A Ghost of Hong Kong Story by Steve Miller

This is a tale of a legendary assassin. You can find many more about her in The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology.

The Ghost in the Fire

The luxury high-rise known as Azure Heights pierced the Hong Kong skyline like a shard of crystalline ambition, its forty-eight floors of premium condominiums housing some of the city's wealthiest residents. At three in the morning, the building slept in air-conditioned silence, its inhabitants dreaming behind reinforced glass and electronic security systems that promised absolute safety.

Mae Ling moved through that silence like smoke through still air.

The Ghost of Hong Kong—a name whispered in certain circles with equal parts fear and respect—had bypassed the building's elaborate security with the ease of long practice. The night guard would wake in four hours with a splitting headache and no memory of the woman who had pressed a pressure point behind his ear. The security cameras looped footage from the previous night, showing empty corridors where Mae Ling now walked with measured, silent steps.

She wore black tactical clothing that absorbed light rather than reflected it, her slight frame moving with the fluid economy of a predator. Her target occupied the penthouse—all of the forty-eighth floor, a sprawling monument to wealth acquired through the suffering of others. Chen Wei-Tang, known in less polite company as the Viper, had built his fortune on human misery. His trafficking network stretched from rural China to the brothels of Southeast Asia, a pipeline of stolen lives and broken dreams that generated millions in monthly revenue.

Mae Ling had spent two months documenting his crimes, following the trail of disappeared women and children, interviewing the few survivors who had escaped his organization's grip. The evidence was overwhelming, damning, and completely useless in any court that mattered. Chen had purchased his immunity through careful bribes and strategic blackmail, his connections reaching into the highest levels of law enforcement and government.

The legal system had failed. Mae Ling would not.

She reached the forty-seventh floor via the emergency stairs, her breathing controlled and steady despite the climb. The stairwell door opened silently—she had oiled the hinges during a reconnaissance visit two days prior, posing as a potential buyer touring the building. Every detail mattered in her profession. Any oversight could prove fatal.

The penthouse elevator required a special key card, but Mae Ling had no intention of using it. Instead, she moved to the service access panel concealed behind an abstract painting in the forty-seventh floor corridor. The panel opened to reveal a maintenance ladder leading up to the penthouse level's mechanical systems. She climbed with practiced efficiency, her gloved hands finding purchase on the metal rungs.

The penthouse spread before her like a temple to excess when she emerged into its lower level. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered panoramic views of Hong Kong's glittering harbor, the city lights reflecting off the water in patterns that would have been beautiful if Mae Ling had allowed herself to appreciate such things. She didn't. Beauty was a distraction, and distractions were dangerous.

The interior design favored minimalist luxury—white marble floors, contemporary furniture in muted tones, abstract art that probably cost more than most people earned in a lifetime. Mae Ling moved through the space with her senses fully engaged, cataloging exits and potential threats, her hand resting near the suppressed pistol holstered at her hip.

The penthouse was empty.

Not just unoccupied—empty in a way that suggested deliberate absence. No personal items cluttered the surfaces. No clothing hung in the master bedroom's walk-in closet. The refrigerator contained nothing but bottled water and champagne. The entire space felt staged, like a showroom rather than a residence.

Wrong, Mae Ling thought, her instincts screaming warnings that her conscious mind was only beginning to process. This is wrong.

The massive television screen mounted on the living room wall flickered to life with a soft electronic chime. Mae Ling's hand moved to her weapon, but she didn't draw it. Not yet.

Chen Wei-Tang's face filled the screen, his features arranged in an expression of smug satisfaction that made Mae Ling's jaw tighten. He sat in what appeared to be a comfortable office, a glass of amber liquid in one hand, his expensive suit perfectly tailored to his stocky frame.

"Ghost of Hong Kong," he said, his Cantonese flavored with the accent of mainland China. "I'm honored that you've come all this way to visit me. Unfortunately, I won't be able to receive you in person. You understand, I'm sure—one can't be too careful when dealing with professional killers."

Mae Ling remained motionless, her mind racing through possibilities and contingencies. Pre-recorded message. He knew she was coming. The question was how much he knew and what preparations he had made.

"I've been aware of your interest in my business affairs for some time now," Chen continued, swirling his drink with casual arrogance. "Your reputation is impressive, I'll admit. The ghost who walks through walls, who strikes without warning, who has never failed to eliminate her targets. Quite the legend. But legends, I've found, are just stories we tell ourselves. And stories can have unhappy endings."

He leaned forward, his smile widening. "You're trapped, Ghost. This building is about to become your funeral pyre. Even now, fire is spreading from the ground floor upward, following a path I've carefully prepared. The bamboo scaffolding that surrounds Azure Heights—ostensibly for renovation work—has been soaked in accelerants. The fire will climb faster than you can descend. The emergency systems have been disabled. The alarms won't sound. And by the time the fire department arrives, you'll be ash, along with everyone else unfortunate enough to live in this building."

Mae Ling's blood turned to ice. Everyone else. Hundreds of residents. Families. Children. Sleeping peacefully while death climbed toward them through the night.

"I want you to know," Chen said, his voice dropping to a intimate whisper, "that this is personal. You've cost me money, Ghost. You've killed my associates, disrupted my operations, made me look weak in front of my competitors. This is the price of your interference. Your death, and the deaths of everyone in this building. It's a lesson to anyone else who thinks they can challenge the Viper."

The screen went dark.

Mae Ling was already moving, her professional detachment shattered by the magnitude of Chen's revenge. She sprinted to the penthouse's floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the building's exterior. The bamboo scaffolding wrapped around Azure Heights like a skeletal embrace, the traditional construction method still common in Hong Kong despite the building's modern design. From her vantage point forty-eight floors up, she could see the orange glow beginning to spread at the structure's base, flames licking upward along the bamboo poles with terrifying speed.

The accelerants Chen had mentioned were doing their work. The fire climbed with unnatural velocity, consuming the dried bamboo and spreading across the building's facade in a pattern that suggested careful planning. This wasn't random arson—this was calculated murder on a massive scale.

Mae Ling's training took over, years of survival instincts kicking in to wall off the panic and horror. She had perhaps ten minutes before the fire reached the upper floors. Maybe less. The building's residents were sleeping, unaware of the death climbing toward them through the night. No alarms sounded. No sprinklers activated. Chen had been thorough in his preparations.

She pulled out her encrypted phone and dialed emergency services, her Cantonese crisp and urgent as she reported the fire at Azure Heights. The operator's questions came rapid-fire, but Mae Ling cut through the protocol with the authority of someone who expected to be obeyed. "Forty-eight story residential building. Fire spreading via external scaffolding. Hundreds of residents in immediate danger. Fire suppression systems disabled. Send everything you have. Now."

She disconnected before the operator could ask for her name, already moving toward the penthouse's private elevator. The stairwells would be her fastest route down, her best chance to warn residents floor by floor as she descended. But when she wrenched open the emergency stairwell door, smoke billowed out in a choking cloud that sent her stumbling backward.

Impossible. The fire couldn't have climbed that fast. Unless—

Mae Ling's tactical mind supplied the answer even as her lungs burned from the smoke she'd inhaled. Chen had set multiple ignition points. The scaffolding fire was the visible threat, the dramatic spectacle. But he'd also started fires inside the building, probably in the stairwells and elevator shafts, ensuring that anyone who tried to evacuate would be trapped by smoke and flames.

