The Ghost at Rest - Fiction by Steve Miller

Spend a quiet evening at home with one of the world's most lethal assassins...

The Ghost at Rest

The bruise along Mae Ling's left ribs bloomed purple-black against her pale skin, a souvenir from the Macau job that had concluded eighteen hours earlier. She pressed her fingertips gently against the tender flesh, wincing as she assessed the damage in the full-length mirror of her bathroom. The target had been quicker than anticipated—a former Triad enforcer turned legitimate businessman who still retained his street instincts. His elbow had found her ribs during their brief, violent dance on the forty-second floor of the Grand Lisboa. Still, he was dead, and she was merely bruised. In her line of work, that constituted an unqualified success.

Mae Ling pulled on a soft cotton tank top, the fabric settling carefully over her injuries, and padded barefoot through her Mid-Levels apartment. The space was a study in contradictions—minimalist Scandinavian furniture juxtaposed against traditional Chinese artwork, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Victoria Harbour while heavy blackout curtains stood ready to provide complete privacy at a moment's notice. To any casual observer, it was the home of a successful tech consultant or finance professional. They would never suspect that behind the innocuous bookshelf in the study lay her true sanctuary.

She pressed her palm against a specific section of the wall, and the biometric scanner hidden beneath the paint read her handprint. The bookshelf swung inward with a whisper-quiet mechanical hum, revealing the room that contained the tools of her trade. The armory was compact but comprehensive—a climate-controlled space no larger than a walk-in closet, yet containing enough firepower to outfit a small military unit. Handguns hung in precise rows: a suppressed Walther P99, her beloved Sig Sauer P226, a compact Glock 19 for close work, and several others, each maintained to perfection. Rifles occupied the far wall—a disassembled Barrett M82 for extreme long-range work, an HK416 for situations requiring more aggressive persuasion, and her personal favorite, a custom-modified Remington 700 that had never failed her in seven years of service.

But tonight, Mae Ling wasn't here for weapons. She moved to the workshop area, where her laptop displayed detailed schematics of the Grand Lisboa's security systems—research that was now obsolete but represented weeks of meticulous preparation. She closed the files and began her post-mission ritual, cleaning and organizing her equipment with surgical care. The ceramic knife she'd used to end the target's life went into an ultrasonic cleaner, its blade disappearing into the bubbling solution. Her tactical gear—black clothing designed to blend with shadows, lightweight body armor, communication equipment—was inspected, cleaned, and returned to its designated place.

The ritual was meditative, a way to transition from the heightened alertness required for her work back to the mundane rhythms of civilian life. Each piece of equipment told a story: the scar on her tactical vest from a job in Bangkok where everything had gone sideways, the modified grip on her Sig Sauer that accommodated her smaller hands, the collection of false passports representing a dozen different identities she could assume at a moment's notice. Mae Ling ran her fingers along these familiar objects, grounding herself in their reality after the surreal violence of the previous night.

Satisfied that everything was in order, she sealed the armory and made her way to the kitchen. The space was modern and well-appointed, though she rarely used it for elaborate cooking. Tonight called for something simple and comforting. She filled her electric kettle with filtered water and selected a tin of premium oolong from her collection—a gift from a grateful client in Taiwan who had never known her real name or face. While the water heated, she prepared a light snack: rice crackers topped with aged cheese and thin slices of Chinese sausage, arranged on a small ceramic plate with the same attention to detail she brought to planning an assassination.

The kettle's soft whistle announced that the water had reached the perfect temperature. Mae Ling warmed her teapot with a splash of hot water, swirled it around, then discarded it before adding the tea leaves. She poured the water in a slow, steady stream, watching the leaves unfurl and release their amber essence. The familiar ritual was soothing, a connection to her grandmother's teachings from childhood—one of the few pure memories from her life before she became the Ghost of Hong Kong.

Carrying her tea and snack to the living room, Mae Ling settled into the corner of her oversized sofa, pulling a cashmere throw around her shoulders. The bruise on her ribs protested as she adjusted her position, but the pain was manageable—a reminder that she was alive, that she had once again emerged victorious from a deadly game. She reached for the remote control and navigated to her streaming service, scrolling past action movies and crime dramas with a wry smile. After spending her professional life immersed in violence and deception, her entertainment preferences ran toward the absurd and innocent.

She selected an episode of "Are You Being Served?" from her carefully curated collection of British sitcoms. The show was delightfully ridiculous—a relic from the 1970s featuring the staff of a fictional department store and their endless double entendres and misunderstandings. Mae Ling had discovered it during a recovery period after a particularly difficult job in London, and it had become her guilty pleasure. There was something deeply satisfying about watching Mrs. Slocombe fuss over her cat while Captain Peacock strutted about with pompous authority, their petty concerns a universe away from the life-and-death stakes of her own existence.

As the familiar theme music played, Mae Ling sipped her tea and felt the tension in her shoulders begin to ease. On screen, Mr. Humphries was explaining to a confused customer why the men's department didn't carry a particular style of trouser, his camp delivery and theatrical gestures drawing a genuine laugh from the assassin. She had killed three people in the past month—a corrupt politician in Singapore, a human trafficker in Manila, and now the former Triad enforcer in Macau—yet here she was, giggling at a decades-old British comedy like any other woman enjoying a quiet evening at home.

