A Ghost of Hong Kong Story -- By Steve Miller

It was a rainy night when she appeared at my office door--a slender Chinese woman with her dark hair pulled back into a pony tail. She was wearing a long, black raincoat and carrying an e-reader. I recognized her immediately.

"Mae Ling," I said, fear forming in the pit of my stomach. "What brings you here?"

"Relax, Miller," she replied in English with an accent that was vaguely British but mostly the result of having been in many places and among speakers of many English dialects. "I've been reading the stories you've written about me. You make me look good."

"Thank you," I said.

"I'm here to give you a new story. You'll write it, I'll read it, and give you immediate feedback."

She then told me of a recent contract. 

I saved the piece I had been working on, opened a fresh document, and began typing...

FALSE MERCIES -- A GHOST OF HONG KONG TALE

The incense smoke rose like prayers made visible, curling and twisting in the amber light that filtered through the temple's latticed windows. Outside, the sea whispered its eternal secrets to the rocks of Shek O Village, and the wind carried the salt-taste of distant storms.

The woman who knelt before the altar wore grief like a second skin. Her hands trembled as they clutched the red envelope containing two hundred Hong Kong dollars. Her hair hung in dark curtains around her face, and when she looked up at the rotund priest who sat cross-legged before the statue of Tin Hau, her eyes were wells of desperate hope.

"Please," she whispered, and the word seemed to echo in the temple's hollow spaces, bouncing off the golden dragons that coiled around the pillars, sliding past the paper lanterns that swayed like captured moons. "Please, Tin Hau, tell me what has become of my husband. The sea took him three weeks ago, and I have heard nothing. Nothing but the sound of waves in my dreams."

The priest—his name was Wu, though he preferred to be called Master Wu—regarded her with the practiced sympathy of a man who had seen a thousand desperate souls kneel where she now knelt. His robes were silk, expensive silk, and his fingers were heavy with jade rings that caught the light like captured fireflies. He was a man who understood that faith and fear were currencies more valuable than gold, and he had grown wealthy in their exchange.

"The goddess hears all prayers," he intoned, his voice deep and resonant as a temple bell. "But the veil between this world and the next is thick, and sometimes... sometimes it requires great effort to pierce it."

He reached for the incense sticks that stood in their brass holder like a forest of fragrant trees. With deliberate slowness, he lit three of them, and the smoke began its serpentine dance toward the ceiling, where it would dissipate into nothing, into everything, into the spaces between breath and belief.

Master Wu closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, deepened, became the rhythm of waves upon shore. The woman watched him with the intensity of the drowning watching a distant boat, her hands clasped so tightly that her knuckles had gone white as bone.

Minutes passed. The incense burned. The smoke rose. The sea outside continued its ancient conversation with the land.

Then Master Wu's eyes opened, and in them was a light that might have been divine inspiration or might have been something far more calculated.

"I see," he breathed, and his voice had taken on a tremulous quality, as if he stood at the edge of some great precipice. "The goddess Tin Hau... she shows me an island. Small, rocky, surrounded by waters that foam white against black stone. And there... there is a man."

The woman leaned forward, her breath catching in her throat like a bird in a cage.

"He stands at the water's edge," Master Wu continued, his eyes now focused on some middle distance that existed only in his mind—or in his performance. "He is thin, weathered by sun and salt. And he is shouting. Shouting a name. Your name, I think. Yes, your name, carried away by the wind, lost in the cry of gulls."

A sound escaped the woman's lips, something between a sob and a gasp, and Master Wu allowed himself the smallest of smiles, hidden in the shadows of his jowls.

"But wait," he said, and his expression darkened like clouds crossing the sun. "The vision... it fragments. It breaks apart like a reflection in disturbed water. The goddess... she struggles to show me more. Something interferes. Something dark and malevolent."

"What?" the woman whispered. "What interferes?"