She slammed the stairwell door shut and moved to the penthouse's other emergency exit. Same result—thick smoke pouring through the gaps around the door, the metal already warm to the touch. The building was being consumed from multiple directions simultaneously, a coordinated attack designed to leave no survivors.

 Mae Ling forced herself to think past the horror of the situation. Panic was death. Emotion was death. She needed to survive, and she needed to find a way to help the building's residents survive. The fire department would arrive soon, but "soon" might not be fast enough. The smoke alone could kill hundreds before the first ladder truck reached the scene.

She ran back through the penthouse, her eyes scanning for anything useful. Chen had cleared out his personal belongings, but the space itself remained furnished. She moved through rooms with desperate efficiency, opening closets and storage areas, searching for something—anything—that could provide an escape route.

The rooftop. The building had a rooftop garden and helipad. If she could reach it, she might be able to signal for help, might be able to coordinate with emergency responders from above rather than being trapped inside the burning structure.

Mae Ling found the access stairs to the roof behind a door marked "Private—Authorized Personnel Only." She took the steps three at a time, her lungs grateful for the relatively clear air. The rooftop door opened with a heavy clang, and she emerged into the humid Hong Kong night.

The rooftop garden spread across half of the building's top floor, an elaborate arrangement of planters and walking paths designed to provide residents with an outdoor oasis in the sky. The helipad occupied the other half, its painted circle gleaming white under the rooftop's security lights. Mae Ling ran to the edge of the building and looked down.

The sight stole her breath.

Fire engulfed the lower floors of Azure Heights, flames climbing the bamboo scaffolding with horrifying speed. The structure burned like a massive torch, the fire spreading upward in a pattern that suggested it would reach the roof within minutes. Heat rose in shimmering waves, distorting the air and carrying with it the acrid smell of burning bamboo and accelerants. Below, she could see lights beginning to come on in neighboring buildings, people waking to the spectacle of a skyscraper burning in the heart of Hong Kong.

But no lights came on in Azure Heights itself. The residents slept on, unaware, while death climbed toward them through the smoke-filled corridors and stairwells.

Mae Ling pulled out her phone again, but before she could dial, she heard the distant wail of sirens. The fire department was responding. But they would arrive to find a building already engulfed, its internal fire suppression systems disabled, its residents trapped behind doors they might not even know they needed to open.

She needed to escape. Needed to survive so she could hunt down Chen Wei-Tang and make him pay for this atrocity. But how? The stairwells were death traps. The elevators would be disabled. The fire was climbing too fast for any conventional rescue.

Mae Ling ran back across the rooftop, her mind racing through possibilities. Chen had planned this trap carefully, but he had made one critical error—he had assumed she would panic, would waste precious time trying to escape down through the building. He hadn't considered that she might go up instead of down.

The penthouse. Chen had cleared out his personal belongings, but what about the building's maintenance equipment? What about emergency supplies that might be stored on the roof level?

She found the storage room adjacent to the helipad, its door secured with a simple padlock that she broke with a sharp strike from her elbow. The room contained the expected maintenance supplies—tools, cleaning equipment, spare parts for the rooftop's irrigation system. But in the back corner, partially disassembled and covered with a tarp, she found something unexpected.

A hang glider.

The device lay in pieces, its aluminum frame separated from its fabric wing, the control bar detached. Mae Ling stared at it for a heartbeat, her mind processing the implications. Someone—probably Chen himself—had kept this here as a hobby, a toy for the wealthy man who owned the sky. The irony was almost poetic.

She had perhaps five minutes before the fire reached the roof. Maybe less. The heat was already intensifying, the air shimmering with thermal currents rising from the burning building below. Mae Ling had never assembled a hang glider before, had never even flown one, but she had jumped from aircraft, had parachuted into hostile territory, had trusted her life to equipment and physics in situations where failure meant death.

This was just another impossible situation. And Mae Ling specialized in the impossible.

Her hands moved with desperate efficiency, fitting the aluminum tubes together, her mind working through the logic of the device's construction. The frame formed a triangular structure, the control bar attaching at the apex. The fabric wing stretched across the frame, secured with clips and tension cables. She worked without conscious thought, her body moving through the assembly process with the same focused intensity she brought to every task.

Three minutes. The rooftop's temperature was rising noticeably now, the heat from below creating updrafts that tugged at her clothing. Smoke began to seep through ventilation grates, wisps of gray that would soon become choking clouds.

The hang glider took shape under her hands. She secured the last connection, tested the control bar's movement, checked the wing's tension. It wasn't perfect—she had no way to verify that every component was properly assembled—but it would have to be enough.

Two minutes. The fire had reached the upper floors now, flames visible through the penthouse windows. The glass would shatter soon from the heat, turning the rooftop into an inferno.

Mae Ling lifted the hang glider, feeling its weight, testing its balance. The device was designed for recreational flight from hilltops and cliffs, not for emergency escapes from burning skyscrapers. But the principle was the same—use the wind and thermal currents to generate lift, control descent through weight shifts and the control bar.

She ran toward the edge of the building, the hang glider's frame gripped in both hands, the control bar positioned for launch. The heat rising from the burning structure created powerful updrafts, dangerous and unpredictable, but also potentially useful if she could harness them correctly.

One minute. The rooftop door exploded outward as pressure built inside the stairwell, flames and smoke billowing into the night sky. The helipad's painted surface began to blister from the heat.

Mae Ling reached the building's edge and didn't hesitate. She launched herself into the void, the hang glider's wing catching the rising thermal currents with a violent jerk that nearly tore the control bar from her hands. The sudden lift threw her upward and sideways, the glider spinning in the turbulent air, completely out of control.

She fought the spin with desperate strength, shifting her weight and pulling the control bar, trying to stabilize the craft against forces that wanted to tear it apart. The heat from the burning building created a column of rising air that buffeted the glider like a leaf in a hurricane. Mae Ling's arms screamed with the effort of maintaining control, her body swinging wildly beneath the fabric wing.

The glider tilted sickeningly to the left, dropping toward the building's burning facade. Mae Ling could feel the intense heat on her exposed skin, could see the flames reaching toward her like grasping fingers. She pulled hard on the control bar, shifting her weight to the right, fighting to gain altitude and distance from the inferno.

The thermal currents were both salvation and threat. They provided the lift she needed to stay airborne, but they also created turbulence that made controlled flight nearly impossible. The glider bucked and twisted, climbing and dropping in sickening oscillations that left Mae Ling's stomach churning and her grip on the control bar white-knuckled with strain.

She focused on the basics—keep the nose up, maintain airspeed, use weight shifts to control direction. The glider responded sluggishly to her inputs, the turbulent air making every correction an exercise in desperate improvisation. Below her, Azure Heights burned like a massive candle, flames consuming the bamboo scaffolding and spreading across the building's exterior in patterns of orange and red that would have been beautiful if they weren't so horrifying.

The glider caught a particularly strong updraft and shot upward, climbing a hundred feet in seconds before the thermal released it and the craft dropped like a stone. Mae Ling's stomach lurched, her hands fighting to maintain control as the ground rushed up to meet her. She pulled back on the control bar, flaring the wing, converting speed into lift at the last possible moment.