The contradiction didn't trouble her. Mae Ling had long ago made peace with the duality of her existence. By day—or more accurately, by the periods between jobs—she was simply another Hong Kong professional: well-educated, financially comfortable, culturally sophisticated. She attended art gallery openings, practiced tai chi in the park, and maintained cordial relationships with her neighbors. But when the Broker called with a contract, she transformed into something else entirely: a shadow that moved through the world's dark corners, dispensing death with clinical precision.

Her phone, resting on the coffee table beside her tea cup, suddenly illuminated with an incoming message. The display showed only a number she recognized—the Broker's secure line.

She glanced at the device but made no move to pick it up. On television, Mrs. Slocombe was having another crisis involving her pussy, and the studio audience was erupting in laughter. The message notification pulsed insistently, but she ignored it, taking another sip of her oolong and settling deeper into the sofa cushions.

The Broker was her primary contact with the shadowy network that employed her services. She had never met him in person—she wasn't entirely certain the Broker was male, as their communications were conducted entirely through encrypted text messages and voice-altered phone calls. What she did know was that the Broker had an uncanny ability to identify targets who needed killing and clients willing to pay handsomely for the service. Politicians who had betrayed their constituents, criminals who preyed on the innocent, corporate executives who valued profit over human life—the Broker's contracts always came with detailed justifications that allowed Mae Ling to maintain the fiction that she was some sort of avenging angel rather than simply a killer for hire.

The phone buzzed twice more in quick succession. Mae Ling's eyes flicked toward it briefly before returning to the television screen, where Mr. Lucas was attempting to demonstrate a camping tent to increasingly bewildered customers. She knew the messages would be marked urgent—they always were. In the Broker's world, every contract was a matter of life and death, every delay potentially catastrophic.

But Mae Ling had learned the importance of boundaries, of maintaining spaces in her life that remained untouched by the violence that defined her profession. Tonight was one of those spaces. Her body ached from the Macau job, her mind was still processing the split-second decisions that had kept her alive, and her soul—if she still possessed such a thing—craved the simple pleasure of mindless entertainment. The Broker's urgent contract could wait until morning. Whatever crisis demanded her particular skills would still exist in eight hours, and she would be better equipped to handle it after a full night's rest.

After the fourth buzz, Mae Ling reached over and turned the device face-down, muffling the notification light. On screen, Captain Peacock was delivering a pompous lecture about proper department store etiquette while Young Mr. Grace nodded approvingly from his wheelchair. The familiar rhythms of the show washed over her like a warm bath, each predictable joke and recurring gag a small comfort in a life defined by uncertainty and danger.

She thought about her grandmother, who had raised her after her parents died in a car accident when Mae Ling was twelve. The old woman had been a teacher, devoted to literature and traditional Chinese culture, who had filled their small apartment with books and the scent of jasmine tea. Mae Ling touched the cross that hung on a silver chain around her neck—the cross her grandmother had worn every day until her death eight years ago—and wondered what that gentle woman would have thought of her granddaughter's chosen profession.

Her grandmother had practiced what she called "practical faith"—attending Catholic mass on Sundays while maintaining a small Buddhist shrine in their bedroom, lighting incense for ancestors while reciting the rosary. She spoke of karma as readily as she did divine forgiveness, believing that the universe kept its own accounts while God offered redemption to those who sought it. "Every action creates ripples," she used to say, "but the water can always be made clear again." Would such a woman have condemned the lives Mae Ling had taken, or would she have somehow found justification in the careful selection of her targets—the corrupt, the cruel, those who preyed upon the innocent? Mae Ling suspected her grandmother would have focused not on the killing itself, but on the intention behind it, the cosmic balance of removing evil from the world. It was a comforting thought, though Mae Ling wasn't entirely convinced she believed it herself.

Of course, her grandmother had never known what her beloved granddaughter would become—one of Asia's most feared assassins. To the end, she had believed Mae Ling worked in international consulting, traveling frequently for business meetings and client presentations.

The lie had been easy to maintain.

Her legitimate cover identity was thoroughly documented—complete with tax records, professional references, and a modest but respectable income. It explained her comfortable lifestyle without raising suspicions about its true source.

On television, the episode was reaching its climax as the department store staff dealt with yet another crisis involving a difficult customer and a misunderstood product demonstration. Mae Ling found herself genuinely invested in the outcome, despite having seen this particular episode at least a dozen times.

There was something deeply satisfying about the show's formulaic structure. The way each episode followed the same basic pattern while introducing just enough variation to keep things interesting. It was the opposite of her professional life, where no two jobs were ever the same and the slightest deviation from the plan could prove fatal.

Her phone buzzed a fourth time, and Mae Ling felt a flicker of irritation. The Broker was nothing if not persistent, but tonight she was off duty. She had earned this respite through years of flawless service, through contracts completed without a single failure or blown cover. The criminal underworld knew her only as the Ghost of Hong Kong—a phantom who appeared without warning, eliminated her target with surgical precision, and vanished without a trace. Police files contained dozens of unsolved murders that bore her signature: clean kills with no witnesses, no evidence, and no apparent motive beyond professional execution.

