A new Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller!

 We're kicking off the New Year with a new tale of danger and death!

The Ghost Rises

The shaft of light fell through the skylight like a blade, cutting through the darkness of Hu Wan's private chamber to illuminate the small circle where Kam sat. The rest of the room remained in shadow—deliberate, theatrical, the way Wan preferred his fortune-telling sessions. He liked his captive psychic spotlit, vulnerable, a specimen under glass for his amusement.

Kam's wrists bore the raw marks of the chains that bound her to the heavy mahogany table. The metal links clinked softly as she moved her hands across the zodiac cards spread before her, their ancient symbols seeming to glow in the concentrated light. She wore only the thin silk slip Wan had allowed her. It was more than he sometimes let her have, so she should probably thank the gods for small favors.

"Tell me again," Wan said from the darkness beyond the light. His voice carried the rough edges of a lifetime of cigarettes and violence. "Tell me what you see."

Kam's fingers trembled as they hovered over the cards. Not from fear—she had moved beyond fear weeks ago—but from the effort of maintaining the performance. Her gift was real enough, though not in the way Wan believed. She could read people, sense their intentions, feel the currents of fate moving through the world. But she had learned to shape her visions, to guide them toward the outcome she needed.

"The Tiger prowls in darkness," she said, her voice carrying the ritualistic cadence Wan expected. "The Dragon sleeps in his mountain fortress. But the Ghost..." She paused, letting the silence stretch. "The Ghost rises from the earth to strike down a great enemy."

Wan stepped into the edge of the light, and Kam suppressed a shudder. He was a thick man, running to fat now in his fifties, but the muscle underneath remained solid. His face bore the scars of his rise through Bangkok's underworld—a knife slash across one cheek, a puckered bullet wound near his temple. He wore an expensive silk shirt open to reveal gold chains nested in graying chest hair. In his hands, he cradled an MP5 submachine gun like a lover.

"The Ghost of Hong Kong," he said, his lips pulling back in something between a smile and a snarl. "That legendary bitch thinks she can come for me. For Hu Wan." He laughed, a sound like gravel in a cement mixer. "I know why she comes. Those brothels in Chiang Mai—the ones I invested in. She thinks she's some kind of avenging angel for those whores."

He moved closer to Kam, close enough that she could smell the whiskey on his breath and the acrid scent of gun oil. His free hand reached out to trace the line of her collarbone, and she forced herself to remain still, to keep her breathing steady. This too was part of the performance.

"But I'm ready for her," Wan continued, his fingers trailing lower. "I've got fifty men in this compound. Motion sensors. Cameras. And when she comes through that door..." He gestured with the MP5 toward the room's single entrance. "I'll cut her in half before she can blink."

Kam's eyes remained fixed on the cards, but her awareness extended far beyond them. She could feel it now—a presence drawing near, inevitable as the tide. The Ghost was close. Very close.

"The cards say the Ghost will rise soon," Kam said softly. "Very soon."

Wan's hand moved to grip her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His eyes were bloodshot, pupils dilated from whatever cocktail of drugs he'd been consuming. "You better hope your visions are accurate, little bird. Because if this Ghost doesn't show, if you've been wasting my time..." He let the threat hang unfinished, but his grip tightened enough to make her jaw ache.

The radio on Wan's belt crackled to life, shattering the moment. "Boss! Boss, we have an intruder! North perimeter, someone's—"

The transmission cut off, replaced by the sharp crack of gunfire. Then more shots, rapid and overlapping, the distinctive chatter of automatic weapons mixing with the deeper boom of shotguns. Wan released Kam and spun toward the door, bringing the MP5 up to his shoulder.

"All units, report!" he barked into the radio. "What's happening?"

Static answered him, punctuated by more gunfire. The sounds were moving, drawing closer to the main house. Kam could track the battle's progress by the acoustic signatures—the firefight starting at the outer wall, then moving through the courtyard, then into the house itself. Wan's men were dying, and they were dying fast.

