Mei Ling - The Spider of Shanghai

[Noctavya]

Chapter 15 : Unexpected Ending



Three days blurred into a haze of morphine dreams and antiseptic sterility. Mei Ling drifted between drugged stupor and fractured awareness, each waking moment confirming her battered body was slowly knitting itself together beneath sterile bandages. The deep, consuming agony had dulled to a constant throb – a brutalized landscape still tender but no longer screaming. When the guards came again, their movements lacked the previous night’s raw aggression. They didn’t yank the thin infirmary sheet away. Instead, the doctor himself removed the IV lines with clinical detachment before they snapped a single, lightweight metal cuff around her left wrist. The other end wasn't gripped tightly; it was looped loosely through a ring bolted to a simple wooden chair they brought into the room. "Come," one guard ordered, his tone flat, almost bored. Mei Ling rose unsteadily, the coarse grey infirmary shift hanging loosely on her frame. She shuffled between them, the cold linoleum biting her bare feet, the single cuff allowing her arms to hang limply at her sides. The walk down the corridor felt surreal. No dragging. No shoving. Just a grim procession towards the familiar steel door.



The interrogation chamber hadn't changed. The harsh lights glared down on the polished metal table, the ominous battery, the tray of gleaming instruments. But the air felt different. Stale. Used. Kenzo’s chair sat empty. Sato stood near the battery, not touching it, his posture rigid as ever, but his gaze fixed distantly on the painted Rising Sun flag. Mei Ling’s breath hitched. Panic, cold and sharp, sliced through the residual morphine fog. Images flashed – cold metal, searing fire, Sato’s impassive face looming. A choked sob escaped her. "*No!*" The word ripped from her throat, raw and desperate. She stumbled back, her body instinctively recoiling from the table, the instruments, the memory of agony etched into her very nerves. The guards didn't react violently. One simply placed a firm hand on her shoulder, guiding her firmly, almost gently, towards the wooden chair. "Sit," he commanded, his voice devoid of malice. Trembling violently, Mei Ling collapsed onto the hard seat. The guard secured the loose cuff to a ring on the chair leg. She was restrained, but not stretched, not exposed. The coarse grey shift covered her from shoulders to knees. It felt alien. Protective. Her hysterical gasps subsided into shallow, terrified pants. She stared at the floor, waiting for the hands to grab her, the straps to bite, the instruments to gleam. Nothing happened. Sato didn't move. The guards flanked the door, impassive. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. Slowly, a spark ignited deep within the ashes of her terror. They hadn't touched her. She was clothed. Cuffed lightly. The worst had already happened. She had endured it. And she was still here. Her trembling didn't stop, but her gaze lifted from the floor, fixing on Sato’s back with a flicker of something harder than despair.



The steel door clanged open. Kenzo Yamamoto strode in, Sato snapping instantly to rigid attention. Kenzo looked… different. His uniform was impeccable, but his face was drawn, shadows dark under his eyes. His customary air of predatory control seemed frayed at the edges. He glanced at Mei Ling, cuffed lightly to the chair, clothed, trembling but upright, her eyes now meeting his with a startling, weary defiance. No flinch. No desperate plea. Just a silent, exhausted watchfulness. A flicker of surprise, quickly masked, crossed Kenzo’s features. He stopped near the metal table, not behind it, his gaze sweeping over her, assessing the fragile strength radiating from her battered frame. "Miss Mei Ling," he began, his voice lacking its usual cutting edge, sounding almost… tired. "Recovered sufficiently, I trust?" The question hung in the air, devoid of its customary mockery. It sounded like a genuine, if clinical, inquiry.



Mei Ling didn't answer immediately. She held his gaze, the memory of his soft voice in the infirmary warring with the echo of his commands while Sato burned her. The spark within her fanned into a cold, hard ember. She had screamed herself raw. She had been broken open. And yet, she had not yielded the core. Her lips parted. Her voice, when it came, was a rasp, scraped raw by screams, but utterly clear. "*No.*" It wasn't a plea. It wasn't a scream. It was a statement. Simple. Final. An exhausted mountain refusing to crumble further. Kenzo stared at her. Sato remained a silent statue. The guards shifted almost imperceptibly. The sterile room held its breath. Kenzo’s jaw tightened. He didn't threaten. He didn't command Sato forward.