But the Ghost of Hong Kong was currently wearing comfortable pajamas and laughing at a British sitcom from the 1970s. The duality no longer seemed strange to her—it was simply the reality of her existence, as natural as breathing. She had compartmentalized her life with the same methodical precision she brought to planning an assassination, creating spaces where Mae Ling the woman could exist separately from Mae Ling the killer.

The episode concluded with the typical resolution: misunderstandings cleared up, dignity restored (more or less), and the promise that tomorrow would bring fresh opportunities for chaos and confusion. Mae Ling smiled as the credits rolled, already looking forward to the next episode. She had nowhere to be tomorrow morning, no pressing obligations beyond eventually responding to the Broker's increasingly urgent messages.

For now, she was content to exist in this bubble of domestic tranquility, nursing her bruises and her tea while the neon lights of Hong Kong painted rainbow patterns across her living room walls.

As the next episode began, Mae Ling pulled the cashmere throw more tightly around her shoulders and settled in for another half hour of blissful normalcy. The phone continued to buzz periodically, each message presumably more urgent than the last, but she had made her decision. Tonight belonged to her, not to the Broker or the shadowy clients who required her services. Tonight, she was just another woman enjoying a quiet evening at home, and that was exactly how she intended to keep it.

The Ghost of Hong Kong could rise again tomorrow.

--

A story featuring Mae Ling is included in the Chillers and Thrillers anthology, now available at DriveThruRPG and DriveThruFiction!

The Ghost at the Crossroads - Fiction by Steve Miller

If you've gotten yourself a copy of the Chillers & Thrillers anthology, you know how the Ghost of Hong Kong ended up in the mysterious situation she finds herself in. (And if you haven't gotten a copy yet, you should! It's got some great comics from Steve Ditko and great fiction from Steve Miller!)

The Ghost at the Crossroads

The cold seeped through Mae Ling's bones like ice water through cracked stone. She opened her eyes beside a dirt road, the taste of earth and rain heavy on her tongue. She pushed herself up on trembling arms, her body protesting every movement. She wore nothing but a thin white nightgown, soaked through by gentle rain from the gray sky above.

The fabric clung to her pale skin like a burial shroud, and she shivered from an inexplicable chill that seemed to emanate from within her very core. Mae Ling had awakened in strange places before—safe houses, hotel rooms, the occasional alleyway after a job gone sideways—but never like this. Never so vulnerable, so exposed, so utterly without memory of how she had arrived at this desolate stretch of muddy road.

Something was wrong. More than wrong. She had no memory of how she got here. In fact, her mind seemed hazy and as she tried to focus on what might have brought here, her thoughts just grew more disjoined.

She stood on unsteady legs, her bare feet sinking slightly into the soft earth. The rain continued its gentle percussion against her skin, each droplet a tiny shock of cold reality. Mae Ling wrapped her arms around herself, trying to preserve what little warmth remained in her body, and began to walk. The road squelched beneath her feet with each step, mud oozing between her toes and coating her ankles in a layer of brown sludge.

Maybe it was the cold. If she could find some shelter and warmth, her head might clear.

As she walked, the landscape around her remained frustratingly uniform—rolling hills covered in sparse vegetation, the occasional gnarled tree reaching skeletal branches toward the overcast sky. There were no landmarks, no signs, nothing to indicate where she was or which direction might lead to civilization. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the soft patter of rain and the wet sounds of her footsteps in the mud.

It was then she noticed the figures in the distance.

At first, they were nothing more than dark shapes wavering in the hazy air, distorted by the rain and mist that hung low over the landscape. Mae Ling squinted, trying to make out details, but the figures remained frustratingly indistinct. They seemed to be moving, though whether toward her or away from her, she couldn't tell. A prickle of unease ran down her spine—in her line of work, unidentified figures in the distance were rarely a good sign.

She continued walking, her eyes fixed on the distant shapes, when movement closer to the road caught her attention. There, standing just off the muddy path, was a figure that made Mae Ling's blood freeze in her veins. It was a young girl, perhaps sixteen or seventeen years old, wearing a crisp school uniform despite the rain. The girl's long black hair hung straight around her shoulders, and her dark eyes held a weight that seemed far too heavy for someone so young.

Mae Ling recognized those eyes. She recognized that face, that posture, that particular way of standing with one hip cocked slightly to the side. She was looking at herself—herself as she had been nearly two decades ago, when she was still Mae Ling Chen, honor student by day and something far darker by night.

The young Mae Ling raised one slender arm and pointed to something on the ground near her feet. Mae Ling followed the gesture and saw the crumpled form of a man lying in the mud, his expensive suit torn and stained with blood and dirt. Even from a distance, she could see the unnatural angle of his limbs, the way his head lolled to one side. She knew that body, knew that face, knew exactly how he had died because she had been the one to kill him.

Her first kill.