The glider leveled out, now flying away from the burning building, the turbulent air giving way to the relatively stable night breeze that flowed across Hong Kong's harbor. Mae Ling allowed herself a single breath of relief before focusing on the next challenge—landing without killing herself.

The harbor spread below her, its dark water reflecting the city lights and the orange glow of the burning skyscraper. Mae Ling aimed for a park she could see in the distance, a patch of green that offered the possibility of a soft landing. The glider descended in a gradual spiral, losing altitude as she worked to maintain control and airspeed.

Her arms burned with fatigue, her hands cramping from the death grip she maintained on the control bar. The glider wanted to stall, wanted to drop her into the harbor or onto the concrete streets below. She fought it with every ounce of strength and skill she possessed, coaxing the craft toward the park, adjusting her approach with minute weight shifts and control inputs.

The ground rose to meet her faster than she would have liked. Mae Ling flared the wing at the last moment, bleeding off speed, but the landing was still brutal. She hit the grass hard, her legs buckling, the glider's frame collapsing around her as momentum carried her forward in a tumbling roll that left her bruised and gasping.

She lay still for a moment, taking inventory of her body. Nothing broken. Nothing bleeding. Alive.

Mae Ling extracted herself from the tangled wreckage of the hang glider and looked back toward Azure Heights. The building burned against the night sky, a pillar of fire visible for miles. She could hear sirens now, multiple fire trucks converging on the scene, their lights painting the streets in patterns of red and white.

She had survived. But hundreds of others might not have. The thought sat in her chest like a stone, heavy and cold. Chen Wei-Tang had turned her into an instrument of mass murder, had used her presence in the building as justification for an atrocity that would claim innocent lives.

Mae Ling melted into the shadows of the park, disappearing before emergency responders could arrive and ask questions she couldn't answer. She needed to regroup, to plan, to find Chen Wei-Tang and make him pay for what he had done.

The Ghost of Hong Kong had failed tonight. But ghosts, she reminded herself, were notoriously difficult to kill.

Two weeks later, she obtained the official incident report. Two hundred and thirty-seven confirmed dead—most succumbing to smoke inhalation before evacuation could begin. Her emergency call, precise and professional, had been too late. Each name felt like a weight, a silent accusation: collateral damage in her relentless persuit of a target and a paycheck. That number—237—would become a permanent scar on her conscience.

***

Three weeks after the fire, Chen Wei-Tang sat in his new office—a penthouse suite in a different building, one with better security—and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. The Azure Heights fire had been spectacular, a demonstration of his power and ruthlessness that had sent ripples through Hong Kong's criminal underworld. The Ghost was dead, burned to ash along with two hundred and thirty-seven residents who had been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Collateral damage. Acceptable losses in the war against those who would challenge his authority.

"The Ghost is dead," he said to the three men seated across from him, his lieutenants in the trafficking operation that continued to generate obscene profits. "Let that be a lesson to anyone else who thinks they can interfere with our business. We are untouchable. We are inevitable."

The men nodded, their expressions carefully neutral. They had learned long ago not to show weakness in front of the Viper, not to question his decisions or methods. Chen had built his empire on fear and violence, and he maintained it through demonstrations of power that left no room for doubt about who held control.

"The authorities are still investigating the fire," one of the lieutenants said, a thin man named Wu who handled the organization's financial operations. "They suspect arson, but they have no evidence linking it to us. The accelerants burned completely, and the building's security systems were disabled before the fire started. As far as they can determine, it was a tragic accident caused by faulty wiring in the renovation scaffolding."

Chen smiled, pleased with his own cleverness. "And the Ghost?"

"No body was recovered," Wu admitted. "But given the intensity of the fire and the number of victims who were burned beyond recognition, that's not surprising. She's presumed dead by those in the know."

"Presumed dead is the same as dead," Chen said, pouring himself a glass of expensive whiskey. "The Ghost of Hong Kong is gone. Her legend ends in fire and failure. I want that story spread through every criminal network in Asia. I want everyone to know what happens to those who challenge the Viper."

The other lieutenants murmured their agreement, raising their own glasses in a toast to their boss's victory. Chen basked in their approval, in the knowledge that he had eliminated a significant threat and reinforced his reputation in a single spectacular act.

His phone rang, the sound cutting through the celebration. Chen glanced at the screen, frowning. Unknown number. He considered ignoring it, but curiosity won out. He answered, putting the phone to his ear.

"Chen Wei-Tang," he said, his voice carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

"Hello, Viper." The voice was female, speaking Cantonese with a Hong Kong accent. Calm. Professional. Familiar.

Fear shot through Chen's chest. "Who is this?"

"You know who this is," Mae Ling said. "Did you really think a fire would kill me? I'm disappointed, Chen. I expected better from someone with your reputation."

Chen's hand tightened on the phone, his knuckles white. His lieutenants noticed his expression change, their own faces reflecting sudden concern. 

"You're dead," Chen said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You burned in Azure Heights."

"I survived," Mae Ling said simply. "And I've spent the last three weeks preparing a gift for you. Actually, it's more accurate to say that the residents of Azure Heights are returning your gift. The two hundred and thirty-seven people you murdered—they wanted you to know that they haven't forgotten."

"What are you talking about?" Chen demanded, but even as he spoke, he smelled it. Smoke. Faint but unmistakable, seeping into the office from somewhere below.

His lieutenants smelled it too. Wu stood abruptly, moving toward the door. "Boss, I think—"

The fire alarm began to wail, a piercing electronic shriek that filled the office with urgent warning. Chen ran to the window and looked down at the street forty floors below. Dark smoke poured from the building's lower levels, thick and black, spreading with unnatural speed.

"No," he whispered, his reflection in the glass showing a face drained of color. "No, this isn't possible."

"I've disabled your building's fire suppression systems," Mae Ling said, her voice calm in his ear despite the chaos erupting around him. "I've blocked the emergency exits. I've set fires in the stairwells and elevator shafts, just like you did at Azure Heights. The only difference is that this building houses your organization's headquarters. Your people. Your operations. Everything you've built."

Chen's mind raced, searching for options, for escape routes. The office had a private elevator, but if Mae Ling had blocked the exits, it would be useless. The windows were reinforced glass, designed to prevent break-ins. They would also prevent breaking out.

"You're bluffing," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "You wouldn't kill innocent people. That's not who you are."

"You're right," Mae Ling said. "I evacuated the building's legitimate tenants two hours ago. Anonymous bomb threat. Very effective. The only people left in your building are your employees, Chen. The traffickers. The enforcers. The people who profit from human suffering. I thought it was appropriate that they share your fate."

The smoke was thicker now, visible tendrils seeping under the office door. Chen's lieutenants were panicking, trying the door and finding it locked from the outside, pounding on the reinforced windows with furniture that bounced off without leaving a mark.

"This is murder," Chen said, his voice rising with desperation. "You're no better than me."

"I'm exactly like you," Mae Ling said. "That's what you never understood, Chen. You thought you could use fear as a weapon, could kill innocents to make a point. But fear is a tool that cuts both ways. And now you're going to learn what it feels like to be on the receiving end."