"Second floor clear!" a voice shouted over the radio, high-pitched with panic. "She's heading for the—"

The transmission ended in a scream, a sound of pure terror that cut off with horrible abruptness. Then silence. Complete, absolute silence that seemed to press against the walls of the darkened room.

Wan's breathing had gone ragged. Sweat beaded on his forehead despite the frigid air conditioning. He kept the MP5 trained on the door, his finger white-knuckled on the trigger. "Come on," he muttered. "Come on, you bitch. Come through that door."

"The Ghost rises now," Kam said, her voice carrying an otherworldly certainty. "The zodiac has spoken. The great enemy falls tonight."

"Shut up!" Wan snarled, not taking his eyes off the door. "Shut your mouth or I'll—"

He never finished the threat. His attention was completely focused on the door, on the obvious point of entry, on the place where any rational attacker would appear. Which was exactly what Kam had been counting on.

In the far corner of the room, hidden in the deep shadows beneath a side table, a section of the floor lifted silently. The trap door—an escape route Wan had installed years ago and then forgotten about—opened just wide enough to admit a human form.

The Ghost of Hong Kong emerged from the darkness below like a wraith materializing from the underworld. She moved with absolute silence, her black tactical gear rendering her nearly invisible in the unlit portions of the room. Her face was covered by a balaclava, only her eyes visible—dark, focused, utterly calm. In her hands, she carried a suppressed pistol, the weapon an extension of her body.

Wan was still talking, his voice rising with a mixture of fear and bravado. "You think I'm afraid? You think Hu Wan fears some ghost story? I've killed better than you. I've—"

He turned, perhaps sensing something, perhaps just nervous energy making him check his flanks. His eyes widened as he registered the figure standing in the shadows behind him, the pistol already rising to aim at his center mass.

"No—" he started to say, trying to swing the MP5 around.

The Ghost fired three times in rapid succession, the suppressed shots making soft coughing sounds that seemed impossibly quiet after the cacophony of the firefight outside. The first round took Wan in the chest, punching through his sternum. The second caught him in the throat as he staggered backward. The third, delivered with surgical precision as he fell, entered just above his left eye.

Hu Wan collapsed like a puppet with cut strings, the MP5 clattering from his nerveless fingers. His body hit the floor with a heavy thud, blood pooling beneath him in the shaft of light that had so recently illuminated Kam's captivity.

The Ghost moved immediately to Kam's side, holstering her pistol and producing a set of lock picks from a pouch on her tactical vest. Her hands worked with practiced efficiency on the chains binding Kam's wrists, the locks clicking open one by one.

"Thank you," Kam said softly, rubbing her freed wrists. "I knew a great enemy would fall tonight."

The Ghost paused, glancing at Kam with an expression that might have been curiosity. When she spoke, her voice was low and controlled, carrying a slight British accent that spoke of international education and careful cultivation. "Your great enemy. Not his."

"The cards don't lie," Kam said carefully.

The Ghost returned to working on the chains, her hands moving with practiced efficiency. "The brothels in Chiang Mai," she said, her tone conversational but edged with something harder. "Seventeen girls, the youngest barely thirteen. Wan's investment portfolio was quite detailed once I accessed his financial records. That's why I came for him."

"He liked to brag," Kam said, her voice hardening. "About his business ventures. About how much money there was in selling children. He thought I was just his fortune-teller, his exotic pet."

Another lock clicked open. The Ghost moved to the ankle chains. "Men like Wan always underestimate the people they cage." She glanced up. "How long did he keep you here?"

"Three months," Kam said. "Reading his fortune. Warning him about his enemies. Telling him what he wanted to hear." She paused, then added quietly, "And what he needed to hear."

The Ghost's hands stilled for just a moment, then continued their work. "What he needed to hear?"

Kam met her eyes. "I told him the Ghost would rise tonight. I told him to watch the door. I made sure he was looking in exactly the wrong direction."