Master Wu's hands moved in complex patterns through the smoke, as if he were trying to grasp something that continually slipped through his fingers. "Her brothers," he said, and now his voice carried a note of genuine-seeming distress. "The demonic brothers of Tin Hau. They dwell in the underworld, in the spaces beneath the sea where drowned men's souls wander lost and cold. They feed on suffering, on separation, on the tears of widows and the cries of orphans. And they are here now, blocking the goddess's sight, preventing her from revealing the full truth of your husband's fate."

The woman's face had gone pale as paper, pale as the moon reflected in still water.

"But there is hope," Master Wu said quickly, leaning forward with an urgency that seemed almost genuine. "A show of devotion—a true show of devotion—can give the goddess the power she needs to drive her brothers back to the underworld where they belong. The demons are strong, but faith is stronger. Devotion is stronger. And with the proper... offerings... the goddess can prevail."

The woman's hands moved to the red envelope she had brought, the envelope containing her last two hundred dollars. She held it out with shaking fingers, and Master Wu took it with the reverence of a man accepting a sacred relic.

He opened it, counted the bills with practiced speed, and nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "Yes, I believe this will be sufficient. The goddess is merciful. She understands the poverty of the faithful. Let me pray again, let me—"

He closed his eyes once more, his hands pressed together before his face. His lips moved in silent supplication, or what appeared to be supplication. The incense smoke continued its endless rise, and the temple seemed to hold its breath.

Then Master Wu jerked as if struck by an invisible hand. His eyes flew open, wide with what might have been fear or might have been theatrical surprise. He gasped, clutched at his chest, and when he spoke again, his voice was hoarse.

"The demons," he wheezed. "They are stronger than I anticipated. Much stronger. They feed off your distress, your desperation. They grow fat on your tears. The goddess... she needs more. More devotion. More faith. More—"

He didn't say the word "money," but it hung in the air between them like the incense smoke, visible and invisible at once.

The woman stood slowly, her movements careful, controlled. "I'll go to the bank," she said, her voice steady now, all the trembling gone from it like morning mist burned away by sun. "I can get more. I'll be back as soon as I can."

Master Wu nodded, relief washing over his features like water over stone. "Yes," he said. "Yes, hurry. The goddess's power wanes with each passing moment. The demons grow stronger. Your husband's soul hangs in the balance, suspended between this world and the next, and only your devotion can—"

The woman had turned to leave, her footsteps echoing on the temple's stone floor. But then she stopped. Turned back. And when she looked at Master Wu now, her eyes were different. They were no longer wells of desperate hope. They were something else entirely. Something cold and clear and utterly without mercy.

"You had a nice scam going here," she said, and her voice was conversational, almost friendly. "Really, quite elegant in its simplicity. Prey on the desperate, the grieving, the ones who have nowhere else to turn. Tell them just enough to give them hope, then squeeze them for everything they have. I've seen it before, in a dozen cities, in a hundred temples. It's an old game, Master Wu. Old as faith itself."

Master Wu's face had gone from relieved to confused to outraged in the space of three heartbeats. "How dare you," he sputtered, rising to his feet with surprising speed for a man of his bulk. "How dare you come into this sacred place and—"

"If only you hadn't gotten greedy with the wrong mark," the woman continued, as if he hadn't spoken at all. Her hand moved to her purse, and there was something in the casual way she did it that made Master Wu's words die in his throat like flowers touched by frost.

"What... what do you mean?" he asked, and now the fear in his voice was real, no longer performance, no longer theater.

"Leilie Hong," the woman said, and the name fell into the temple's silence like a stone into still water, sending ripples of implication in all directions. "Three weeks ago, she came to you. An old woman, desperate to know the fate of her son, who had gone missing. You told her the same story, didn't you? The same vision, the same demonic interference, the same need for greater and greater devotion. You took everything she had. Every last dollar. And when she had nothing left to give, you told her that her son was lost, that the demons had won, that her lack of faith had doomed him."

Master Wu's face had gone the color of old wax. His jade rings suddenly seemed too heavy, weighing down his hands like shackles.

"She went home that night," the woman continued, her voice still conversational, still almost friendly, which somehow made it more terrible than if she had been shouting. "She went home and she hanged herself from a beam in her kitchen. Because you had taken her money and her hope and left her with nothing but despair."