"Wait," Chen said, his professional composure crumbling. "We can make a deal. I have money. Connections. Whatever you want, I can provide it. Just let me out of here."

"The residents of Azure Heights didn't get to make deals," Mae Ling said. "The women and children you trafficked didn't get to negotiate. Why should you?"

Acrid fumes choked the air, gray clouds filling the office and making every breath a struggle. Chen could hear screaming from other parts of the building, his organization's members realizing they were trapped, that the fire was spreading too fast for escape.

"Please," he whispered, all pretense of strength abandoned. "Please, I'm begging you."

"Goodbye, Chen," Mae Ling said. "I hope the fire is everything you imagined it would be."

The line went dead.

Chen dropped the phone, his hands shaking, his mind fragmenting under the weight of terror. The office was an oven now, the heat building, the smoke making every breath a struggle. His lieutenants had collapsed, overcome by smoke inhalation, their bodies sprawled across the expensive carpet.

Through the window, Chen could see fire trucks arriving below, their ladders extending upward. But they would be too late. The fire was spreading too fast, consuming the building from the inside out, just as it had consumed Azure Heights.

Chen Wei-Tang, the Viper, the man who had built an empire on fear and violence, sank to his knees as the smoke filled his lungs.

***

Mae Ling stood on a rooftop several blocks away, watching Chen's building burn. She had told Chen the truth—she had evacuated the building's innocent tenants before setting the fires. The only people who died tonight were those who had chosen to profit from human suffering, who had built their lives on the broken bodies of victims.

It wasn't justice, not really. Justice would have been a fair trial, evidence presented, sentences handed down by impartial judges. But the world didn't work that way, not for people like Chen Wei-Tang, not for victims like Lin.

So Mae Ling had become something else. Not justice, but retribution. Not law, but consequence.

The Ghost of Hong Kong.

She watched the fire trucks battle the blaze, watched the building burn, and felt nothing. No satisfaction. No guilt. For a moment, unbidden, the memory of Azure Heights surfaced—the searing heat against her face as she'd stood on that rooftop, the terror clawing at her throat as flames consumed the building beneath her feet, the desperate leap into darkness with nothing but an untested hang glider between her and death. The phantom sensation of scorching air filled her lungs, and she could almost feel the control bar trembling in her hands again, the sick drop of her stomach as thermal currents threw her skyward.

She pushed the memory down, buried it beneath layers of professional detachment. That night was over. Those 237 deaths were a weight she would carry, but dwelling on them served no purpose. What remained was only the cold certainty that she had done what needed to be done tonight, that she had protected future victims by eliminating those who would have harmed them.

Tomorrow, she would receive another assignment. Another target. More monsters who thought themselves untouchable.

And the Ghost would prove them wrong.

--

If you enjoyed this story, please consider buying a copy of The Ghost of Hong Kong anthology, available at DriveThruFiction and DriveThruRPG.

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

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

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

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

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

A Ghost of Hong Kong story by Steve Miller

 

The Ghost and the Children

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where are you? she typed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She pressed the button.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She wouldn't let that happen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Save it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Did. They. Beg?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* *

The news broke on the second day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sometimes, that was enough.

Mystery and Magnetism -- A short story by L.L. Hundal

 

Mystery and Magnetism

"I'm telling you, Mary, I've got this whole thing figured out," Susan said, leaning close to be heard over the thumping bass in the crowded nightclub. They'd claimed a prime spot near the edge of the dance floor, both dressed to kill: Susan's black dress hugging every curve while Mary's emerald green number caught the strobing lights perfectly.

"The secret to picking up any man is being equal parts flirtatious and mysterious," Susan continued, her eyes scanning the packed room. "Give them just enough to keep them interested, but never enough to satisfy their curiosity completely."

Mary rolled her eyes and took a sip of her Cosmopolitan. "Oh please, Susan. That sounds like something out of a bad romance novel. Men want straightforward women who are easy to talk to, not some enigma they have to decode."

"You're wrong," Susan insisted. "Mystery is magnetic. It makes them work for it, makes them think they're discovering something special. Trust me on this one."

"I'll believe it when I see it," Mary challenged, crossing her arms.

Susan set down her drink, a smile and something mischievous flickering across her face. "Fine. Watch and learn."

She paused for a moment, letting the challenge hang in the air between them. Then she took a breath, as if flipping some internal switch, smoothed down her dress, and walked confidently toward the bar. Mary watched her friend choose a spot where she could sit alone while still being visible to the crowd.

Mary observed as Susan ordered a fresh drink and adopted a pose that was both inviting and aloof. Within minutes, a tall, well-dressed man with dark hair approached her. Even from a distance, Mary could see he was attractive and seemed confident as he struck up a conversation.

Susan turned toward him with a smile that was warm but not overeager. The man was clearly interested, leaning in closer as they talked. Susan would laugh at something he said, then look away mysteriously, as if she had secrets hiding behind her eyes. She spoke as much to her drink as she did directly to him, stirring it with put-on absentmindedness that made Mary shake her head.

The man was obviously intrigued rather than put off by Susan's evasiveness. Soon Susan gestured toward the dance floor, and then they were moving together to the rhythm, with Susan maintaining a perfect balance of engagement and distance.

They danced through several songs, Susan working her magic. She'd draw him in with a touch on his arm, then spin away with a laugh that promised more mysteries to uncover. When the music shifted to something slower and more intimate, they moved closer together, swaying sensually. Susan whispered something in the man's ear, and he nodded eagerly.

As they made their way toward the exit, Susan caught Mary's eye and gave her a triumphant wink.

Mary finished her drink alone, shaking her head with reluctant admiration. She had to admit—maybe Susan was onto something after all.

--

The next morning, Mary sat in their usual booth at the corner diner, nursing her coffee and waiting for Susan to arrive. When her friend finally walked through the door, she was practically glowing, her hair tousled and wearing the same dress from the night before.

"Well, well, well," Mary said as Susan slid into the booth across from her. "Look what the cat dragged in. So your mystery woman strategy worked?"

Susan beamed as she signaled the waitress for coffee. "Mary, I'm telling you, it was absolutely incredible. We went to that little motel just down the street, and he was so generous, so attentive. Honestly, he might have been the best I've ever had."

"Really?" Mary raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed despite herself.

"Really. He was this perfect gentleman but also incredibly passionate. We talked for hours afterward, then made love again, and he said he's never met anyone quite like me. He's going to call me at noon, and then we're going to that new French bistro downtown for dinner. He already made reservations for seven-thirty." Susan's eyes were bright with excitement as she recounted her evening.

Mary stirred her coffee thoughtfully. "Okay, I have to admit, the mysterious part clearly worked. So when is Prince Charming supposed to call you?"

"Noon on the dot," Susan said, glancing at her watch with a satisfied smile. "He was very specific about it. I need to get home, shower, and pick out something perfect for dinner. I'm thinking that little red dress that—" She stopped mid-sentence, her hand flying to her mouth.

"What?" Mary asked.

"Oh my God," Susan whispered. Her expression crumbled from dreamy satisfaction to dawning realization to pure horror.

"What?" Mary asked, her tone more urgent and tinted with concern this time.