The final chain fell away, and Kam was free. She swayed slightly, months of captivity and malnutrition taking their toll. The Ghost caught her, steadying her with a firm hand, then produced a dark jacket from her pack and draped it over Kam's shoulders.

"Clever," the Ghost said, studying Kam's face. "But how did you know I would come tonight? How did you know I would come at all?"

Kam took a breath, her legs trembling beneath her. "Because I called to you."

The Ghost went very still. "Called to me."

"I've been reaching out for weeks," Kam said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Sending everything I could—the layout of the compound, Wan's routines, the trap door. I knew you were hunting him. I knew you would come."

For a long moment, the Ghost simply stared at her. Then something shifted in her expression—recognition, perhaps, or confirmation of something she'd been trying to rationalize. "The visions," she said softly. " They came from you."

"Yes."

The Ghost backed away slightly, processing this revelation. Then, cool and professional again: "Can you walk?"

"How did they come through?" Kam asked.

The Ghost's expression grew distant, remembering. "At first, I thought I was losing my mind. Three weeks ago, I was doing my evening meditation—I practice yoga, helps maintain focus for the work—and suddenly I saw this room. Not imagined it. Saw it. The skylight, the cards, your face. And I heard a name: Hu Wan."

She moved toward the trap door, checking it with her flashlight, but continued speaking. "The images kept coming. Always when my mind was quiet. During savasana after a session. In that space between sleeping and waking. I'd see the compound layout, the guard rotations, the forgotten passages beneath the building. It was like watching surveillance footage, except the camera was inside my head."

"I wasn't sure you were receiving them," Kam said, following her on unsteady legs. "I just kept pushing, kept sending everything I could."

"I tried to ignore it at first," the Ghost admitted. "Thought it was stress or some kind of psychological break. But the information was too specific, too detailed. And when I cross-referenced the name Hu Wan with my existing intelligence on trafficking networks, everything aligned. You were giving me everything I needed to find him." .." She met Kam's eyes and asked again, "Can you walk?"

"Yes," Kam said, though her legs trembled. "Yes, I can walk. I can run if I have to."

"We'll take it slow," the Ghost said. She gestured toward the trap door. "

Kam looked down at Wan's body one last time. In death, he seemed smaller, less monstrous. Just another predator who had finally met something higher on the food chain. 

"The zodiac was right," she said quietly. "The Ghost rose from the earth. The great enemy fell."

The Ghost glanced at her, something that might have been respect flickering in those dark eyes. "Your gift is real."

"Yes," Kam said. "Though not in the way Wan believed. I can't see the future, not exactly. But I can feel the currents of fate, the patterns of cause and effect. And I can sometimes... nudge them. Guide them toward the outcome that needs to happen."

"You guided me here."

"I called to you," Kam corrected. "You chose to answer. You chose to hunt Wan. I just... made sure you had the information you needed. Made sure he would be exactly where you needed him to be."

The Ghost nodded slowly, processing this. Then she gestured toward the trap door. "We should go. The authorities will be here soon. I made sure to trigger several alarms on my way out."

Kam moved toward the escape route, then paused. "The other girls. The ones in the brothels. Will they—"

"Already handled," the Ghost said. "I hit Wan's operations in Chiang Mai three days ago. The girls are safe, being processed through legitimate aid organizations. Wan's partners are either dead or in custody." She paused. "That's why he was so paranoid tonight. He knew I was coming for him. He just didn't know how."

"Because I told him," Kam said, a small smile playing at her lips. "I told him the Ghost would rise. I told him to watch the door. I made sure he was looking in exactly the wrong direction."

"Clever," the Ghost said, and there was genuine admiration in her voice. "You're wasted as a fortune-teller."

"Perhaps," Kam said, beginning to descend into the passage below. "But the cards don't lie. They told me a ghost would rise to strike down my enemy. They told me I would be free. They told me that justice, however delayed, would come."