The world around Mae Ling began to shift and blur, the muddy road dissolving like watercolors in the rain. The gray sky darkened to the deep purple of twilight, and suddenly she was no longer standing on the road but beneath the rotting wooden docks of Victoria Harbor. The air was thick with the smell of salt and decay, and she could hear the gentle lapping of waves against the barnacle-encrusted pilings.

She was sixteen again, her school uniform replaced by dark jeans and a black hoodie. In her hand was a length of metal rebar, its surface slick with blood and seawater. At her feet lay the man from the road, though here he was very much alive—alive and terrified and begging for his life as the tide slowly crept higher around his broken body.

"Please," the man gasped, his voice barely audible over the sound of the approaching water. "Please, I have money. I can pay you. Whatever they're paying you, I'll double it."

Mae Ling looked down at him with the cold detachment that would later make her legendary in the criminal underworld of Hong Kong. Even at sixteen, she had possessed an almost supernatural ability to disconnect from her emotions, to view violence as simply another tool to be wielded with precision and purpose.

"You're a rapist," she said, her voice flat and emotionless. "You hurt my friend. You hurt other girls. You don't deserve mercy."

The man's eyes widened with desperate panic as the water reached his chest. His legs were shattered—Mae Ling had made sure of that, using the rebar to methodically break both femurs and tibias so he couldn't crawl to safety. She had wanted him to have time to think about what he had done, to understand that his death was not random violence but justice delivered by someone who had decided his crimes warranted the ultimate punishment.

"I'll change!" he pleaded, water now lapping at his chin. "I'll never hurt anyone again! Please, you're just a kid—you don't want this on your conscience!"

But Mae Ling had already turned away, walking back toward the street with the same measured pace she would later use to exit countless crime scenes. Behind her, she could hear the man's increasingly frantic pleas dissolving into gurgles as the tide claimed him. She didn't look back. She never looked back.

The memory dissolved as suddenly as it had appeared, and Mae Ling found herself once again on the muddy road, shivering in her soaked nightgown. The young version of herself had vanished, leaving only empty space where she had stood. Mae Ling wrapped her arms more tightly around herself and continued walking, trying to process what she had just experienced. Was it a hallucination brought on by hypothermia? A fever dream? Or something else entirely?

The rain began to fall more heavily, transforming from a gentle mist into a steady downpour that drummed against her skin and turned the road into a river of mud. Mae Ling's hair hung in wet ropes around her face, and she had to constantly wipe water from her eyes to see where she was going. The cold was becoming unbearable, seeping into her bones and making her teeth chatter uncontrollably.

It was then that she saw the second figure.

This one stood directly beside the road, as motionless as a statue despite the driving rain. Mae Ling approached cautiously, her assassin's instincts screaming warnings even as her rational mind insisted that what she was seeing couldn't be real. The figure was a woman dressed entirely in black—a short leather skirt that hugged her curves, a long coat that fell to her knees, and flat-heeled boots. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her makeup was applied with the precision of war paint.

Mae Ling recognized this version of herself as well—herself at twenty-two, when she had begun to make a name for herself in the assassination business. This was the Mae Ling who had earned the nickname "Ghost of Hong Kong" through a combination of skill, ruthlessness, and an almost supernatural ability to appear and disappear without a trace.

"What is this place?" Mae Ling whispered to herself, her voice barely audible over the rain.

The world shifted again, and suddenly she was standing in an opulent office overlooking the glittering lights of Hong Kong's financial district. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city below, while expensive artwork adorned the walls and Persian rugs covered the polished marble floors. Behind an enormous mahogany desk sat a man in his fifties, his silver hair perfectly styled and his tailored suit worth more than most people made in a year.

Mae Ling stood before the desk in a short black dress and a long black coat, her posture radiating the quiet confidence that had become her trademark. To her left stood the man's chief lieutenant, a younger man with nervous eyes and hands that trembled slightly as he lit a cigarette.

"I've completed the contract," Mae Ling said, her voice steady and professional. "I'll take my payment now."

The older man leaned back in his leather chair, a condescending smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "You know, if I had known I was hiring a girl, the fee would have been half what we agreed upon. Since I feel as though I've been led on, I don't think I'll be paying you at all. You should be happy that you're leaving here with your life."

Mae Ling's expression didn't change, but something cold and dangerous flickered in her dark eyes. "I did the job. Your business rivals are dead. The traitor within your own organization has vanished without a trace. I want the agreed-upon sum."

The man's smile widened, revealing teeth that were too white and too perfect. "Get out of my sight, little girl, before you vanish without a trace as well."

Mae Ling turned as if to leave, her movements fluid and graceful. "I already have," she said quietly, and then she spun around with inhuman speed, a silenced pistol appearing in her hand as if by magic. The gun made a soft coughing sound, and a small hole appeared in the center of the man's forehead. He slumped forward onto his desk, blood pooling beneath his face.

The lieutenant raised his hands immediately, his cigarette falling forgotten to the floor. "Wait! I was in favor of paying you! I told him it was a mistake to try to cheat the Ghost of Hong Kong!"