"I never gave him my name," Susan said slowly. "Or my phone number. I was so caught up in being mysterious that I never actually told him how to reach me. He doesn't even know my first name, Mary. I'm literally just 'the girl from the club' to him."

Mary stared at her for a moment, then burst into laughter, nearly spilling her coffee. "Oh, Susan! You were so busy being mysterious that you mysteried yourself right out of a second date!"

Susan put her head in her hands, but she was laughing too. "I can't believe I did that."

"Well," Mary said, grinning wickedly, "You've proven mystery really is magnetic—so magnetic it just pulled you right out of his life forever."

The Prestige at Midnight - Fiction by Steve Miller

 Writer's Preface: The first idea for this story came when two words popped into my head: "Stripper Magician". Such a strange thought simply HAD to be explored. The following is what resulted...

The Prestige at Midnight

The spotlight hit Angie Hale like a lover's caress, warm and familiar. She stood center stage at the Velvet Room, wearing nothing but a crimson g-string, a black bow tie, and her signature top hat—the one her grandfather had worn when he performed at the Orpheum back in 1952. The sequins on the hat caught the light and threw fractured rainbows across the faces of the dozen or so patrons still lingering at closing time.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she purred into the microphone, her voice carrying that particular timbre of showmanship that her mentor had drilled into her since she was seven years old. "What you're about to witness is not a trick. It's not an illusion in the traditional sense. It's real magic, performed by someone with nothing up her sleeves. Because she has no sleeves.."

She executed a slow turn, arms extended, letting the audience verify what they already knew: there were no hidden pockets, no concealed apparatus, no place to palm a card or hide a dove. Just bare skin and the kind of confidence that came from ten thousand hours of practice.

The Velvet Room wasn't where Angie had imagined herself when she'd studied under Marcus the Magnificent, or when she'd spent her teenage years perfecting the Zarrow shuffle and the classic pass. But life had a way of shuffling the deck, and she'd learned to play the hand she was dealt. The club paid better than birthday parties, and the audience—once they got past the novelty—actually watched. Really watched. That was more than she could say for the corporate events and wedding receptions where she'd spent her early twenties being ignored.

"For my final effect of the evening," Angie continued, producing a deck of cards from thin air—a simple flourish, but one that still earned appreciative murmurs—"I'll need a volunteer."

A regular named Tommy, a construction worker who came in every Friday, raised his hand. Angie beckoned him forward. This was her closer, the effect that kept people coming back: she would have Tommy select a card, sign it, and then she would make it appear inside a sealed envelope that had been hanging in plain sight above the bar since the beginning of her set.

She was just about to have Tommy select his card when the front door exploded inward.

Three men burst through, and the temperature in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees. They wore ski masks and dark clothing, and each carried a gun—not the kind of props Angie used in her bullet catch routine, but real weapons.

"Nobody fucking move!" the largest of the three shouted. His voice was rough, abraded by cigarettes or screaming or both. "Dmitri! Get your ass out here! And shut that music off!"

The music cut out. Candy, one of the other dancers, let out a small scream from where she stood near the dressing room. The bartender, Miguel, slowly raised his hands. Tommy, still standing near the stage, looked like he might faint. The other patrons froze in various stages of confusion and panic.

Angie's heart hammered against her ribs, but her hands remained steady. Years of performing had taught her to control her fear, to channel adrenaline into focus. She assessed the situation with the same analytical eye she used to work out a new routine.

Three assailants. The leader was doing the talking. The other two were flanking him, covering different angles of the room. They were nervous—she could tell by the way the one on the left kept shifting his weight, by the way the one on the right gripped his weapon--the long-gun of the bunch, some sort of semi-automatic long gun-- too tightly. Nervous people made mistakes.

Dmitri emerged from his office at the back, his face already draining of color. He was a large man, ex-military, with hands that could palm a basketball, but right now he looked small.

"You," the leader said, pointing his gun at the club owner. "You thought you could operate in this neighborhood without paying respect to the syndicate? Mr. Castellano sends his regards. You're three weeks late on your payment, and he's tired of waiting."

"I paid," Dmitri said, his voice strained. "I paid what we agreed—"

"The terms changed," the leader interrupted. "Not nearly enough anymore. So we're here to collect what you owe, plus interest, plus a little extra for making us come down here personally. Open the safe. And while we're at it—" he gestured to the room with his weapon "—everyone else empties their pockets too. Call it a convenience fee."

Angie watched as Dmitri moved slowly toward his office, the leader following close behind, gun pressed against his back. The other two robbers kept their weapons trained on the room. There were maybe fifteen people total: staff, dancers, and customers. All of them frozen in various poses of terror.

This was the moment, Angie realized, when she had to make a choice.

She could do nothing. Let them take the money and leave. Hope that "nobody gets hurt" was a promise they intended to keep. That was the smart play, the safe play, the play that any reasonable person would make.

But Angie Hale had spent her entire life doing the unreasonable. She had dedicated herself to an art form that most people dismissed as children's entertainment. She had stripped down to nearly nothing, night after night, to prove that magic was real. She had chosen the hard path, the path of dedication and discipline and endless practice, because she believed in something that most people thought was impossible.

And right now, fifteen people needed the impossible.

She caught Miguel's eye. The bartender had worked at the Velvet Room for six years, and he'd seen her show hundreds of times. He knew her effects, knew her methods—or thought he did. She gave him the smallest nod, then shifted her gaze to the light board. Miguel was smart. He'd understand.

"Hey," Angie called out, her voice cutting through the tense silence. "You guys want to see where the real money is?"

The robber on the left—the nervous one—swung his gun toward her. "Shut up! Get on the ground!"

"You're robbing a strip club at closing time," Angie continued, not moving from her spot center stage. She slowly reached up and removed her top hat, holding it in front of her like an offering. "You'll get what, maybe ten grand? That's not much to bring back to your boss. But what if I told you Dmitri keeps his real stash somewhere you'd never think to look?"

The leader had emerged from the office, dragging Dmitri with him. "What are you talking about?"

Angie smiled. It was the same smile she used when she was about to reveal the final moment of an effect, the moment when the impossible became real. "Dmitri doesn't trust banks. He's old school. Hides his money using methods that go back centuries. And he's got a magician to help him do it."

This was a lie, of course. Dmitri kept his money in a safe like any sensible business owner. But Angie was counting on greed and the universal human desire to believe in hidden treasure.

"Show me," the leader demanded.

"I'll need my volunteer," Angie said, gesturing to Tommy, who looked like he wanted to melt into the floor. "And I'll need everyone to stay very still and watch very carefully."

The leader nodded to his companions and pointed at the patrons. "Watch them. If anyone moves, shoot them."

Angie stepped down from the stage, her bare feet silent on the sticky floor. She moved with the deliberate grace of a performer, every gesture calculated for maximum effect. Tommy stood frozen as she approached.

"It's okay," she whispered to him, keeping her lips slight parted and motionless. "Just follow my lead. When I say 'now,' hit the deck."

Tommy gave the smallest nod.

Angie turned to address the room, holding her top hat in both hands. "The art of misdirection," she announced, "is the foundation of all magic. You make the audience look where you want them to look, think what you want them to think. You control their attention, and in doing so, you control their reality."

She began to walk in a slow circle, the top hat extended. "For instance, right now, you're all watching this hat. You're wondering what I'm going to pull out of it. A rabbit? A dove? A stack of hundred-dollar bills?"