The Ghost followed her down, pulling the trap door closed above them. In the darkness of the passage, lit only by the Ghost's small flashlight, they moved away from the room where Hu Wan's body lay cooling in its shaft of light.

"Where will you go?" the Ghost asked as they navigated the narrow tunnel.

"I have family in Taiwan," Kam said. "If they still remember me. If they'll take me back after..." She trailed off, the weight of her captivity settling over her.

"They'll remember you," the Ghost said with quiet certainty. "And I'll make sure you get there safely." She paused, considering her next words carefully. "What you did—reaching out to me like that—it wasn't just impressive. It was useful. Intelligence I could trust completely because it came from the source itself."

Kam glanced back at her in the dim light. "You want readings."

"I might," the Ghost admitted. "My work requires knowing things others don't. And you have a gift for seeing what's hidden." There was a beat of silence, then: "I don't usually work for free, and I suspect you don't either. But tonight... let's call it an introduction. A demonstration of what we might offer each other."

"You're proposing an arrangement," Kam said, understanding dawning.

"I'm proposing we stay in touch," the Ghost said. "You helped me tonight more than you know. Handed me Hu Wan on a silver platter. In the future, when I need to see clearly, I'll know who to ask. And when you need a ghost to rise..." She let the sentence hang.

"I'll know who to call," Kam finished softly.

They emerged from the tunnel into the humid Bangkok night, the compound behind them already alive with the wail of approaching sirens. The Ghost led Kam to a nondescript motorcycle parked in the shadows of a nearby alley, producing a second helmet and a leather jacket from the storage compartment.

As Kam settled onto the bike behind her unlikely savior, she felt the psychic currents shifting around them, the patterns of fate realigning now that Wan's dark influence had been removed from the world. She had been right to reach out, right to trust in the legend of the Ghost of Hong Kong.

The Ghost started the engine, the sound a low purr in the darkness. "Hold on," she said.

Kam wrapped her arms around the Ghost's waist, feeling the solid reality of her rescuer, this woman who had seemed like nothing more than a myth until tonight.

"Thank you," she said again, the words inadequate but sincere. "For hearing me. For coming."

The Ghost didn't respond, guiding the motorcycle out of the alley and into the flow of late-night traffic. They disappeared into the neon-lit streets of Bangkok, two women bound by violence and liberation, by psychic connection and shared purpose. Behind them, Hu Wan's compound blazed with police lights, and somewhere on the top floor of the house, in a shaft of light, on a mahogany table, ancient symbols spoke of justice delivered and debts repaid.

--

If you enjoyed this story, you might also like this other Ghost of Hong Kong story that can be read here at the blog. You might even consider getting a copy of The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology, which is full of stories you can only find there!

The Ghost and the Christmas Miracle: Fiction by Steve Miller

It's a tale of a different sort of Christmas miracle...

The Ghost and the Christmas Miracle

The snow fell in thick, wet clumps across Vancouver's east side, turning the streets into a treacherous maze of slush and ice. Billy Wei's Honda Civic fishtailed slightly as he took the corner onto East Hastings too fast, his knuckles white against the steering wheel. The dashboard clock glowed 11:47 PM—he was almost 30 minutes late.

His phone sat silent in the cup holder now, but he could still hear Amy's voice from an hour ago, raw with anger and exhaustion. "It's Christmas Eve, Billy. Christmas fucking Eve." The memory of Sophie's face—confused, sleepy, clutching that card she'd made—twisted something deep in his chest. Two years old. She'd waited up for him.

But Mitchell had called. When Mitchell Chen called, you came.

The house loomed ahead, a renovated Craftsman that looked respectable enough from the outside. Billy pulled into the circular driveway, noting the other cars already present. Tommy's Escalade. Ray's BMW. The whole crew was here, which meant this wasn't just another collection run. Mitchell had sounded tense on the phone, paranoid even. Something about the Mexicans making moves.