"I... I didn't know," Master Wu whispered. "I couldn't have known that she would—"

"Her son found her," the woman said. "Charlie Hong. Perhaps you've heard of him?"

The name hit Master Wu like a physical blow. Charlie Hong. Everyone in Hong Kong's underworld knew that name. Charlie Hong, who ran the illegal fight clubs in Kowloon, who had connections that reached from the Triads to the police to the very highest levels of the city's shadow government. Charlie Hong, who was known for his loyalty to his family, his ruthlessness toward his enemies, and his absolute unwillingness to forgive those who wronged the people he loved.

"Oh god," Master Wu breathed, and he stumbled backward, his bulk suddenly seeming less imposing, more vulnerable, like a balloon slowly deflating. "Oh god, I didn't... I never meant..."

The woman's hand emerged from her purse, and in it was a pistol. Small, black, with a suppressor attached to the barrel that made it look like some kind of mechanical insect, all angles and purpose. She held it with the casual competence of someone who had held such things many times before, who knew their weight and their function and their terrible finality.

"Please," Master Wu said, and now he was the one who sounded desperate, the one whose voice trembled with fear. "Please, I'll give the money back. I'll leave Hong Kong. I'll—"

"Charlie Hong called upon a ghost of vengeance," the woman said, and her voice was soft now, soft as the incense smoke, soft as the whisper of the sea outside. "He called upon someone who could walk into temples and speak the language of grief, who could play the role of the desperate widow, who could get close enough to deliver justice to those who prey upon the suffering of others."

She raised the pistol, and the movement was smooth, practiced, inevitable as the rising of the sun.

"And vengeance," she said, "will be delivered."

The shot was barely louder than a cough, muffled by the suppressor and swallowed by the temple's thick walls. Master Wu fell backward, his silk robes billowing around him like the wings of some great, dying bird. He hit the floor with a sound like a sack of rice dropping, and the jade rings on his fingers clattered against the stone.

The woman stood over him for a moment, watching as the light faded from his eyes, as the blood spread in a dark pool beneath his body, mixing with the ash from the incense that had fallen when he fell. Then she tucked the pistol back into her purse, straightened her hair, and walked toward the temple's entrance with the same careful, controlled movements she had used when she arrived.

But she paused at the altar, her hand reaching for the bundle of incense sticks that Master Wu would never light again. She took three—the proper number—and held them to the flame of a red candle, her hands steady as stone despite the body cooling behind her. The tips caught and glowed, and she watched the smoke begin its ascent, thin threads of gray rising toward the temple's dark rafters.

She bowed once, deeply, holding the incense before her face. The smoke curled between her fingers, and she breathed in its sandalwood sweetness mixed with the copper-salt smell of fresh blood.

"Forgive me, Tin Hau," she whispered, and her voice was different now—not the desperate widow's plea, not the cold pronouncement of vengeance, but something more honest. "I have stained your temple with blood. But you are the protector of the suffering, and he made his fortune from their pain."

She placed the incense in the brass holder before the goddess's statue, the three sticks standing straight and true. The painted eyes gazed down at her, and for a moment—just a moment—she thought she saw something in that ancient, unchanging face. Not forgiveness, perhaps. But understanding. The goddess had sailed through storms and witnessed drownings, had seen the sea take the innocent and spare the guilty, had learned that justice and mercy were not always the same thing. The woman bowed once more, then turned and walked toward the entrance, leaving the incense to burn, leaving her prayer to rise, leaving the goddess to judge whether vengeance could ever be holy.

The woman walked down the temple steps and disappeared into the narrow streets of Shek O Village, just another figure in the afternoon crowd, anonymous and unremarkable. Behind her, in the Temple of Tin Hau, Master Wu's blood spread dark across the stone floor while incense smoke rose in serpentine spirals toward the rafters. 

--

After I finished the story, I stood up and gestured at the chair for Mae Ling to have a seat. She did so with a nod and began to read. I watched her nervously--I wasn't used to advanced readers or critics who could kill you in who-knows-how-many different ways if they didn't like what they read.