Instead, Kenzo reached into his immaculate tunic pocket. He withdrew a slim silver cigarette case. With deliberate, almost ceremonial slowness, he flipped it open. He extracted three cigarettes. He stepped towards Mei Ling, his polished boots clicking softly on the concrete. Without a word, he bent slightly, his fingers deftly releasing the simple latch on the lightweight cuff around her wrist. The metal fell away with a soft clink onto the chair leg. Mei Ling stared at her freed wrist, then back at Kenzo, her expression unreadable, the ember glowing hotter. He extended a cigarette towards her. It trembled slightly in her bruised fingers as she took it. Kenzo flicked his lighter – a smooth, practiced gesture – and held the flame steady. Mei Ling leaned forward, inhaling deeply as the tobacco caught. The acrid smoke burned her raw throat, but the nicotine hit her bloodstream like a jolt, cutting through the morphine haze, sharpening the edges of her exhaustion and defiance. Kenzo lit his own cigarette, then offered the third to Sato. The lieutenant hesitated only a fraction of a second before accepting. Kenzo lit his too.



For several surreal moments, silence reigned, broken only by the soft crackle of burning tobacco. Kenzo leaned back against the cold metal table, Sato stood rigidly beside him, and Mei Ling remained seated in the wooden chair, her freed hand holding the cigarette. Three streams of smoke curled upwards towards the harsh lights. Mei Ling took another deliberate drag. The smoke tasted like ash, like pain, like the bitter residue of degradation. She looked at Kenzo through the haze. His face was lined with fatigue, the carefully cultivated mask slipping. Sato exhaled a plume of smoke, his impassive facade momentarily softened by the mundane act. The tableau was grotesque: torturer, technician, victim, sharing a moment of artificial calm in the chamber designed for agony. Mei Ling felt a strange, detached clarity settle over her. The sharpness of the nicotine, the surreal normalcy of the act, crystallized her resolve. If they were going to strap her back to that metal table, if they were going to bring out the rods or the needles or the fire again… so fucking be it. She had nothing left to lose but the breath in her lungs. She took another drag, her eyes never leaving Kenzo’s. The defiance wasn't frantic anymore. It was cold. Solid. An anchor in the wreckage. She exhaled slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the sterile air of the torture chamber.



Kenzo finally broke the silence, his voice low, stripped of its usual venomous edge. "Ling," he began in perfect Chinese, tapping ash onto the concrete floor. "Let us be honest with you." He took a slow drag, his gaze fixed on the glowing tip of his cigarette. "You survived fourteen days. You spent five days screaming," he gestured vaguely towards the metal table, "and I bet you haven't forgotten the chair." A flicker of something almost like respect crossed his features. "Then you were out for five days… unconscious, healing." He paused, meeting her wary eyes. "Your intel? Obsolete now. Feng's stall was raided hours after you gave it up. Empty." He sighed, a sound heavy with genuine frustration. "I got reprimanded hard by the General. Hard. Sato and I… we got transferred back to Japan. Effective immediately." He looked away, towards the Rising Sun flag, his jaw tightening. "You won." The words hung in the air, stark and unbelievable.



Mei Ling stared, the cigarette forgotten between her fingers. Transferred? Obsolete? Won? The implications crashed over her – relief so profound it felt like vertigo, warring instantly with ingrained suspicion. Was this another game? A cruel twist? Kenzo glanced back at her, a bitter, rueful smile touching his lips. "Argh… I’m gonna miss Shanghai," he muttered, almost to himself. Then his gaze sharpened on hers again, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "But between you and me, Ling… it was never our land. We might have the edge… tanks, planes…" He waved a dismissive hand. "But eventually? Your China… it has endured 2500 years. You will somehow endure this too." He leaned forward slightly, his eyes surprisingly earnest. "We just don't have the resources to hold this country for long. You know it. We know it too." The logic was chillingly genuine, stripped bare of propaganda. It wasn't surrender; it was cold, strategic realism. Mei Ling remained utterly still, her mind racing. She absorbed his words, the weariness in his posture, the lack of immediate threat. Her caution remained a steel wall, but behind it, a tiny, incredulous spark ignited. Could it be true?