Mae Ling kept the gun trained on him, her finger resting lightly on the trigger. "And now?"

"Now I'm in charge of the business," the lieutenant said quickly, sweat beading on his forehead despite the air conditioning. "And I promise you'll get a one hundred percent bonus on top of your base fee."

He reached carefully into the dead man's jacket, moving slowly to avoid startling her, and withdrew a thick envelope. "The base pay for services rendered is in here. Consider the bonus an investment in future business relationships."

Mae Ling took the envelope without lowering her weapon, quickly counting the bills inside. Satisfied, she tucked the money into her coat and finally holstered her gun. "Pleasure doing business with you," she said, and then she was gone, vanishing into the shadows as if she had never been there at all.

The memory faded, and Mae Ling found herself back on the muddy road, shivering and soaked to the bone. The rain was coming down even harder now, turning the world into a gray blur of water and mist. But through the downpour, she could see that the distant figures were drawing closer. What had once been indistinct shapes on the horizon were now recognizable as people—dozens of them, walking steadily toward her along the road.

As they drew nearer, Mae Ling began to recognize faces in the crowd. There was Chen Wei, the corrupt police captain she had eliminated with a car bomb three years ago. Behind him walked Maria Santos, the drug dealer's wife who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time during a hit in Macau. She saw the faces of targets and collateral damage alike, all of them moving with the same steady, inexorable pace.

They were the dead—everyone she had killed, everyone she had allowed to die, everyone whose death could be traced back to her actions over the course of her career. And they were all walking toward her with expressions of grim purpose.

Mae Ling's assassin training kicked in automatically. She was outnumbered, outflanked, and completely without weapons or cover. The only logical response was to run.

She turned and sprinted down the muddy road, her bare feet slipping and sliding in the treacherous footing. Behind her, she could hear the steady splash of footsteps as her pursuers maintained their relentless pace. They didn't seem to be running, but somehow they were keeping up with her, as if the very road itself was working against her escape.

The rain began to change as she ran. What had been clear water now fell in thick, crimson drops that stained her white nightgown and turned the muddy road into a river of blood. The metallic smell filled her nostrils, and she could taste copper on her lips as she gasped for breath. The world around her became increasingly difficult to see through the curtain of blood rain, shapes and shadows blurring together into an incomprehensible nightmare landscape.

Mae Ling ran blindly through the crimson downpour, her lungs burning and her legs trembling with exhaustion. Just when she thought she couldn't take another step, the blood rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. She found herself standing at a crossroads where four muddy paths intersected, gasping for breath and wiping blood from her eyes.

At the center of the crossroads stood an old-fashioned streetlamp, its warm yellow light cutting through the gloom like a beacon. Beneath the lamp stood a man who seemed utterly out of place in this desolate landscape. He was elderly but distinguished, with silver hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He wore an elegant three-piece suit that looked like it had been tailored on Savile Row, complete with a gold pocket watch and polished leather shoes that somehow remained spotless despite the muddy ground.

"Mae Ling," the man said, his voice carrying a slight European accent that she couldn't quite place. "You must make a choice."

He gestured to the three paths that branched off from where she stood. "Go left, and you will be confronted by everyone you have ever killed. They will have their opportunity for revenge, and I suspect they will not be merciful. Go right, and you will be judged and sent to whatever afterlife awaits someone with your particular... resume. Go straight, and you will have the opportunity to correct what went wrong."

As the old man spoke, memories began flooding back to Mae Ling with startling clarity. She remembered now—she was dead. She had been killed by something that shouldn't exist, something out of legend and nightmare. A vampire. The creature had been impossibly fast, impossibly strong, and it had torn her throat out with fangs that belonged in a horror movie rather than the real world.

"Who are you?" Mae Ling asked, her voice hoarse from running and screaming. "And if I go straight, will I be returning to the world as a literal ghost? Instead of just the Ghost of Hong Kong?"

The old man smiled, and there was something both kindly and terrible in that expression. "You will be restored to life, my dear. Once you deal with the vampire in whatever fashion you consider appropriate, you will continue with your existence. There are... powerful beings who are fascinated by the line you have walked between justice and murder, between protection and destruction. They want to see where that path will eventually take you. The vampire killing you was not part of their equation, and they would rather not lose you as a source of entertainment."

Mae Ling looked down each of the three paths, weighing her options. To the left, she could see the crowd of her victims approaching through the mist, their faces twisted with anger and the promise of retribution. To the right, she glimpsed what looked like a courtroom where figures in black robes waited with scales and ledgers. Straight ahead, the path disappeared into darkness, but she could sense something waiting there—an opportunity, a second chance, a return to the world of the living.

"I probably deserve to be judged," Mae Ling said finally, her voice steady despite the magnitude of the decision before her. "I probably deserve whatever punishment awaits me in Hell. But if I have a chance to return to life, I'll postpone Judgment Day until next time."

The old man's smile widened, and he clapped his hands together with obvious delight. "Excellent! I was hoping you would choose that path. It promises to be far more entertaining than the alternatives."