I was bathed in a cold sweat by the time Mae Ling reached the end of "False Mercies". She turned to look up at me, her expression unreadable.

"It's just the first draft," I said, the terror building in my chest. "I'll fix whatever you--"

"Don't change a thing," Mae Ling said, rising to her feet, smiling. "I love it. And I really loved the whole prayer bit at the end. You're going to put it in the next Ghost of Hong Kong collection, right?"

"If I do one, of course I will."

"Excellent." With that, she turned and walked toward the door and out of my office. I heard her chuckling softly before saying, "Forgive me Tin Hau... priceless!"

Seconds later, I heard the front door open and close. The Ghost had melted back into the shadows where her next assignment waited.

A Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller

 Join the Ghost for a (relatively) quiet evening...

The Ghost Observes

The restaurant Le Jardin occupied the forty-second floor of the International Finance Centre, its floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of Victoria Harbour that justified the astronomical prices on its menu.

Mae Ling sat at a corner table, positioned with her back to the wall and clear sightlines to both entrances—habits ingrained so deeply they no longer registered as conscious choices. The Dover sole she'd ordered was perfectly prepared, delicate flesh yielding to her fork with minimal resistance, accompanied by a Chablis that complemented rather than overwhelmed the subtle flavors.

She ate slowly, savoring each bite while her peripheral awareness catalogued the restaurant's other patrons. A business dinner at table seven, three men in expensive suits discussing merger terms in Mandarin. An anniversary celebration at table twelve, the couple's body language suggesting genuine affection rather than performance. Detective Inspector Chan at the bar, nursing what appeared to be sparkling water and pretending to check his phone while maintaining his usual surveillance. And at table nine, approximately fifteen feet to her left, a couple whose tension had been escalating throughout their meal.

The woman was in her late thirties, elegant in a navy-blue dress that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. Her companion was older, mid-fifties, with the soft hands and expensive watch of someone who'd never done manual labor. Their voices had been rising steadily for the past ten minutes, though Mae Ling had paid them only cursory attention. Domestic disputes held little interest for her professionally, and she'd learned long ago that the most dangerous moments came when you were distracted by irrelevant drama.

"You promised me," the woman hissed, her voice carrying despite her obvious attempt at discretion. "You said this would be different."

"Keep your voice down," the man replied, his tone sharp with embarrassment. "We'll discuss this at home."

"We never discuss anything. You just make decisions and expect me to accept them."

The argument continued, building toward its inevitable crescendo. Mae Ling took another sip of wine, her attention drifting to the couple at table four—a woman in her forties dining with a man who appeared to be her husband, based on the comfortable silence between them and the matching wedding bands. The woman had glanced toward the arguing couple twice in the past minute, her expression difficult to read from this distance.

The man at table nine stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the polished floor. "I'm leaving. You can stay and make a scene if you want, but I'm done with this conversation."

The woman stood as well, her face flushed with anger or wine or both. "Fine. Run away. That's what you always do."

They moved toward the exit together, their body language radiating hostility. The man paused at the maître d's station long enough to throw several bills on the counter, not bothering to wait for change or acknowledgment. The woman followed him out, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.

The restaurant's ambient noise resumed its normal level, the brief disruption already fading from collective memory. Mae Ling returned her attention to her meal, cutting another piece of sole with surgical precision. The fish was excellent, the wine better, and the view spectacular. A perfect evening, really, marred only by—

A scream shattered the restored calm.

Mae Ling's hand moved instinctively toward the knife at her side before her conscious mind registered that the sound came from table four. The woman who'd been watching the argument was on her feet, her chair toppled backward, her hands pressed to her mouth in horror. Her husband—or the man Mae Ling had assumed was her husband—had collapsed forward onto the table, his body convulsing violently.

The restaurant erupted into controlled chaos. A waiter rushed forward. The maître d' was already on his phone, presumably calling for emergency services. Other diners stood, some moving closer to help, others backing away from the disturbing scene. Mae Ling remained seated, her expression neutral, her mind cataloguing details with the automatic precision of long practice.