Sato finally spoke, his voice flat, breaking the charged silence. He stubbed his cigarette out decisively on the metal table edge. "Don't worry," he stated, his dark eyes locking onto Mei Ling’s, devoid of malice but utterly pragmatic. "We don't want to strap you to the table again." He gestured dismissively at the gleaming instruments. "We don't need to bother with pleasantry." The brutal honesty was almost refreshing. Mei Ling slowly processed his words. The table. The straps. The rods. The needles. The thought sent a phantom tremor through her limbs, but the sheer relief of knowing they wouldn't be used again was overwhelming. She took a final, shaky drag from her cigarette, the smoke tasting like reprieve.



Kenzo nodded curtly. "I was not lying when I say you have both our respect," he added, his gaze unwavering. "But where we stand, you're the captured resistance agent, we're the interrogators." He paused, tapping ash onto the floor. "If you caught me, you'd do the same." Mei Ling met his eyes. He was right. Cold, brutal logic. If their positions were reversed, Kenzo Yamamoto would be strapped to a table, screaming. She saw the stark, undeniable truth in his weary eyes. The respect was grudging, born of shared understanding within the machinery of war. "The rape?" Kenzo continued, his voice dropping lower, stripped of any pretense. "It was procedure... standard interrogation tactic, breaking spirit." He took a breath, his jaw tightening. "But we don't hide behind it. We enjoyed it." He glanced briefly at Sato, who gave a minute, confirming nod. "Sorry, but it is what it is. We're human. We abused our power... sometimes." The admission hung heavy and ugly in the sterile air. Mei Ling was instantly transported back – Kenzo’s taste, Sato’s thrusts, the choking humiliation. A wave of nausea and fury threatened to choke her, but she clamped down hard, locking her jaw, keeping her silence. She wouldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing her break again. Not now.



Kenzo straightened, his expression hardening back into its familiar lines of command. "Now," he announced, his voice regaining its clipped edge. "As my parting gift... we're going to execute you by dawn." Mei Ling’s breath hitched, but strangely, no panic surged. Only a profound exhaustion. "No more pain," Kenzo clarified, almost gently. "Just a quick bullet." He met her gaze, his eyes holding a flicker of something that might have been pity, or perhaps just weary finality. "Clean. Efficient." Mei Ling stared at the glowing ember of her cigarette. Resignation settled over her like a shroud. It was the best thing. A swift end. A release. She hadn't expected mercy, hadn't dared dream of pardon by the Emperor. This was the logical conclusion. The only escape left. She nodded once, a small, barely perceptible movement.



"Guard!" Kenzo barked sharply. The door clanged open instantly. "Escort the prisoner back to her cell," he ordered, his gaze shifting away from Mei Ling, back towards the Rising Sun flag. "Final preparations at 0500." The guard stepped forward, snapping the lightweight cuff back onto Mei Ling’s wrist. He didn't yank her. He simply gestured towards the door. Mei Ling rose slowly, her body protesting every movement. She took one last look around the sterile chamber of horrors – the table, the battery, the instruments, Kenzo’s rigid back, Sato’s impassive profile. Then she turned, shuffling between the guards, her bare feet silent on the cold concrete. The cigarette butt lay crushed on the floor where she’d dropped it, a tiny, smoldering ruin in the harsh light.





Chapter 16 : The New Dawn



The cell door clanged shut behind her, leaving Mei Ling alone with the crushing weight of Kenzo's words. Yet instead of terror, a profound stillness settled over her. Death at dawn? A clean bullet? After the needles, the rods, the violation... it felt less like a sentence and more like a mercy. When the guards returned hours later, they didn't carry instruments of torture. They bore a tray laden with steaming mapo tofu glistening with chili oil, tender braised beef ribs falling off the bone, fragrant jasmine rice, a small flask of plum wine, a pot of hot tea, and – impossibly – a delicate Shanghai mooncake. The aroma alone was an assault on her senses, a visceral reminder of life beyond these concrete walls. She ate slowly, deliberately, savoring each complex flavor – the numbing heat of the tofu, the rich umami of the beef, the sweet-tart wine, the flaky pastry of the mooncake crumbling on her tongue. It tasted like defiance. Like home. Like Chen Wei’s laugh echoing in a crowded teahouse, her mother’s hands shaping dumplings, sunlight dappling through the plane trees on the Bund. For the first time in fourteen agonizing days, the secrets she guarded felt weightless. Released. They hadn’t broken her core. The bombs remained hidden. Chen remained free. A strange, exhausted peace washed over her, deeper than any morphine-induced oblivion.