On Christmas Eve, Billy thought bitterly.

He killed the engine and sat for a moment, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield. Through the front windows of the house, he could see warm light spilling out, the kind of domestic glow that reminded him of his own apartment. Where Amy was probably still awake, angry and hurt. Where Sophie slept with her new stuffed reindeer.

Billy checked his Glock 19, ensuring a round was chambered, then tucked it back into his waistband beneath his jacket. Three years of this. Three years of telling himself it was temporary, that the money was worth it. Rent. Daycare. Amy's nursing school tuition. Better than construction work, he'd said. Better than breaking his back for minimum wage.

But lately, when Sophie looked at him with those wide, trusting eyes, the weight pressed down harder.

He stepped out into the cold and to Mitchell's front door. It was ever-so-slightly ajar, which struck him as odd immediately. Mitchell was paranoid about security, always had the door sedured and at least two guys posted. Billy pushed it open slowly, his hand instinctively moving toward his weapon.

The entry hall stretched before him, all polished hardwood and expensive artwork that Mitchell had probably bought to launder money. And there, sprawled across the floor near the coat closet, was Danny Cho—one of Mitchell's regular guards. Billy's breath caught. Danny wasn't moving, his body positioned awkwardly, one arm twisted beneath him.

Billy drew his Glock, the familiar weight suddenly feeling inadequate. His heart hammered against his ribs as he moved forward, keeping his back to the wall. Danny's chest rose and fell shallowly—unconscious, not dead. A small mercy, though Billy couldn't imagine what had put him down. Danny was ex-military, trained and alert. Taking him out without a sound took serious skill.

The house was too quiet. No voices, no music, none of the usual sounds of Mitchell's operation. Just the soft hum of the heating system and Billy's own ragged breathing. He moved deeper into the house, past the living room where Mitchell usually held court, toward the back offices where the real business happened.

Another body in the hallway. This time it was Ray Martinez, slumped against the wall near the bathroom. Billy checked him quickly—also unconscious, a dark bruise blooming on his temple. Professional work. Someone had moved through this house like a ghost, taking down trained men without raising an alarm.

Billy's mouth went dry. He should run. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around and get out while he still could. But he kept moving forward, drawn by a sick need to know, to understand what had happened here.

The third body stopped him cold.

Tommy Nguyen lay face-down in the hallway leading to Mitchell's office, and this time there was no mistaking it. The back of Tommy's head was a ruin of blood and bone, two neat entry wounds visible even in the dim light. The carpet beneath him was soaked dark, still spreading. Billy's stomach lurched. He'd known Tommy since high school, had been at his wedding two years ago.

A sound reached him then—a voice, choked and desperate. Mitchell's voice, coming from the office ahead. Billy crept forward, his Glock raised, every nerve ending on fire. The office door stood half-open, light spilling out into the hallway.

"Please," Mitchell was saying, his voice cracking with terror Billy had never heard from him before. "Please, I can pay you whatever they're paying. Double it. Triple it."

Billy reached the doorway and peered around the frame, and the scene before him seemed to freeze in crystalline clarity.

Mitchell Chen knelt in the center of his office, hands raised, his expensive suit rumpled and stained with sweat. Around him, scattered across the floor like broken dolls, were the rest of his inner circle. Billy recognized them all—Chen's lieutenants, his enforcers, the men who'd made his operation run. Some were clearly dead, their bodies twisted in unnatural positions. Others might have been unconscious like Danny and Ray, but Billy couldn't tell from this angle.

And standing over Mitchell, dominating the room despite her slender frame, was a woman.

She wore a long red coat that fell to her knees, unbuttoned to reveal a form-fitting black bodysuit beneath that looked more like tactical gear than fashion. Black boots, practical and silent. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, revealing sharp, elegant features that might have been beautiful in other circumstances. But it was her eyes that held Billy frozen—dark and cold and utterly devoid of mercy.

