Chen had been thorough in his preparations.
She pulled out her encrypted phone and dialed emergency services, her Cantonese crisp and urgent as she reported the fire at Azure Heights. The operator's questions came rapid-fire, but Mae Ling cut through the protocol with the authority of someone who expected to be obeyed. "Forty-eight story residential building. Fire spreading via external scaffolding. Hundreds of residents in immediate danger. Fire suppression systems disabled. Send everything you have. Now."
She disconnected before the operator could ask for her name, already moving toward the penthouse's private elevator. The stairwells would be her fastest route down, her best chance to warn residents floor by floor as she descended. But when she wrenched open the emergency stairwell door, smoke billowed out in a choking cloud that sent her stumbling backward.
Impossible. The fire couldn't have climbed that fast. Unless—
Mae Ling's tactical mind supplied the answer even as her lungs burned from the smoke she'd inhaled. Chen had set multiple ignition points. The scaffolding fire was the visible threat, the dramatic spectacle. But he'd also started fires inside the building, probably in the stairwells and elevator shafts, ensuring that anyone who tried to evacuate would be trapped by smoke and flames.
She slammed the stairwell door shut and moved to the penthouse's other emergency exit. Same result—thick smoke pouring through the gaps around the door, the metal already warm to the touch. The building was being consumed from multiple directions simultaneously, a coordinated attack designed to leave no survivors.
Mae Ling forced herself to think past the horror of the situation. Panic was death. Emotion was death. She needed to survive, and she needed to find a way to help the building's residents survive. The fire department would arrive soon, but "soon" might not be fast enough. The smoke alone could kill hundreds before the first ladder truck reached the scene.
She ran back through the penthouse, her eyes scanning for anything useful. Chen had cleared out his personal belongings, but the space itself remained furnished. She moved through rooms with desperate efficiency, opening closets and storage areas, searching for something—anything—that could provide an escape route.
The rooftop. The building had a rooftop garden and helipad. If she could reach it, she might be able to signal for help, might be able to coordinate with emergency responders from above rather than being trapped inside the burning structure.
Mae Ling found the access stairs to the roof behind a door marked "Private—Authorized Personnel Only." She took the steps three at a time, her lungs grateful for the relatively clear air. The rooftop door opened with a heavy clang, and she emerged into the humid Hong Kong night.
The rooftop garden spread across half of the building's top floor, an elaborate arrangement of planters and walking paths designed to provide residents with an outdoor oasis in the sky. The helipad occupied the other half, its painted circle gleaming white under the rooftop's security lights. Mae Ling ran to the edge of the building and looked down.
The sight stole her breath.
Fire engulfed the lower floors of Azure Heights, flames climbing the bamboo scaffolding with horrifying speed. The structure burned like a massive torch, the fire spreading upward in a pattern that suggested it would reach the roof within minutes. Heat rose in shimmering waves, distorting the air and carrying with it the acrid smell of burning bamboo and accelerants. Below, she could see lights beginning to come on in neighboring buildings, people waking to the spectacle of a skyscraper burning in the heart of Hong Kong.
But no lights came on in Azure Heights itself. The residents slept on, unaware, while death climbed toward them through the smoke-filled corridors and stairwells.
Mae Ling pulled out her phone again, but before she could dial, she heard the distant wail of sirens. The fire department was responding. But they would arrive to find a building already engulfed, its internal fire suppression systems disabled, its residents trapped behind doors they might not even know they needed to open.
She needed to escape. Needed to survive so she could hunt down Chen Wei-Tang and make him pay for this atrocity. But how? The stairwells were death traps. The elevators would be disabled. The fire was climbing too fast for any conventional rescue.
Mae Ling ran back across the rooftop, her mind racing through possibilities. Chen had planned this trap carefully, but he had made one critical error—he had assumed she would panic, would waste precious time trying to escape down through the building. He hadn't considered that she might go up instead of down.
The penthouse. Chen had cleared out his personal belongings, but what about the building's maintenance equipment? What about emergency supplies that might be stored on the roof level?
She found the storage room adjacent to the helipad, its door secured with a simple padlock that she broke with a sharp strike from her elbow. The room contained the expected maintenance supplies—tools, cleaning equipment, spare parts for the rooftop's irrigation system. But in the back corner, partially disassembled and covered with a tarp, she found something unexpected.
A hang glider.
The device lay in pieces, its aluminum frame separated from its fabric wing, the control bar detached. Mae Ling stared at it for a heartbeat, her mind processing the implications. Someone—probably Chen himself—had kept this here as a hobby, a toy for the wealthy man who owned the sky. The irony was almost poetic.