The robbers' eyes followed the hat. Even the leader, who was trying to maintain his threatening posture, couldn't help but track its movement.

"But the hat is just misdirection," Angie continued. "The real magic is happening somewhere else entirely. The real magic is in the space between what you see and what you think you see."

She tossed the hat into the air. It spun, tumbling end over end, and in that moment—that fraction of a second when all eyes followed its arc—Angie moved.

She had practiced the move ten thousand times. It was a variation on the Topit, combined with elements of the Raven, adapted for her unique performance style. Her hand flashed to the small of her back, where a flesh-colored pocket was concealed in the waistband of her g-string. She palmed the object hidden there—a small, powerful LED flashbang that she'd acquired from a magic supplier who specialized in theatrical effects.

"Now!" she shouted.

Tommy dropped. Miguel killed the lights.

Angie triggered the flashbang.

The Velvet Room exploded in blinding white light and a sound like thunder compressed into a single second. Angie had closed her eyes and turned away at the last instant, but even so, the effect was disorienting. For the robbers, who had been staring directly at her, it would be devastating.

She heard shouting, cursing, screaming, the clatter of something hitting the floor--and then the barking of the long gun . She moved on instinct and muscle memory, her body executing a routine she'd choreographed in her mind during those few seconds of conversation.

The nervous robber on the left had dropped his gun. Angie could see his silhouette stumbling, hands pressed to his eyes. She swept his legs with a low kick—a move she'd learned in the self-defense classes she'd taken after a drunk patron had gotten too handsy—and he went down hard.

The robber on the right was made of sterner stuff. He was firing blind, bullets punching into the ceiling and walls. Angie grabbed a chair and threw it. Not at him—that would be too obvious, too expected. She threw it to his left, and when he turned toward the sound, she rushed him from the right.

She'd performed the cups and balls routine a thousand times, and the principle was the same: make them look where you want them to look. The robber's gun hand was extended, tracking the chair. Angie grabbed his wrist with both hands and twisted, using his own momentum against him. The gun clattered away into the darkness.

Two down. One to go.

The leader was the problem. He had Dmitri, and even blinded and disoriented, he was dangerous. Angie could hear him shouting, could hear Dmitri's labored breathing.

"Miguel!" Angie called out. "Spots! Now!"

The spotlights came on, three of them, all focused on different points in the room. It was another principle of magic: control the light, control what people see. The spots were bright enough to create deep shadows, to fragment the space into islands of visibility and darkness.

Angie moved through the shadows like a ghost. She'd performed in this room six nights a week for two years. She knew every inch of it, could navigate it blindfolded. She circled around, using the bar for cover, until she had a clear line of sight on the leader.

He was backing toward the door, dragging Dmitri with him. His gun was pressed against the club owner's temple. His eyes were squeezed shut, tears streaming down his face from beneath the ski mask.

"I'll kill him!" the leader shouted. "I swear to God, I'll kill him!"

"No," Angie said quietly, stepping into one of the spotlights. "You won't."

The leader's head snapped toward her voice. He couldn't see clearly—his eyes were still recovering from the flashbang—but he could see enough. A nearly naked woman in a spotlight, standing perfectly still.

"You think this is a game?" he snarled. "You think your magic tricks mean anything when I've got a gun?"

"I think," Angie said, "that you're not a killer. I think you're a thief, and there's a difference. I think you came here to scare people and take money, not to commit murder. Because murder brings heat that no amount of money is worth."

She began to walk toward him, slow and steady, her hands visible and empty. "I also think that you're scared. You're hurt. You can barely see. And you're wondering how you're going to get out of this."

"Stay back!" The leader's gun hand was shaking.

"I'm going to make you an offer," Angie continued. "I'm going to show you one more trick. And if you can figure out how I did it, you can walk out of here. But if you can't..." She smiled. "Well, then you're going to put down the gun and wait for the police like a good boy."

"You're insane."

"Maybe," Angie agreed. "But I'm also the only chance you've got."

She was close now, close enough to see the sweat on his neck, to smell the fear coming off him in waves. Close enough to strike, if she had to. But that wasn't the play. The play was to make him believe.

"Watch carefully," she said, and she reached up to her bow tie.

It was a simple clip-on, the kind a child might wear to a wedding. She removed it with a flourish, held it up so he could see it clearly. Then she tossed it into the air.

The bow tie spun, tumbling end over end, and as it reached the apex of its arc, Angie clapped her hands together.

The bow tie vanished.

It was a simple effect, one she'd performed a million times. The bow tie was attached to a pull—a retractable cord that snapped it back up her arm and into a holder concealed in her armpit. But in that moment, in that context, it looked like real magic.

The leader's eyes went wide. His grip on Dmitri loosened, just for a second.

That was all Angie needed.

She moved like lightning, like water, like something that couldn't be caught or held. Her hand shot out and grabbed the gun, twisting it away from Dmitri's head. At the same time, she drove her knee into the leader's solar plexus, forcing the air from his lungs.

The gun came free. Angie stepped back, holding it awkwardly—she'd never actually held a real gun before, and it was heavier than she'd expected. But she pointed it at the leader with enough conviction that he raised his hands.

"How..." he gasped. "How did you..."

"Magic," Angie said simply.

The lights came up fully. Miguel was already on the phone with the police. Candy and the other dancers were emerging from their hiding places. Tommy was sitting on the floor, looking dazed but unharmed.

Dmitri stumbled away from the leader, then turned to look at Angie. His face was a complicated mixture of gratitude, shock, and something that might have been respect.

"You saved us," he said.

Angie shrugged, suddenly very aware that she was standing in the middle of a crime scene wearing nothing but a g-string and holding a gun. "Just doing my act."

"That wasn't an act," Dmitri said. "That was..."

"Magic," Angie finished. "Real magic. That's what I've been trying to tell you people."

Dimitri, as experienced with firearms as Angie was with illusions, carefully took the weapon from her, recognizing that she was more likely than not to accidentally shoot someone. "We'll discuss your raise later," he said, aiming it at the robbers.

The police arrived seven minutes later. By then, Angie had put on a robe from the dressing room and had secured all three robbers with zip ties that Miguel kept behind the bar for reasons no one had ever questioned. She gave her statement to a detective who kept staring at her like she was some kind of exotic animal.

"So let me get this straight," the detective said, consulting his notes. "You used a flashbang device—"

"A theatrical effect," Angie corrected. "Perfectly legal. I use it in my act sometimes for dramatic reveals."

"Right. A theatrical effect. And then you... what, exactly?"

"I used principles of misdirection, spatial awareness, and basic self-defense to neutralize the threat," Angie said. "Plus a little bit of showmanship."

The detective shook his head. "Lady, you're either the bravest person I've ever met or the craziest."

"Can't I be both?"

After the police left, after the statements were given and the robbers were hauled away, after the crime scene tape was put up and the club was officially closed for the night, Dmitri found Angie in the dressing room. She was sitting in front of her mirror, still wearing the robe, staring at her reflection.

"I'm giving you a raise," Dmitri said without preamble. "And a bonus. And I'm going to talk to some people I know in Vegas. You deserve a better stage than this."