In her right hand, she held a compact machine pistol, some kind of modified MP5K with a suppressor attached. The weapon was pointed directly at Mitchell's head with the steady confidence of someone who'd done this a thousand times before.

"I don't want your money," the woman said, her voice carrying a faint accent Billy couldn't quite place. Mandarin, maybe, or Cantonese. "I'm not here for negotiation."

"Then what?" Mitchell sobbed. "What do you want?"

"Justice," she said simply. "For the girls you've trafficked. For the families you destroyed. For the communities you poisoned." She tilted her head slightly, studying him like a scientist examining an insect. "Did you really that you could do what you've done and simply continue?"

"I'm just a businessman," Mitchell pleaded. "I provide a service—"

"You're a slaver and a murderer," the woman interrupted, her voice never rising above conversational level. "You sold thirteen-year-old girls from rural Bolivia. You promised them jobs and education, then locked in brothels and shot full of your product until they couldn't remember their own names."

Billy's blood ran cold. He'd heard rumors, whispers about that side of Mitchell's operation, but he'd never wanted to believe them. He'd told himself he was just doing collections, just moving product, nothing to do with the darker aspects of the business.

"That wasn't me," Mitchell said desperately. "That was the Colombians, the Russians—"

"You facilitated it. You profited from it." The woman's finger tightened on the trigger. "And now you pay for it."

The suppressed shots were barely louder than coughs—two quick pops that echoed in the sudden silence. Mitchell's body jerked twice, then crumpled forward onto the expensive Persian rug, blood pooling beneath him.

Billy gasped before he could stop himself, the sound escaping his throat like a wounded animal. The woman whirled with inhuman speed, the machine pistol tracking toward the doorway, toward him. Billy raised his own Glock, his hands shaking, and suddenly they were locked in a standoff—two armed strangers pointing weapons at each other across a room full of corpses.

For a long moment, neither moved. Billy could see her evaluating him, those cold eyes taking in every detail—his cheap jacket, his trembling hands, the way he held his weapon like someone who'd been trained but never really wanted to use it. He tried to steady his breathing, tried to remember his training, but all he could think about was Sophie's face, Amy's voice, the Christmas tree they'd decorated together last week.

"You're late," the woman said finally, her weapon never wavering. "Billy Wei, correct? Low-level collections, occasional enforcement. Three years with Chen's organization. No major crimes on your record beyond the drug distribution."

The fact that she knew his name sent ice through his veins. "Who are you?"

"Someone who came to kill Mitchell Chen and his lieutenants," she said calmly. "The others—the guards, the muscle—they just got in the way. I gave them the chance to walk away. Most didn't take it."

Billy's eyes flicked to the bodies on the floor, then back to her. "You killed them all."

"The ones who chose to fight, yes." She took a step closer, and Billy's finger tightened on his trigger. She noticed and stopped, a faint smile crossing her lips. "You're scared. Good. Fear keeps you alive. But you're also thinking about someone—I can see it in your eyes. Someone waiting for you."

"My daughter," Billy heard himself say. "And my girlfriend. It's Christmas Eve."

The woman's expression didn't change, but something flickered in those dark eyes. "Then you have a choice to make, Billy Wei. You can try to avenge your boss, and die here, on this floor, and your daughter will grow up without a father. Your girlfriend will spend Christmas morning identifying your body."

She paused, letting the words sink in.

"Or," she continued, her voice softening almost imperceptibly, "you can accept this as the Christmas miracle it is. You can lower your weapon, walk out that door, and go home to your family. You can hold your daughter and tell her you love her. You can be there for her first day of school, her graduation, her wedding. You can be the father she deserves."

Billy's hands shook harder. Mitchell was dead. Tommy was dead. The whole organization was decapitated in a single night. There would be chaos, power struggles, violence. But there would also be an opportunity—a chance to walk away, to leave this life behind before it consumed him completely.