She had perhaps five minutes before the fire reached the roof. Maybe less. The heat was already intensifying, the air shimmering with thermal currents rising from the burning building below. Mae Ling had never assembled a hang glider before, had never even flown one, but she had jumped from aircraft, had parachuted into hostile territory, had trusted her life to equipment and physics in situations where failure meant death.
This was just another impossible situation. And Mae Ling specialized in the impossible.
Her hands moved with desperate efficiency, fitting the aluminum tubes together, her mind working through the logic of the device's construction. The frame formed a triangular structure, the control bar attaching at the apex. The fabric wing stretched across the frame, secured with clips and tension cables. She worked without conscious thought, her body moving through the assembly process with the same focused intensity she brought to every task.
Three minutes. The rooftop's temperature was rising noticeably now, the heat from below creating updrafts that tugged at her clothing. Smoke began to seep through ventilation grates, wisps of gray that would soon become choking clouds.
The hang glider took shape under her hands. She secured the last connection, tested the control bar's movement, checked the wing's tension. It wasn't perfect—she had no way to verify that every component was properly assembled—but it would have to be enough.
Two minutes. The fire had reached the upper floors now, flames visible through the penthouse windows. The glass would shatter soon from the heat, turning the rooftop into an inferno.
Mae Ling lifted the hang glider, feeling its weight, testing its balance. The device was designed for recreational flight from hilltops and cliffs, not for emergency escapes from burning skyscrapers. But the principle was the same—use the wind and thermal currents to generate lift, control descent through weight shifts and the control bar.
She ran toward the edge of the building, the hang glider's frame gripped in both hands, the control bar positioned for launch. The heat rising from the burning structure created powerful updrafts, dangerous and unpredictable, but also potentially useful if she could harness them correctly.
One minute. The rooftop door exploded outward as pressure built inside the stairwell, flames and smoke billowing into the night sky. The helipad's painted surface began to blister from the heat.
Mae Ling reached the building's edge and didn't hesitate. She launched herself into the void, the hang glider's wing catching the rising thermal currents with a violent jerk that nearly tore the control bar from her hands. The sudden lift threw her upward and sideways, the glider spinning in the turbulent air, completely out of control.
She fought the spin with desperate strength, shifting her weight and pulling the control bar, trying to stabilize the craft against forces that wanted to tear it apart. The heat from the burning building created a column of rising air that buffeted the glider like a leaf in a hurricane. Mae Ling's arms screamed with the effort of maintaining control, her body swinging wildly beneath the fabric wing.
The glider tilted sickeningly to the left, dropping toward the building's burning facade. Mae Ling could feel the intense heat on her exposed skin, could see the flames reaching toward her like grasping fingers. She pulled hard on the control bar, shifting her weight to the right, fighting to gain altitude and distance from the inferno.
The thermal currents were both salvation and threat. They provided the lift she needed to stay airborne, but they also created turbulence that made controlled flight nearly impossible. The glider bucked and twisted, climbing and dropping in sickening oscillations that left Mae Ling's stomach churning and her grip on the control bar white-knuckled with strain.
She focused on the basics—keep the nose up, maintain airspeed, use weight shifts to control direction. The glider responded sluggishly to her inputs, the turbulent air making every correction an exercise in desperate improvisation. Below her, Azure Heights burned like a massive candle, flames consuming the bamboo scaffolding and spreading across the building's exterior in patterns of orange and red that would have been beautiful if they weren't so horrifying.
The glider caught a particularly strong updraft and shot upward, climbing a hundred feet in seconds before the thermal released it and the craft dropped like a stone. Mae Ling's stomach lurched, her hands fighting to maintain control as the ground rushed up to meet her. She pulled back on the control bar, flaring the wing, converting speed into lift at the last possible moment.
The glider leveled out, now flying away from the burning building, the turbulent air giving way to the relatively stable night breeze that flowed across Hong Kong's harbor. Mae Ling allowed herself a single breath of relief before focusing on the next challenge—landing without killing herself.
The harbor spread below her, its dark water reflecting the city lights and the orange glow of the burning skyscraper. Mae Ling aimed for a park she could see in the distance, a patch of green that offered the possibility of a soft landing. The glider descended in a gradual spiral, losing altitude as she worked to maintain control and airspeed.
Her arms burned with fatigue, her hands cramping from the death grip she maintained on the control bar. The glider wanted to stall, wanted to drop her into the harbor or onto the concrete streets below. She fought it with every ounce of strength and skill she possessed, coaxing the craft toward the park, adjusting her approach with minute weight shifts and control inputs.