He reached into his vest pocket and withdrew a medallion on a silver chain. The medallion was perfectly round, about the size of a silver dollar, and bore the ancient symbol of yin and yang—the eternal dance of light and dark, good and evil, life and death. As he placed it around Mae Ling's neck, she felt a strange warmth spread through her chest, pushing back the cold that had settled in her bones.

"A token," the old man explained, "to remind you of this moment and the choice you made. Now go, my dear. Your second chance awaits."

The world dissolved around Mae Ling like sugar in rain, and suddenly she was clawing her way up through wet earth and mud. Her fingers broke through the surface first, followed by her hand, then her arm. She pulled herself from what she realized was a shallow grave, the soil turned to thick mud by the same heavy rain that had followed her through her journey of memories.

Mae Ling emerged from the earth like some primordial creature, covered in mud and gasping for breath that she wasn't sure she should be able to draw. She was alive—impossibly, inexplicably alive. Her throat, which she remembered being torn open by the vampire's fangs, was whole and unmarked. Her body, which had been drained of blood and left for dead, was once again warm and vital.

For a moment, panic seized her. What if she had become like the creature that killed her? What if her return to life had come at the cost of her humanity? Mae Ling examined her hands in the dim light, looking for signs of supernatural transformation. Her skin was pale but not unnaturally so. Her fingernails were normal, not extended into claws. When she ran her tongue over her teeth, she found no fangs.

It was then that she noticed the medallion hanging around her neck, its silver surface gleaming despite the mud that covered everything else. The memory of the old man at the crossroads came flooding back—vague and dreamlike, but undeniably real. He had given her a second chance, an opportunity to return to life and settle her score with the vampire that had killed her.

Mae Ling pulled herself fully from the grave and stood on unsteady legs, looking around at her surroundings. She was in an unfamiliar forested area, her one-time grave being unmarked at the foot of an ancient tree. The rain continued to fall, washing some of the mud from her body but leaving her chilled to the bone. She was no longer wearing the white nightgown from her journey through the realm of memories. She was wearing her work clothes--black boots, black trousers, black blouse, and a long coat--and all of it was caked with mud and almost pasted to her shivering body. Her guns and knives were missing.

She needed fresh clothes, weapons, and shelter—in that order. But more than anything, she needed to understand what had happened to her and what it meant for her future. The old man had spoken of powerful beings who found her entertaining, who wanted to see where her path would lead. That suggested her resurrection came with strings attached, obligations she didn't yet understand.

Mae Ling touched the medallion again, feeling its warmth against her skin. Whatever forces had brought her back to life, whatever price she would eventually have to pay, there was one thing she knew with absolute certainty: she had unfinished business with the vampire that had killed her. The creature had made a mistake in not ensuring her permanent death, and Mae Ling intended to make sure it was a fatal error.

She stood perfectly still for a moment, then began walking toward what sounded like traffic. The rain was beginning to lighten, and she could see the first hints of dawn on the horizon. A new day was beginning, and with it, a new chapter in the legend of the Ghost of Hong Kong.

Mae Ling resolved to think long and hard about where to go from here, about what her resurrection meant and what obligations it might entail. She needed to understand the rules of this second chance, the limitations and possibilities it presented. But first, there was a vampire she needed to kill.

The thought brought a cold smile to her lips as she walked back into the world of the living. The Ghost of Hong Kong had returned, and she had a score to settle.

The Ghost and the Family Jewels - Fiction by Steve Miller

Among the many characters you'll meet in the next anthology from NUELOW Games, Chillers and Thrillers, is the Ghost of Hong Kong. Here's a story featuring her, so you can all get acquainted.

A Story by Steve Miller:

The Ghost and the Family Jewels

The neon glow of Hong Kong's skyline painted Chin Ho's floor-to-ceiling windows in brilliant streaks of pink, blue, and gold. Sixty floors above the bustling streets, the billionaire reclined on his Italian leather sofa, a crystal tumbler balanced on the armrest. Below him, the city sprawled endlessly—a glittering testament to his empire of shipping, real estate, and ventures that lived in legality's gray areas.

Three women moved gracefully around the opulent living space, their silk robes barely concealing their curves as they attended to Ho's every whim. The first, a statuesque beauty with long black hair, refilled his glass with practiced precision. As she leaned over, Ho's hand found the small of her back, fingers gliding lightly on the exposed skin. She smiled coyly, neither encouraging nor discouraging his touch.

"Mei-Lin, you always know exactly how I like it," Ho stated, his voice carrying the confidence of a man accustomed to getting whatever he desired. The woman's laugh was like wind chimes as she settled beside him, close enough that her perfume mingled with the expensive cologne he wore.

The second woman, petite with delicate features, approached with a silver tray of imported delicacies. Ho's free hand wandered to her hip as she bent to place the tray on the marble coffee table. "And Su-Chen brings me the finest treats," he said, pulling her closer for a moment before releasing her to continue her duties.

The third woman, tall and elegant with auburn highlights in her dark hair, moved like a dancer as she adjusted the lighting and straightened the already immaculate room. When she passed within reach, Ho caught her wrist gently, bringing her hand to his lips for a theatrical kiss. "And Li-Hua makes everything perfect," he declared with theatrical gallantry.