The convulsions lasted perhaps twenty seconds before the man went still. Too still. The waiter who'd reached him first checked for a pulse, his face going pale. He looked up at the maître d' and shook his head slowly.

Mae Ling set down her fork and reached for her wine glass, taking a measured sip while her mind replayed the past fifteen minutes. She'd been half-paying attention, her focus primarily on her meal and the view, but her training ensured that certain details had registered even when she hadn't been paying close attention. The arguing couple. The woman at table four glancing toward them. The timing of—

A hand settled on her shoulder.

Mae Ling didn't flinch, though few people would have dared such familiarity. She turned her head slightly, already knowing who she'd see. Detective Inspector James Chan of the Hong Kong Police Force's Financial Crimes Unit had been following her for three months now, convinced that her legitimate business consulting work was a cover for something more sinister. He wasn't wrong, but he'd never be able to prove it.

"Detective," she said calmly, her Cantonese carrying the neutral accent of someone who'd lived in many places. "I hope you enjoyed the show. As you can clearly see, I've been sitting here the entire evening, nowhere near that unfortunate gentleman."

Chan was in his early forties, with the tired eyes of someone who'd seen too much corruption and the stubborn jaw of someone who refused to accept it. He wore an off-the-rack suit that had seen better days and a wedding ring that suggested he had something to go home to besides case files. His hand remained on her shoulder for another moment before he withdrew it, moving around to stand where she could see him without turning.

"I'm not suggesting you had anything to do with this," he said, his voice low enough that nearby diners wouldn't overhear. "But I think you know who did. And how."

Mae Ling raised an eyebrow, her expression one of polite curiosity. "That's quite an assumption, Detective. What makes you think I know anything about a random medical emergency?"

"Because you're the Ghost of Hong Kong," Chan said quietly. "And ghosts see things other people miss."

She studied him for a long moment, weighing her options. Chan was persistent, intelligent, and dangerously close to understanding the nature of her work. But he was also, in his own way, trying to do the right thing. The world needed people like him, even if they occasionally made her life more complicated.

"Hypothetically," Mae Ling said, setting down her wine glass, "if I had been paying attention to my surroundings—which any sensible person would do in a public space—what might I have noticed?"

Chan pulled out the chair across from her and sat without invitation. "You tell me."

Mae Ling's mind assembled the pieces with the efficiency of a computer processing data. "The couple that was arguing. They left approximately three minutes before the man collapsed. The woman at table four—the one who's currently hysterical—she watched them leave. She glanced at them twice during their argument, but not with the casual curiosity of someone observing a scene. She was tracking them. Waiting for something."

"Go on," Chan said, leaning forward slightly.

"The timing is interesting. The argument provided a distraction, drew attention away from the other tables. In that moment, when everyone's focus was on the drama, someone could have moved quickly. A hand reaching across a table. Something dropped into a drink. It would take seconds, and no one would notice because they were all watching the show."

"You think the wife poisoned him?"

"I think the wife knew the couple that was arguing," Mae Ling corrected. "I think they staged a distraction so she could introduce something into her husband's beverage. The convulsions suggest a fast-acting neurotoxin, probably something that mimics a seizure or heart attack. Elegant, really. In a restaurant full of witnesses, she commits murder in plain sight."

Chan's expression darkened. "That's a serious accusation."

"You asked what I might have noticed," Mae Ling said with a slight shrug. "I'm simply following the logic of a possible scenario."

The widow's hysterical voice cut through their conversation. She was being comforted by the maître d' and several other diners, her body shaking with sobs that seemed genuine enough. "I don't understand," she wailed. "He was fine. We were just having dinner."

Mae Ling watched carefully, trying to read the truth beneath the obvious distress. The woman's grief appeared authentic—trembling hands, flushed face, the kind of full-body shock that was difficult to fake. But there was something about the way she'd positioned herself, angled slightly toward the restaurant's entrance rather than leaning into the comfort being offered—it was as if she subconsciously wanted to escape if need be. And those two glances during the argument—had they been nervous awareness of a brewing confrontation, or something more deliberate?