She slept then. Not the drugged stupor of the infirmary, but a true, dreamless sleep. No nightmares of cold metal or searing jolts. No phantom sensations of hands violating her. Just profound, enveloping darkness. Her body, still aching beneath the bandages, finally relaxed completely against the thin mattress. The relentless tension that had coiled in her muscles since her capture – the vigilance, the fear, the calculated resistance – dissolved. For nearly ten uninterrupted hours, she knew nothing but stillness. When she awoke in the pre-dawn gloom, it wasn't to panic, but to a crystalline clarity. The fear of death had vanished, replaced by a quiet acceptance. What terrified her had always been failing – failing Chen, failing the network, letting the secrets spill under unbearable pain. That burden was lifted. She had held. Dawn held no dread, only finality.



At precisely 04:30, the cell door rasped open. The same guards stood there, their expressions unreadable in the dim corridor light. "Bath?" one asked tersely, his tone devoid of mockery or threat. Mei Ling simply nodded. They didn't touch her. They merely gestured down the corridor towards a small, tiled room she hadn't seen before. Inside, steam curled from a deep, wooden tub filled with clean, hot water. Bars of plain soap rested on a stool beside a folded garment – a simple, dark blue cotton qipao. They closed the door, leaving her utterly alone. No restraints. No watchers. The hot water stung her healing wounds at first, then soothed them. She scrubbed fiercely with the soap, washing away the lingering smell of antiseptic, sweat, and terror. The grime of Kempeitai Headquarters sluiced away, swirling down the drain. She emerged pink-skinned and trembling, not from cold, but from the sheer, shocking normality of the act. She dried herself with a rough towel and slipped into the clean qipao. The modest fabric felt alien against her skin – a shield, a shroud, a final gesture of unexpected dignity. She didn't hesitate. She didn't reject it.



Back in her cell, dressed in the simple blue cotton, her damp hair clinging to her neck, Mei Ling stood waiting. The first sliver of grey dawn lightened the high, barred window. Footsteps echoed down the corridor – heavier, more purposeful this time. Not the shuffling gait of the guards who brought the bath, but the crisp, rhythmic tread of soldiers on a grim assignment. She straightened her shoulders, smoothed the front of the qipao, and lifted her chin. The door swung open. Two Kempeitai privates stood there, rifles slung over their shoulders, flanking a stern-faced sergeant holding a pair of handcuffs. His eyes met hers, devoid of pity or cruelty, simply duty. "*Prisoner. Time.*" Mei Ling took a slow, deep breath, filling her lungs with the damp, cold air of the cellblock one last time. She stepped forward, extending her wrists. The metal cuffs clicked shut, cold and final. Without a word, she walked between them, out of the cell, towards the courtyard and the rising sun.



Instead of the expected courtyard execution detail, they steered her towards the main gatehouse. Parked under the harsh glare of a floodlight was a sleek, black Mercedes-Benz Type 770 sedan, its chrome gleaming. The rear door opened. Kenzo Yamamoto sat within, his uniform cap pulled low, shadowing his eyes. Sato stood beside the driver's door, impassive as ever, holding the keys. "*Get in,*" Kenzo ordered, his voice flat. The sergeant opened the passenger door. Mei Ling hesitated for only a fraction of a second, her mind racing. A last ride? A different location? The sergeant nudged her elbow, not roughly. She slid onto the smooth leather seat. Sato climbed into the driver's seat, Kenzo remained in the back. The engine purred to life, a deep, powerful thrum that vibrated through the chassis. The gates swung open silently. Sato eased the sedan forward, leaving the floodlit fortress of Kempeitai Headquarters behind, swallowed by the grey pre-dawn gloom of Shanghai's outskirts. Kenzo leaned forward slightly. "*We'll do the honor,*" he stated, his voice devoid of inflection. Sato didn't turn. "*Hai!*" The response was sharp, immediate. No questions. Only acceptance of the order.