The women exchanged knowing glances, well-versed in their employer's theatrical nature and wandering hands. They had been in his employ long enough to understand the boundaries of their arrangement, and Ho, for all his indulgences, respected those boundaries even as he pushed against them with his constant flirtation.

Su-Chen returned with a plate of precisely cut vegetables, including thin slices of carrot arranged in an artistic fan. Ho selected one piece, holding it between his teeth with a mischievous grin. Mei-Lin, understanding the game, took the other end of the carrot slice between her own teeth. They moved closer, nibbling toward each other until their lips met in a brief, playful kiss that tasted of sweet carrot and expensive lipstick.

"You see, ladies," Ho said, settling back with satisfaction, "life is about taking what belongs to you, and sometimes taking back what was stolen." His expression grew more serious, though his hands continued their casual exploration as the women arranged themselves around him. "Speaking of which, I have some excellent news to share."

Li-Hua curled up beside him, her head resting against his shoulder as his arm encircled her waist. "Tell us, Mr. Ho," she said, her voice carrying genuine curiosity mixed with the practiced interest of someone paid to be fascinated by her employer's stories.

Ho's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as he gazed out at the city lights. "You remember the family jewels I told you about? The ones that have been in the Ho family for eight generations?" The women nodded, having heard the story before. The diadem, necklace, and matching bracelets were legendary pieces, crafted by master artisans in the Qing Dynasty and passed down through Ho's lineage as symbols of their prosperity and power.

"Well," Ho continued, his grip tightening slightly on Li-Hua's waist, "as you know, I had to use them as collateral at that gambling establishment in Macau. A temporary setback, I assured myself. But when I went to reclaim them after my shipping contracts came through, those dogs claimed I had lost them fair and square in their rigged games."

Su-Chen moved closer, perching on the arm of the sofa. "But surely you didn't accept that," she said, running her fingers through Ho's graying hair.

Ho's laugh was sharp and cold. "Accept it? My dear Su-Chen, I am Chin Ho. I built this empire by never accepting what others try to force upon me." He gestured toward the windows, encompassing the vast city below. "I knew their games were fixed. The dice were weighted, the cards marked, the roulette wheel magnetized. They thought they could steal from the Ho family with impunity."

Mei-Lin leaned forward, her eyes bright with interest. "So what did you do?"

"I hired the Ghost of Hong Kong," Ho announced with dramatic flair, clearly relishing the impact of his words. The women's eyes widened appropriately. Even in their sheltered world of luxury and privilege, they had heard whispers of the legendary figure who moved through the city's underworld like smoke, dispensing justice to those who thought themselves above consequences.

"The Ghost is real?" Li-Hua asked, her voice dropping to a whisper as if speaking too loudly might summon the mysterious figure.

Ho nodded gravely. "Very real, and very effective. I sent word through the proper channels, provided the necessary details about the gambling house and their cheating operation, and made it clear that the Ho family jewels needed to be returned along with appropriate punishment for their theft."

He paused to take a long sip of his whiskey, savoring both the aged liquor and the rapt attention of his companions. "The Ghost doesn't work cheap, but some things are worth any price. Family honor, for instance. The legacy of eight generations of Ho prosperity."

Su-Chen traced patterns on Ho's chest through his silk shirt. "And did the Ghost succeed?"

"Patience, my dear," Ho said, catching her hand and bringing it to his lips. "All will be revealed shortly. I received word this evening that the Ghost would be arriving to make a full report. In fact, I expect—"

The soft chime of the penthouse elevator interrupted him. Ho's personal butler, an elderly man named Wong who had served the family for decades, appeared in the doorway with his usual impeccable posture and neutral expression.

"Sir," Wong announced in his crisp, professional tone, "the Ghost of Hong Kong has arrived and requests to meet with you."

Ho's face lit up with anticipation and triumph. "Excellent! Show our guest in immediately, Wong. This is a moment I've been eagerly awaiting."

The women straightened, suddenly aware they were about to meet a figure of legend. Ho adjusted his position, trying to project casual authority despite his obvious excitement.

Wong returned moments later, stepping aside as the Ghost of Hong Kong entered. Ho's expression shifted from anticipation to surprise, then to obvious appreciation.

The Ghost was a woman, tall and graceful, dressed entirely in black. Her outfit was practical yet elegant: fitted black pants that allowed for easy movement, sturdy black boots that made no sound on the marble floor, and a long black coat that flowed around her like liquid shadow. Her dark hair was pulled back in a severe style that emphasized the sharp angles of her face and the intensity of her dark eyes.

"Sir," Wong announced formally, "may I present the Ghost of Hong Kong."

Ho rose from the sofa with more energy than he had shown all evening, his eyes drinking in every detail of his mysterious visitor. "My dear Ghost," he said, moving toward her with obvious delight, "I must confess, I had no idea you were such a... striking woman."

The Ghost's expression remained neutral, professional. She inclined her head slightly in acknowledgment but made no move to encourage Ho's obvious interest.