"I came for Chen and his inner circle," the woman said. "You're not on my list, Billy. You're just a man who made bad choices trying to provide for his family. I understand that. But this is your only chance. Lower your weapon and walk away, or die here with the rest of them."

Billy thought of Sophie's card, the one Amy had mentioned. She'd made it herself, probably with crayons and construction paper, her little hands working so carefully to create something for him. He'd never even seen it. He'd chosen Mitchell's call over his daughter's gift.

Not anymore.

Billy lowered his Glock slowly, his hands still shaking. The woman watched him carefully, her weapon tracking his movements, ready to fire if he made any sudden moves. But Billy just tucked his gun back into his waistband and raised his hands.

"Smart choice," the woman said. She lowered her own weapon, though she kept it ready. "Go home, Billy Wei. Spend Christmas with your family. And when the police come asking questions, you tell them you were late, you found the bodies, you ran. You don't know anything about a woman in a red coat. Understand?"

Billy nodded, not trusting his voice.

"And Billy?" The woman's eyes hardened again. "This is your one chance to change. If I hear you've gone back to this life, if I hear you've hurt anyone, sold anything, facilitated any of the evil that Mitchell Chen represented—I'll come for you. And next time, there won't be a conversation."

"I'm done," Billy managed to say. "I swear. I'm done with all of this."

The woman studied him for another long moment, then nodded. "Then go. Before I change my mind."

Billy didn't need to be told twice. He backed out of the office, keeping his hands visible, then turned and ran. He stumbled over Ray's unconscious body, nearly fell over Danny in the entry hall, but he kept moving. The cold air hit him like a slap when he burst through the front door, snow swirling around him in the darkness.

He ran to his car, fumbled with his keys, and somehow got the engine started. His hands shook so badly he could barely grip the steering wheel, but he managed to back out of the driveway and onto the street. In his rearview mirror, he saw the house receding, warm light still glowing from the windows, no sign of the carnage within.

Billy made it two blocks before he had to pull over. His hands were shaking so violently he couldn't hold the wheel steady, and his breath came in short, sharp gasps that fogged the windshield. He put the car in park and gripped the steering wheel, trying to ground himself, but all he could see was Mitchell's face—the fear in his eyes, the way his voice had cracked when he begged. The bodies on the floor. Ray's twisted arm. The woman's cold, dark eyes as she'd aimed the gun at Billy's chest.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, but that made it worse. Behind his eyelids, he saw it all again. The blood. The stillness. How easily she'd moved through that house, how efficiently she'd ended lives. How close he'd come to being one of them.

His stomach lurched and he barely got the door open in time before he vomited into the snow. He stayed there, bent over, gasping, the cold air burning his throat. When the heaving finally stopped, he sat back, wiping his mouth with a shaking hand. The snow fell steadily, already beginning to cover what he'd left on the ground.

Billy sat there for a long time, watching the snow accumulate on his windshield, listening to the tick of the engine. Slowly, gradually, his breathing steadied. His hands stopped shaking quite so badly. He started the car again and pulled back onto the street.

The drive home felt endless and dreamlike. The streets were nearly empty, just the occasional car passing in the opposite direction, headlights blurred by falling snow. Billy drove on autopilot, his mind somewhere else entirely—replaying the woman's words, the choice she'd given him, the weight of Sophie's card in his pocket. The familiar landmarks of his neighborhood appeared and disappeared like images in a fog.

When he finally pulled into his apartment complex, he sat in the car with the engine running, staring up at his building. Third floor, second window from the left. The lights were on. Amy was still awake. He could see the faint glow of the Christmas tree through the curtains.

He turned off the engine. The sudden silence felt enormous.

Billy sat there in the dark, watching his breath fog the air, trying to figure out how to walk through that door. How to face Amy. What to say. What he could possibly say that would make her understand without telling her what he'd seen, what he'd almost become part of. His hands found the steering wheel again, gripping it like an anchor.