The Mercedes glided smoothly along the deserted road, climbing steadily into the low, mist-shrouded hills northwest of the city. The silence inside the car was thick, broken only by the engine's hum and the rhythmic swish of the tires on the damp asphalt. Kenzo shifted again. He pulled out his silver cigarette case. He lit one for himself, drew deeply, then extended the case and his lighter towards Mei Ling seating beside him. Sato glanced sideways, his expression unreadable. Mei Ling stared at the offered cigarette. After a heartbeat, she reached out with her cuffed hands. Kenzo placed the cigarette between her fingers and held the flame steady. She inhaled deeply, the smoke flooding her lungs, sharp and acrid, chasing away the lingering scent of soap and damp wool. She savored every puff, the nicotine a familiar anchor in the surreal calm of this final journey. The car slowed, then stopped on a deserted overlook. Below, Shanghai lay shrouded in mist and darkness, a silent, sprawling beast. Sato killed the engine. The sudden silence was profound. Mei Ling took one last, long drag, then stubbed the cigarette out carefully in the ashtray. She pushed the door open herself and stepped out into the cool, damp air of the hillside without needing to be pushed. She stood facing the vast, misty valley below, her back to the car, resigned, embracing the inevitable dawn.



Sato gently uncuff her wrist "you wouldnt want to be a cuffed ghost right?" Sato joked. She smiled.



Kenzo emerged from the sedan, his footsteps crunching softly on the gravel. Sato goes back seated behind the wheel, engine idling, his gaze fixed straight ahead through the windshield. The Luger P08 gleamed dully in Kenzo's hand as he approached Mei Ling’s back. She didn’t turn, her shoulders squared against the valley’s mist. "Remember Ling," Kenzo’s voice cut through the stillness, low and stripped of malice. "If one day you capture one of ours... remember. We’re all human. Remember today." The pistol’s hammer clicked back. Mei Ling closed her eyes, bracing for the impact, for the darkness.



The gunshot cracked, sharp and final, echoing off the hillsides. But there was no searing pain, no impact. Only the acrid smell of cordite hanging in the damp air. Mei Ling’s eyes snapped open. Behind her, tires spun on gravel as the Mercedes pulled away. She turned slowly. Taillights vanished into the swirling mist down the road. Kenzo’s parting words coiled in her mind—*We’re all human*. A reprieve. Not mercy, but acknowledgment. She touched her chest, half-expecting blood. Nothing. Only the clean blue cotton of the qipao.



Dawn bled into the horizon, staining the sky peach and gold. Below, Shanghai stirred awake—a distant murmur of trams, whistles, life resuming. Mei Ling stood motionless, the cigarette’s ghost still tingling on her tongue. The hillside grass, wet with dew, soaked through her thin slippers. A magpie chattered in a pine tree. Real. Solid. Alive. She inhaled deeply, the air clean and cold, scented with earth and pine resin. The Kempeitai fortress was a shadow now, swallowed by the city’s sprawl.







EPILOGUE: THE GARDEN OF STONES



Tokyo, 1950. The cherry blossoms were long gone, leaving the Imperial Palace gardens under a heavy, humid sky. Mei Ling, now Major General Chen Mei-Ling of the People's Liberation Army, walked the gravel path alone. Her uniform was crisp, her posture unyielding, but her eyes held the deep stillness of someone who had stared into abysses and returned. Across the koi pond, beneath the weeping branches of a centuries-old pine, two figures waited. Kenzo Yamamoto wore a simple grey kimono, his hair silvered, his once-imperious bearing softened by time and the weight of history. Sato stood beside him, unchanged in his stillness, dressed in a dark Western suit, hands clasped behind his back. No words were spoken as she approached. The air hummed with the ghosts of Shanghai’s interrogation room – the ozone crackle of electrodes, the scent of ammonia, the metallic taste of terror and defiance. Kenzo bowed first, shallow but deliberate. Sato followed, deeper, his eyes meeting hers for a fractured second before lowering. Mei Ling did not bow.