The ground rose to meet her faster than she would have liked. Mae Ling flared the wing at the last moment, bleeding off speed, but the landing was still brutal. She hit the grass hard, her legs buckling, the glider's frame collapsing around her as momentum carried her forward in a tumbling roll that left her bruised and gasping.
She lay still for a moment, taking inventory of her body. Nothing broken. Nothing bleeding. Alive.
Mae Ling extracted herself from the tangled wreckage of the hang glider and looked back toward Azure Heights. The building burned against the night sky, a pillar of fire visible for miles. She could hear sirens now, multiple fire trucks converging on the scene, their lights painting the streets in patterns of red and white.
She had survived. But hundreds of others might not have. The thought sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Chen Wei-Tang had turned her into an instrument of mass murder, had used her presence in the building as justification for an atrocity that would claim innocent lives.
Mae Ling melted into the shadows of the park, disappearing before emergency responders could arrive and ask questions she couldn't answer. She needed to regroup, to plan, to find Chen Wei-Tang and make him pay for what he had done.
The Ghost of Hong Kong had failed tonight. But ghosts, she reminded herself, were notoriously difficult to kill.
Two weeks later, she obtained the official incident report. Two hundred and thirty-seven confirmed dead—most succumbing to smoke inhalation before evacuation could begin. Her emergency call, precise and professional, had been too late. Each name felt like a weight, a silent accusation: collateral damage in her relentless persuit of a target and a paycheck. That number—237—would become a permanent scar on her conscience.
Three weeks after the fire, Chen Wei-Tang sat in his new office—a penthouse suite in a different building, one with better security—and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The Azure Heights fire had been spectacular, a demonstration of his power and ruthlessness that had sent ripples through Hong Kong's criminal underworld. The Ghost was dead, burned to ash along with two hundred and thirty-seven residents who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
Collateral damage. Acceptable losses in the war against those who would challenge his authority.
"The Ghost is dead," he said to the three men seated across from him, his lieutenants in the trafficking operation that continued to generate obscene profits. "Let that be a lesson to anyone else who thinks they can interfere with our business. We are untouchable. We are inevitable."
The men nodded, their expressions carefully neutral. They had learned long ago not to show weakness in front of the Viper, not to question his decisions or methods. Chen had built his empire on fear and violence, and he maintained it through demonstrations of power that left no room for doubt about who held control.
"The authorities are still investigating the fire," one of the lieutenants said, a thin man named Wu who handled the organization's financial operations. "They suspect arson, but they have no evidence linking it to us. The accelerants burned completely, and the building's security systems were disabled before the fire started. As far as they can determine, it was a tragic accident caused by faulty wiring in the renovation scaffolding."
Chen smiled, pleased with his own cleverness. "And the Ghost?"
"No body was recovered," Wu admitted. "But given the intensity of the fire and the number of victims who were burned beyond recognition, that's not surprising. She's presumed dead by those in the know."
"Presumed dead is the same as dead," Chen said, pouring himself a glass of expensive whiskey. "The Ghost of Hong Kong is gone. Her legend ends in fire and failure. I want that story spread through every criminal network in Asia. I want everyone to know what happens to those who challenge the Viper."
The other lieutenants murmured their agreement, raising their own glasses in a toast to their boss's victory. Chen basked in their approval, in the knowledge that he had eliminated a significant threat and reinforced his reputation in a single spectacular act.
His phone rang, the sound cutting through the celebration. Chen glanced at the screen, frowning. Unknown number. He considered ignoring it, but curiosity won out. He answered, putting the phone to his ear.
"Chen Wei-Tang," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Hello, Viper." The voice was female, speaking Cantonese with a Hong Kong accent. Calm. Professional. Familiar.
Fear shot through Chen's chest. "Who is this?"
"You know who this is," Mae Ling said. "Did you really think a fire would kill me? I'm disappointed, Chen. I expected better from someone with your reputation."
Chen's hand tightened on the phone, his knuckles white. His lieutenants noticed his expression change, their own faces reflecting sudden concern.
"You're dead," Chen said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You burned in Azure Heights."
"I survived," Mae Ling said simply. "And I've spent the last three weeks preparing a gift for you. Actually, it's more accurate to say that the residents of Azure Heights are returning your gift. The two hundred and thirty-seven people you murdered—they wanted you to know that they haven't forgotten."
"What are you talking about?" Chen demanded, but even as he spoke, he smelled it. Smoke. Faint but unmistakable, seeping into the office from somewhere below.