Angie turned to look at him. "I like this stage."

"You saved my life. You saved everyone's lives."

"I did my job," Angie said. "I performed. That's what I do."

Dmitri was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "That thing you did with the bow tie. At the end. How did you do that?"

Angie smiled. It was the smile of a magician, the smile that said: I know something you don't know, and isn't that wonderful?

"A magician never reveals her secrets," she said.

After Dmitri left, Angie sat alone in the dressing room for a long time. Her hands were shaking now, the adrenaline finally wearing off, and she pressed her palms flat against the counter to steady them. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, that familiar electrical hum that she'd heard six nights a week for two years. Somehow it sounded different now. Louder. More insistent.

She'd been terrified, she realized. Absolutely terrified. But she'd done it anyway.

The gun had been heavy. That's what kept coming back to her—the weight of it in her hand, the cold metal, the knowledge that one wrong move could have ended everything. She'd spent her entire life working with misdirection, with making people believe in things that weren't real. But that gun had been real. The bullets that had punched into the ceiling had been real. The way that nervous robber's body had hit the floor when she swept his legs had been real.

Her reflection stared back at her from the mirror, and for a moment she didn't recognize the woman looking out. Same dark hair, same sharp cheekbones, same body that she'd learned to use as both costume and distraction. But something in the eyes was different. Harder, maybe. Or clearer.

She noticed her hand was still touching the small of her back, where the flashbang had been concealed. The pocket was empty now—the police had taken it as evidence—but her fingers kept returning to the spot anyway, like a magician checking for a palmed coin that was no longer there.

What if it hadn't worked? What if Miguel hadn't understood her signal? What if the nervous robber had pulled his trigger a half-second earlier? What if—

But that was the trick, wasn't it? Magic only worked if you committed fully to the effect. If you hesitated, if you doubted, if you let the audience see your fear, the whole illusion collapsed. She'd committed. She'd sold it. And everyone had walked away.

Everyone except the three men in handcuffs.

She thought about her grandfather, about the stories he used to tell her when she was a little girl. Stories about the old days, when magicians were more than entertainers. When they were shamans and mystics, people who stood between the ordinary world and the impossible. When magic meant something beyond applause and tips stuffed into a g-string.

"Magic isn't about fooling people, Angie," he'd told her once, sitting in his workshop surrounded by silks and doves and the smell of old wood. She must have been nine, maybe ten. Young enough to still believe in real magic, old enough to start understanding that what he did was artifice. "It's about showing them that the impossible is possible. It's about giving them hope."

At the time, she'd thought she understood. But she'd been thinking about card forces and double lifts, about perfecting her palming technique. She'd been thinking about the mechanics of wonder.

Now, sitting in this dressing room with her hands still trembling, she finally understood what he'd meant. Tonight hadn't been about the flashbang or the self-defense moves or even the bow tie vanish at the end. It had been about making fifteen terrified people believe that someone could save them. That the impossible could happen. That magic—real magic—could be real.

She looked at herself in the mirror—a woman in her late twenties, wearing a bathrobe in a strip club dressing room at two in the morning. Not exactly the image of a hero. But then again, heroes rarely looked the way you expected them to. They were just people who did the impossible when it needed doing.

She reached up and touched the top hat that sat on the counter beside her. Her grandfather's hat. The one that had seen a thousand shows, a thousand audiences, a thousand moments of wonder. The sequins were loose in places, the felt worn smooth by decades of handling. It smelled faintly of pipe tobacco and old theaters, of a world that didn't exist anymore except in memory and legacy.

"I hope you saw that, Grandpa," she whispered. "I hope you saw that I made it real."

The hat offered no answer, but then again, it didn't need to. She knew what he would have said. She could hear his voice as clearly as if he were sitting beside her: "You always were my best student. Not because you had the fastest hands or the best memory. Because you understood that magic isn't in the method. It's in the moment when people stop seeing and start believing."

Angie sat there for another twenty minutes, letting the shaking subside, letting her heartbeat return to normal. She thought about the calls Dmitri mentioned—producers, agents, people who wanted to turn tonight into an opportunity. Part of her was tempted. God knows she'd dreamed about it long enough.

But another part of her—the part that had just stood nearly naked in a spotlight and made three armed men believe in the impossible—wondered if maybe she was exactly where she needed to be. In this sticky-floored club where nobody expected magic to be real. Where every night was a chance to prove them wrong.

She stood finally, letting the robe fall away. She folded it carefully and placed it on the chair. Then she picked up her grandfather's hat, held it for a moment against her chest, and set it gently back on the counter.

A week later, Angie Hale took the stage at the Velvet Room at her usual time. The club had reopened three days earlier, and each night the crowd had grown. She wore her usual costume: a tuxedo jacket--which was the first thing to disappear--g-string, bow tie, and top hat. She performed her usual effects: cards and coins, silks and rings, all the classic routines that she'd spent her life perfecting.

But there was something different in the way the audience watched her now. The story had made the local news—"Stripper-Magician Foils Armed Robbery"—and word had spread through the neighborhood like wildfire. People came specifically to see her, the woman who had taken down three armed robbers with nothing but misdirection and nerve. The crowd was twice its normal size, the club packed to capacity, and they watched with a kind of reverence that Angie had never experienced before.

When she finished her final trick—the signed card in the sealed envelope, the one that always killed—the applause was thunderous. People stood. They cheered. They believed.

And Angie Hale, standing nearly naked in a spotlight in a strip club at midnight, felt like the most powerful magician in the world.

Dmitri had mentioned calls coming in—producers, agents, people who'd heard the story and wanted to talk. There would be decisions to make, she knew. Opportunities. The kind she'd once dreamed about when she was younger and hungrier and thought she had something to prove.

But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, she had shown fifteen people that the impossible was possible. She had made them believe—not in some distant theater or casino showroom, but here, in this sticky-floored strip club where nobody expected magic to be real.

Because that's what magic really was, she realized. It wasn't about the tricks or the techniques. It wasn't about the hours of practice or the perfect execution, or even the venue. It was about the moment when people stopped seeing what was in front of them and started seeing what was possible.

It was about making people believe.

And on that night, in that place, Angie Hale had made everyone believe.

She took her bow, tipped her hat, and disappeared into the darkness backstage, leaving only wonder in her wake.

The prestige, after all, was always in the vanish.

The Ghost at Rest - Fiction by Steve Miller

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

The Ghost at Rest

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The lie had been easy to maintain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ghost of Hong Kong could rise again tomorrow.

--

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

When Gods Fail -- a short story by Steve Miller & L.L. Hundal

 

When Gods Fail

The ancient grove had stood untouched on the north side of Mount Olympus for centuries, its towering oaks forming a natural cathedral where dappled sunlight filtered through emerald leaves. Moss carpeted the forest floor in velvet softness, and wildflowers bloomed in scattered patches of color. It was here, in this sacred space forgotten by time, that Lyra and Daphne found themselves drawn together by forces they couldn't name.

Their love had blossomed slowly over months of friendship, and now, finally alone in nature's embrace, they gave themselves to each other completely. Daphne's dark eyes reflected the canopy above as she pulled Lyra closer, their bodies moving in ancient rhythm beneath the watchful trees.