Finally, he got out of the car. The cold helped. The snow on his face helped. He climbed the stairs slowly, each step deliberate, and stood outside his door for a long moment with his hand on the knob. He could hear the faint sound of the television inside. Normal life. His life. The one he'd almost thrown away.

He opened the door and stepped inside.

The apartment was dark except for the glow of the Christmas tree in the corner, its colored lights casting soft shadows across the living room. Amy sat on the couch, still awake, her arms crossed. She looked up when he entered, her expression hardening.

"Billy—" she started, anger in her voice.

"I'm sorry," he said, and his voice broke. "Amy, I'm so sorry. You're right. About everything. I'm done. I'm done with Mitchell, with all of it. I'm done."

Amy's expression shifted from anger to confusion, then to something else as she really looked at him. She stood up slowly. "Billy, what happened? You look—"

"I can't explain it all right now," he said. His voice sounded strange to his own ears, hollow and distant. "But I need you to know—I'm done. I'm getting out. I'm going to find legitimate work, something clean. I'm going to be here for you and Sophie. I'm going to be the father she deserves."

Amy moved closer, studying his face in the dim light. Her anger had evaporated, replaced by concern and something that looked like fear. "Billy, you're scaring me. What happened tonight?"

"Something that should have happened a long time ago," he said quietly. "I saw... I saw what this life leads to. Where it ends. And I can't—" His voice caught. "I can't do it anymore. I won't."

She searched his eyes for a long moment. Whatever she saw there—the truth of it, the finality—made her reach for his hand. "Okay," she said softly. "Okay."

"Can I see her?" he asked. "Please? I need to see her."

Amy nodded and led him to Sophie's room. The door was already open, and Billy stepped inside quietly. His daughter lay in her toddler bed, her stuffed reindeer clutched to her chest, her face peaceful in sleep. On the nightstand beside her bed was a piece of construction paper folded in half—her card. Billy picked it up carefully and opened it.

Inside, in crayon, she'd drawn three stick figures—a tall one, a medium one, and a small one, all holding hands. Above them, in Amy's handwriting helping Sophie's attempt, were the words: "I love you Daddy. Merry Christmas."

Billy's vision blurred. He set the card down gently and leaned over to kiss Sophie's forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of her baby shampoo. She stirred slightly but didn't wake, just hugged her reindeer tighter.

"I love you too, baby girl," he whispered. "I'm here now. I'm going to be here."

Amy stood in the doorway, watching him. When he turned to her, she opened her arms, and he went to her, holding her tight. They stood there in the hallway, wrapped in each other, while Sophie slept peacefully and the Christmas tree lights twinkled in the living room.

Billy pulled back just enough to look at Amy's face. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out Sophie's card, the one he'd been carrying all night. He held it in both hands, looking down at the crayon drawing—three stick figures holding hands—and then at the Christmas tree beyond, its lights reflecting in the dark window.

Outside, the snow continued to fall, covering the city in white.

--

If you enjoyed this story, you can read more about the mysterious killer in NUELOW Games' The Ghost of Hong Kong, available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.

A Ghost of Hong Kong Story by Steve Miller

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.

'The Ghost of Hong Kong' anthology is now available!

If you've enjoyed the Ghost of Hong Kong stories that have been posted here on the blog over the past few months, you want to get yourself a copy of the latest NUELOW Games release!

The Ghost of Hong Kong short story anthology contains fifteen short stories (twelve of which have never been published before), each of which either highlights a point in the Ghost's bloodsoaked career, or gives us a look at her "after-hours" activities.

Since visitors to the blog may have already read some of the stories included in The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology, we're making the book available for you at a discount. Use this link instead of the one above to save a couple bucks!

If you get a copy of The Ghost of Hong Kong, please let us know what you think of it, either by posting a comment here or on the listings pages at DriveThruFiction or DriveThruRPG.

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.