His lieutenants smelled it too. Wu stood abruptly, moving toward the door. "Boss, I think—"
The fire alarm began to wail, a piercing electronic shriek that filled the office with urgent warning. Chen ran to the window and looked down at the street forty floors below. Dark smoke poured from the building's lower levels, thick and black, spreading with unnatural speed.
"No," he whispered, his reflection in the glass showing a face drained of color. "No, this isn't possible."
"I've disabled your building's fire suppression systems," Mae Ling said, her voice calm in his ear despite the chaos erupting around him. "I've blocked the emergency exits. I've set fires in the stairwells and elevator shafts, just like you did at Azure Heights. The only difference is that this building houses your organization's headquarters. Your people. Your operations. Everything you've built."
Chen's mind raced, searching for options, for escape routes. The office had a private elevator, but if Mae Ling had blocked the exits, it would be useless. The windows were reinforced glass, designed to prevent break-ins. They would also prevent breaking out.
"You're bluffing," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You wouldn't kill innocent people. That's not who you are."
"You're right," Mae Ling said. "I evacuated the building's legitimate tenants two hours ago. Anonymous bomb threat. Very effective. The only people left in your building are your employees, Chen. The traffickers. The enforcers. The people who profit from human suffering. I thought it was appropriate that they share your fate."
The smoke was thicker now, visible tendrils seeping under the office door. Chen's lieutenants were panicking, trying the door and finding it locked from the outside, pounding on the reinforced windows with furniture that bounced off without leaving a mark.
"This is murder," Chen said, his voice rising with desperation. "You're no better than me."
"I'm exactly like you," Mae Ling said. "That's what you never understood, Chen. You thought you could use fear as a weapon, could kill innocents to make a point. But fear is a tool that cuts both ways. And now you're going to learn what it feels like to be on the receiving end."
"Wait," Chen said, his professional composure crumbling. "We can make a deal. I have money. Connections. Whatever you want, I can provide it. Just let me out of here."
"The residents of Azure Heights didn't get to make deals," Mae Ling said. "The women and children you trafficked didn't get to negotiate. Why should you?"
Acrid fumes choked the air, gray clouds filling the office and making every breath a struggle. Chen could hear screaming from other parts of the building, his organization's members realizing they were trapped, that the fire was spreading too fast for escape.
"Please," he whispered, all pretense of strength abandoned. "Please, I'm begging you."
"Goodbye, Chen," Mae Ling said. "I hope the fire is everything you imagined it would be."
The line went dead.
Chen dropped the phone, his hands shaking, his mind fragmenting under the weight of terror. The office was an oven now, the heat building, the smoke making every breath a struggle. His lieutenants had collapsed, overcome by smoke inhalation, their bodies sprawled across the expensive carpet.
Through the window, Chen could see fire trucks arriving below, their ladders extending upward. But they would be too late. The fire was spreading too fast, consuming the building from the inside out, just as it had consumed Azure Heights.
Chen Wei-Tang, the Viper, the man who had built an empire on fear and violence, sank to his knees as the smoke filled his lungs.
***
Mae Ling stood on a rooftop several blocks away, watching Chen's building burn. She had told Chen the truth—she had evacuated the building's innocent tenants before setting the fires. The only people who died tonight were those who had chosen to profit from human suffering, who had built their lives on the broken bodies of victims.
It wasn't justice, not really. Justice would have been a fair trial, evidence presented, sentences handed down by impartial judges. But the world didn't work that way, not for people like Chen Wei-Tang, not for victims like Lin.
So Mae Ling had become something else. Not justice, but retribution. Not law, but consequence.
The Ghost of Hong Kong.
She watched the fire trucks battle the blaze, watched the building burn, and felt nothing. No satisfaction. No guilt. For a moment, unbidden, the memory of Azure Heights surfaced—the searing heat against her face as she'd stood on that rooftop, the terror clawing at her throat as flames consumed the building beneath her feet, the desperate leap into darkness with nothing but an untested hang glider between her and death. The phantom sensation of scorching air filled her lungs, and she could almost feel the control bar trembling in her hands again, the sick drop of her stomach as thermal currents threw her skyward.
She pushed the memory down, buried it beneath layers of professional detachment. That night was over. Those 237 deaths were a weight she would carry, but dwelling on them served no purpose. What remained was only the cold certainty that she had done what needed to be done tonight, that she had protected future victims by eliminating those who would have harmed them.
Tomorrow, she would receive another assignment. Another target. More monsters who thought themselves untouchable.
And the Ghost would prove them wrong.
--
If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying a copy of The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology, available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.
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