Their passion was pure and fierce, a celebration of love that seemed to make the very forest pulse with life. Birds fell silent in the branches above, as if nature itself paused to witness their union. The air grew thick with magic neither woman understood, their joy and desire rippling outward like stones cast into still water.

Deep beneath Mount Olympus, something stirred.

Zeus had slumbered for millennia, his power diminished as mortals forgot the old ways. But now, suddenly, he felt it—a surge of primal energy, raw and intoxicating. His eyes snapped open, lightning crackling between his fingers as he sensed the source. Two mortals, their passion so intense it had pierced the veil between worlds and awakened him from his endless sleep.

The king of gods rose from his throne, his form shifting and solidifying as power coursed through him once more. He had been dormant so long, but this... this was exactly what he needed. Young love, pure desire—it would restore him completely. And he would take what he required.

In the grove, Lyra and Daphne lay entwined in the aftermath of their lovemaking, skin glistening with perspiration, hearts still racing. The forest around them seemed more alive than before, as if their union had awakened something primal in the very earth.

"Do you feel that?" Daphne whispered, her fingers intertwined with Lyra's.

Lyra nodded, sensing a presence she couldn't identify. The air itself seemed to thicken, charged with an energy that made her skin tingle. "Something's coming."

The temperature dropped suddenly, and storm clouds gathered overhead with unnatural speed. Thunder rumbled in the distance, growing closer with each passing second. Then, in a blinding flash of lightning, he appeared.

Zeus stood before them in all his terrible glory—tall and imposing, with wild silver hair and eyes that crackled with electric fury. His presence was overwhelming, divine power radiating from him in waves that made the very trees bend away. He wore the arrogance of eons, the entitlement of one who had taken whatever he desired for thousands of years.

"Mortals," his voice boomed like thunder, "your passion has awakened me from my slumber. I am Zeus, king of the gods, and I claim the right to join your... festivities."

Lyra and Daphne scrambled to cover themselves, fear and anger warring in their expressions. This was their sacred moment, their private love, and this ancient being thought he could simply intrude?

"Get away from us," Lyra said, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "We didn't invite you here."

Zeus laughed, the sound like breaking stone. "Invite? Child, I am a god. I take what I wish, when I wish it. Your desire called to me across the void—surely you understand what that means."

He stepped closer, his form radiating heat and power. "I have been alone for so long, forgotten by mortals who once worshipped at my feet. But you... you have reminded me of pleasure, of the joy of flesh. I will have you both."

Daphne stood, pulling Lyra up beside her. Despite their nakedness, despite the overwhelming presence of the god before them, she felt no shame—only fury. "You think because you're some ancient god, you can just take whatever you want? That we're just objects for your pleasure?"

"I am Zeus!" he roared, lightning crackling around his form. "I have claimed thousands of mortal women! Queens and peasants alike have been honored by my attention!"

The words hung in the air like a curse, their arrogance so complete it took Lyra's breath away. When she spoke, her voice was ice-cold, cutting through his bluster with surgical precision.

"Honored?" she said. "You mean raped. You mean terrorized and violated."

The god's expression darkened, storm clouds gathering in his eyes as the accusation struck home. "You dare speak to me with such insolence? I could destroy you with a thought!"

"Then do it," Daphne said, stepping protectively in front of Lyra. "But you won't get what you came for."

Zeus paused, his anger warring with his desire. He needed their passion, their life force—destroying them would gain him nothing. Instead, he reached out with one massive hand, intending to simply take what he wanted.

That was his mistake.

Lyra moved faster than thought, her fist connecting with the god's jaw in a blow that sent shockwaves through the grove. Zeus staggered backward, more from surprise than pain, his eyes wide with disbelief.

"Impossible," he breathed. "You're mortal. You cannot—"

Daphne's kick caught him in the solar plexus, doubling him over. "We're not your victims," she snarled. "We're not anyone's victims."

The god straightened, rage replacing his shock. "You think your mortal strength can match divine power?" He raised his hand, lightning gathering in his palm.

But something was wrong. His power, so recently awakened, flickered and wavered like a candle in wind. The energy he'd tried to claim had been born of mutual desire, freely given and received between equals—it carried within it the very essence of consent and choice. Such pure force could not be corrupted, could not be bent to serve domination and violation. Like trying to hold lightning in his fist, the power slipped through his grasp, recognizing him as antithetical to its nature.

Lyra and Daphne felt it too—a strength flowing through them that wasn't entirely their own. The grove itself seemed to be lending them power, the ancient trees and sacred earth rising up against this violation of their sanctuary.

They moved as one, their love making them perfectly synchronized. Lyra's elbow found Zeus's ribs while Daphne's knee connected with his thigh. The god stumbled, his divine form flickering as his stolen power continued to rebel against him.

"This cannot be!" Zeus roared, swinging wildly. But his movements were clumsy, weakened by the very energy he'd tried to claim. "I am the king of gods! I am—"

"A rapist," Lyra finished, her fist connecting with his nose in a satisfying crunch. "A predator who thinks power gives you the right to take whatever you want."

"You're pathetic," Daphne added, grabbing a fallen branch and bringing it down across the god's shoulders. "All that power, all those centuries, and you never learned that love can't be taken by force."

Zeus fell to his knees, his form beginning to fade. The power he'd stolen was abandoning him, flowing back into the grove, into the love between the two women who had awakened it. He looked up at them with something approaching wonder.

"How?" he whispered. "How are you doing this?"

"Because our love is real," Lyra said simply. "It's freely given, freely received. It's not something you can steal or corrupt or claim."

"And because you're not a god anymore," Daphne added. "You're just a bitter old man who never learned that consent matters."

The king of gods tried to rise, but his strength was gone. The grove had rejected him, the very earth beneath his feet refusing to support his weight. He looked at the two women standing over him—naked, unashamed, powerful in their unity—and for the first time in millennia, Zeus felt something he'd forgotten existed.

Fear.

"This isn't over," he gasped, his form growing more translucent by the moment. "I will return. I will—"

"No," Lyra said firmly. "You won't. Because we're not afraid of you anymore. And neither will anyone else be."

With a final flash of lightning, Zeus vanished back to his lonely throne and his slumber. The storm clouds dissipated, and warm sunlight returned to the grove.

Lyra and Daphne stood in the sudden silence, still breathing hard from the confrontation. Then, slowly, they began to laugh—first quiet chuckles, then full-throated laughter that echoed through the trees.

"Did we just beat up Zeus?" Daphne asked, wiping tears from her eyes.

"I think we did," Lyra replied, pulling her lover close. "I think we really did."

They sank back down onto the soft moss, holding each other as the grove settled around them. The ancient trees seemed to whisper their approval, and wildflowers bloomed more brightly in the patches of sunlight.

"He was right about one thing," Daphne murmured. "Our love is powerful. Powerful enough to wake gods."

"And powerful enough to send them packing when they overstep," Lyra added with a grin.

They made love again as the sun set through the canopy, their passion even more intense for having been tested and proven true. The grove embraced them, protecting them, celebrating them. And somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled—but it was only weather now, natural and harmless.

The age of gods taking whatever they pleased was over. The age of love freely given had begun.

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If you enjoyed this story, be sure to check out more fiction from Hundal & Miller... the anthologies are available wherever NUELOW Games products are sold!