They sat on stone benches arranged in an uneasy triangle. A maid brought green tea, her footsteps silent on the moss. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken atrocities and the fragile truce of survival. Kenzo stirred first. "The Mercedes," he said, his voice roughened by age but precise. "Sato drove it into the Huangpu River two days after we left you on that hill. Reported stolen." Mei Ling sipped her tea, the bitterness familiar. "And the guards?" Sato answered flatly, "Transferred to Burma. Killed at Imphal." She nodded once. Procedure. Cleanliness. Kenzo’s gaze drifted to the pond where a crimson koi broke the surface. "You held the code. We knew you would. That’s why the bullet was blank." He paused. "Respect demanded it." Mei Ling set her cup down with a soft click. "And the rape?" The word hung, brutal and bare. Kenzo didn’t flinch. "Procedure. But enjoyment?" He exhaled sharply. "Shame. Deep shame. For that… there is no seppuku sharp enough." Sato remained motionless, but a muscle twitched near his jawline.



The meeting lasted precisely twenty minutes. No apologies were uttered that could bridge the chasm. No handshakes sealed uneasy peace. They spoke only of mechanics: the fates of minor collaborators, the location of unmarked graves near Nanjing, the name of a Kempeitai clerk who’d secretly burned interrogation transcripts. Information traded like wartime currency, settling debts no ledger could hold. As dusk bled into the garden, Mei Ling rose. Kenzo and Sato stood instantly. She looked at them – not as monsters now, but as broken men living with spectres darker than her own. "Remember," she said, her voice low and clear, echoing Kenzo’s hilltop words yet transforming them, "we are all human. But humanity is a choice." She turned and walked away, her polished boots crunching on the gravel, leaving them alone with the koi and the gathering shadows. The war was over. Some wounds, they all knew, would bleed until the end.



THE END

[Noctavya]

Next Week stories :

Ah San and The Irish Gang



San Francisco, 1852. Fog clung to the hills like opium smoke. In the narrow alleys of Little Canton, men disappeared every night: some taken by Tong hatchetmen, others beaten bloody by Irish dock gangs who hated the “celestials” stealing their jobs. No lawman cared.



Until Ah San arrived.



She came down from the mountains with nothing but a pair of twin jian swords, black leather embroidered with gold dragons, and a vow older than California itself. By moonlight she moved across rooftops, silent as a shadow, striking Tong enforcers and Irish thugs alike. Broken hatchets and shillelaghs began appearing in alleys as warnings. The Chinese called her Yè Lóng (Night Dragon). The Irish called her “that damned witch in black.”



Within weeks the opium dens ran short of muscle, and the Irish gangs lost three foremen. The merchants paid protection to no one; they paid respect to her.



Mayor Geary had enough. A public example was needed. He summoned Big Mick O’Halloran, boss of the Irish Harbor Gang, and slid a fat envelope across the table. “Bring me the Night Dragon. Alive. I want her paraded through Market Street so every coolie knows who owns this city.”



That night the trap was set. Ah San glided across the fog-choked wharf to stop a Tong shipment, only to find the crates empty and the docks ringed with two hundred Irishmen—torches high, cudgels ready. For the first time her swords stayed sheathed; there were simply too many.



O’Halloran stepped forward, grinning under his bowler hat. “No need for steel tonight, darling. The mayor just wants a quiet word.”



Ah San’s dark eyes swept the circle of faces. She could cut her way through ten, maybe twenty before they swarmed her. Not enough. She lowered her chin, the gold dragons on her belt glinting in torchlight, and gave the faintest smile.



“Tell your mayor,” she said in perfect English that chilled every man who heard it, “the dragon does not bow, but only when she chooses the ground.”



Then, before anyone could move, she flicked her wrist. A thin smoke pellet burst at her feet. When the gray cloud cleared ten seconds later, only her black leather jacket remained, hanging from a mooring post like an empty skin.



Somewhere in the fog, twin blades whispered free of their scabbards. The hunt had only begun.