"Allow me," Ho continued, reaching for the collar of her long coat, "to help you with this. You must be warm after your journey." His hands moved to the fastenings of her coat, his fingers lingering longer than necessary as he helped her out of it.

Beneath the coat, the Ghost wore a form-fitting black top that revealed she was indeed as attractive as Ho had immediately surmised. Her figure was athletic and graceful, speaking of someone who relied on physical capability as much as mental acuity in her work.

"Please, sit," Ho said, gesturing toward one of the leather chairs facing the sofa. "Can Wong bring you anything? Whiskey? Wine? Something to eat?"

"I'm here to make my report, Mr. Ho," the Ghost replied, her voice calm and professional. "Nothing more."

Ho settled back onto the sofa, the three women arranging themselves around him once again, though their attention was clearly focused on their mysterious visitor. "Of course, of course. But surely you can spare a few minutes for hospitality? It's not every day I have the honor of hosting such a legendary figure."

The Ghost remained standing, her posture alert and ready. "The gambling establishment you identified was indeed running rigged games. Their operation was more sophisticated than most, but not sophisticated enough to avoid detection by someone who knew what to look for."

Ho leaned forward eagerly. "And my family's jewels?"

"Recovered," the Ghost replied simply. She reached into an inner pocket of her black top and withdrew a small velvet pouch. "The diadem, necklace, and bracelets are all accounted for and undamaged."

Ho's hands trembled slightly as he accepted the pouch, his excitement palpable. He opened it carefully, revealing the glittering treasures that had been in his family for generations. The diadem caught the light from the city below, its diamonds and emeralds creating tiny rainbows across the ceiling. The necklace was a masterpiece of craftsmanship, each link perfectly formed and set with precious stones. The matching bracelets completed the set, their intricate designs speaking of the master artisans who had created them centuries ago.

"Magnificent," Ho's voice filled with genuine emotion. "These pieces... they represent everything my family has built, everything we've achieved. To have them back..." He looked up at the Ghost with tears of gratitude in his eyes. "You have my eternal thanks."

The Ghost nodded once. "The gambling house has been discouraged from continuing their fraudulent practices. They will not be cheating other customers in the future."

"And the proprietors?" Ho asked, his voice carrying a harder edge.

"They faced appropriate consequences for their actions," the Ghost replied without elaboration.

Ho carefully returned the jewels to their pouch, his hands reverent as he handled the precious family heirlooms. "You have exceeded my expectations in every way," he said, rising from the sofa once again. "Such exceptional service deserves exceptional compensation."

He moved toward a wall safe hidden behind a painting of ancient Chinese mountains, his fingers working the combination with practiced ease. From within, he withdrew a thick envelope. "Your agreed-upon fee," he said, offering it to the Ghost, "plus a substantial bonus for work that went above and beyond what I had hoped for."

The Ghost accepted the envelope without counting its contents, tucking it away with the same efficiency she had shown in producing the jewels. "The contract is complete, Mr. Ho. I'll see myself out."

But Ho stepped closer, his earlier appreciation for her appearance clearly overriding his business sense. "Wait," he said, his voice taking on the tone he used when he wanted something. "Surely such a successful partnership deserves a proper celebration?"

Before she could respond, Ho crossed the room toward her, arms reaching out. "A bonus for exceptional work," he declared, pulling her toward him with the confidence of a man who had never been refused anything he wanted.

His lips found hers in what he clearly intended to be a passionate kiss. For a moment, the Ghost seemed frozen in surprise at his audacity.

Then her knee came up with lightning speed, connecting with Ho's groin with enough force to lift him slightly off his feet. He staggered backward toward the sofa as pain exploded through his body, his face contorting in agony as he doubled over.

The three women rushed forward as Ho collapsed to his knees, then toppled sideways onto the marble floor, his hands clutched protectively over his injured anatomy. His face had gone pale, and small whimpering sounds escaped his lips as waves of pain washed over him.

"Mr. Ho!" Mei-Lin cried, dropping to her knees beside him. "Are you all right?"

Li-Hua and Su-Chen flanked him, their hands fluttering uncertainly as they tried to determine how to help their employer, who was curled in a fetal position on his expensive Italian marble floor.

The Ghost stood over the writhing billionaire, her expression unchanged from its professional neutrality. She retrieved her long black coat from where Ho had draped it over a chair, slipping it on with fluid grace.

"Mr. Ho," she said, her voice carrying clearly over his groans of pain, "I hope you'll guard both sets of your family jewels more carefully in the future."

With that, she turned and walked toward the elevator, her footsteps silent on the marble floor. Wong, who had witnessed the entire exchange from his position by the doorway, stepped aside respectfully as she passed.

As the Ghost reached the elevator, she heard Ho moan loudly, "No hard feelings? Can I call if I have another suitable job for you?"

She turned to look back at the injured billionaire, the hint of a smile playing at the corner of her lips, then stepped on to the elevator as the doors opened. "If you have the fee, you have my agent's contact information," she called out.

The elevator doors closed with a soft whisper. The Ghost descended toward the bustling streets of Hong Kong, leaving Ho groaning on the floor while his three companions tried to minister to his wounded pride and more tangible injuries.

--

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