Mae Ling had seen enough death to know that genuine shock and calculated theater could look remarkably similar. The widow might be an innocent woman watching her husband die unexpectedly. Or she might be exactly what Mae Ling suspected. The truth would reveal itself eventually, but for now, it remained frustratingly unclear.

"I don't know her motive," Mae Ling admitted quietly. "But I suspect you'll find the answer once you locate that couple. They're the key to understanding why this happened."

Chan stood, his expression thoughtful. "The security cameras will show if you're right about the timing."

"They will," Mae Ling agreed. "Though I imagine the footage will be ambiguous. These things usually are."

"Thank you for your help," Chan said, his tone formal but not unfriendly. "But don't think this changes anything between us. I'll still be watching you."

Mae Ling picked up her wine glass again, swirling the pale liquid gently. "I apologize in advance for how bored you're going to be. My life is remarkably mundane."

"Somehow I doubt that," Chan replied. He started to turn away, then paused. "The Ghost of Hong Kong. Do you know why they call you that?"

She raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know they called me that."

"Because you don't leave traces," Chan said. "You're there, and then you're not. No evidence, no witnesses who can quite remember your face." He paused. "But also because ghosts are supposed to right wrongs. To settle unfinished business. To bring justice when the living can't or won't." He met her eyes directly. "Some people think Hong Kong needs a ghost."

"And what do you think, Detective?"

Chan was quiet for a moment, his expression unreadable. "I think the law should be enough. But I also think the world is more complicated than I'd like it to be." He nodded once, a gesture that might have been respect or acknowledgment or both. "Enjoy the rest of your meal, Ms. Ling."

He walked away, moving toward the widow and the gathering crowd of police and emergency personnel. Mae Ling watched him go, then returned her attention to her Dover sole. It had gone slightly cold during the interruption, but the quality was still evident. She ate slowly, methodically, while her mind continued processing the evening's events.

The arguing couple had been professionals, their performance calibrated to draw attention without seeming rehearsed. The widow's reaction was equally skilled, though perhaps a touch overdone. And the victim—Mae Ling hadn't paid him much attention while he was alive, but now she found herself curious about what he'd done to warrant such an elaborate execution.

Because it had been an execution, regardless of how it appeared. The planning required, the coordination, the risk of performing the act in such a public space—these weren't the actions of a desperate spouse. This was something else. Something that suggested the victim had made enemies who wanted him dead but also wanted to send a message.

Not my concern, Mae Ling reminded herself. She had her own work, her own targets. Getting involved in someone else's operation would be foolish, potentially dangerous, and completely unnecessary.

Still, she found herself memorizing the widow's face, the cut of her dress, the way she moved even in apparent distress. Professional curiosity, nothing more. If their paths crossed again, it would be useful to recognize her.

Mae Ling finished her meal, paid her bill with cash, and left a generous tip for the waiter who'd tried to help the dying man. The restaurant was still in chaos as she departed, police officers taking statements and examining the scene. Chan was speaking with one of the emergency responders, his notebook out.

He glanced up as Mae Ling passed, their eyes meeting briefly. She inclined her head slightly—acknowledgment, not quite respect, but something close to it. He returned the gesture, then went back to his interview.

The elevator ride down forty-two floors gave Mae Ling time to consider the evening's implications. Chan was getting closer, which meant she'd need to be more careful. The night air hit her as she exited the building, carrying the familiar scents of Hong Kong—salt water and exhaust fumes, street food and expensive perfume, the eternal mixture of old and new that defined the city. Her phone buzzed. An encrypted message: new assignment, details to follow. Someone, somewhere, had committed transgressions serious enough to warrant her attention.

Mae Ling deleted the message and continued walking, her path taking her through crowds that parted around her. The widow would face justice eventually, assuming the evidence held and she didn't flee to parts unknown.

But that was someone else's problem.

The Ghost of Hong Kong turned down a side street and disappeared into the darkness.

--

If you enjoyed this tale, you can read more about the Ghost of Hong Kong in a collection of 15 short stories, which is available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.

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.

--

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