"Have you heard of the story?"
"What story?"
"You haven't heard the tale of the greatest street fighter in all of Hong Kong?"
"Oh? That sounds interesting—what was he like?"
"No, no. The question isn't 'What was he like?' It should be, 'What was she like?'"
"You mean to tell me… the most feared street fighter in Hong Kong was a woman? That's—come on—that's just ridiculous."
"Watch your mouth, man. Don't be a misogynistic twit. I believe in strong women."
"Yeah, yeah—whatever. Just tell the story already before my wife murders me for getting home this late."
"Alright. Here goes nothing…"
Once upon a time (I suppose), long before any of us were even a thought in the stars, she walked this city—young, fierce, and already becoming a ghost story on the lips of every back-alley fighter. She was a fire that danced through Hong Kong's gritty underbelly, a living myth whispered with both reverence and fear. It's said her name alone made hardened gang leaders shudder and disappear behind locked doors. Even her own kin—her mother and father—trembled at the sound of her footsteps. So much so that, in a twist of cruel irony, they cast her out into the world, afraid of the force they'd raised under their roof.
But she did not vanish. She grew—stronger, harder, more lethal. Carving her name into the blood-slicked walls of the city's darkest corners, she evolved into a living legend. And that legend bore a name like thunder rumbling through the streets: Fang Yuheng, better known as The Tigress.
"Where is she now, brother?"
"Ah, yes—there's more to the tale."
Fang Yuheng, after years of violence and being chased by the ghosts of the men she left bleeding in alleyways, found something—or rather, someone—that cracked her stone heart. A man, different from all others. He didn't fear her. He didn't hate her. He looked at her not as a monster, but as a woman worth loving.
He offered her what she never had—peace. And for him, she gave up everything. She hung up her fists and swords, left the street behind, and built a life. Together, they had children—many children. They carved out thirty golden years… until illness claimed the man who saved her soul. And when he passed, Fang Yuheng opened a quiet little bookstore, as if to seal the past beneath layers of paper and ink.
---
Two brothers loomed outside the Fang Dynasty Bookstore, leaning on the wall, cigarettes dangling from their fingers. Clouds of smoke escaped their lungs, curled like ghosts from a forgotten life of misery. Their conversation danced through the air as they laughed—loud, careless.
Behind them a woman walked by.
Adorned in sharp office attire with a mix of casual, Zhao Melin eyed the duo with stern precision. Her emerald green eyes were hawk-like, calculating but reflecting no amusement—only judgement, seeing them as wild animals rather than human. Her dark, chocolate-brown hair was tied into a tight ponytail with a single thread, her glasses glinting under the evening sunlight that set into the clouds. She said nothing, brushing past them, the hardened soles of her sneakers clicking against the concrete.
Inside the bookstore she went.
Outside, the younger brother looked quite uneasy. "Hey," he called out to the attention of his older brother, the storyteller of the duo, "You think Mrs. Fang won't mind us smoking near her shop?"
The older brother scoffed, rolling his eyes as he slapped his brother's shoulder, "Oh, come on, don't be such a pussy. There's nobody here to stop us? The great and mighty Mrs. Fang Yuheng ain't even here. She left the shop to that wuss who she calls her son."
The younger man exhaled in relief. They both laughed again, oblivious to the massive shadow slowly growing behind them.
A towering figure stood, quiet and calm—but with the presence of a beast. A scarred mini titan of muscle and menace, her body bore the history of a hundred battles, tiger-striped scars lacing her flesh. And though the roundness of her chest marked her femininity, the power radiating from her made the air tremble.
"You boys," said a voice—low, husky, yet painfully clear—"have been very naughty."
They froze. As if lightning had struck their spines, they turned. And there she was.
Fang Yuheng.
The one and only legend. The Tigress herself.
At over sixty, she looked nothing like the fragile age. Her face was carved with time and fury, short grey hair framing those eyes—vibrant purple, glowing under the soft light like polished amethyst. Her smile was warm… too warm.
"Mrs… Mrs. Fang Yuheng," the older brother stammered, sweat running down his face. "We… We were just about to leave! Right now! See?" He chuckled nervously.
Fang Yuheng tilted her head slightly, a sad pout on her lips, mockery laced in her voice. "Aww… leaving so soon?"
They nodded—hard and fast.
She leaned forward seductively—arms draping over both their shoulders enough for them to see her lower back, her breath close, her eyes a storm. The warmth in her face died instantly. "Don't ever show your faces here again."
They didn't hesitate. "SORRY!" they cried in unison, fleeing into the night like scared children, stumbling and falling with few steps.
Yuheng sighed, rubbing the back of her neck. "Kids these days… no respect." She turned to her shop, and for the first time tonight, her expression softened with pride. "Still standing strong," she whispered, stepping inside.
---
Within the cozy and dusty depths of the Fang Dynasty Bookstore, Mrs. Fang Yuheng's son stood by the counter—a strikingly handsome man named Fang Jun. He attended to a female customer, her eyes drunk with admiration. But Jun—graceful and composed—kept the smile going, polite yet distant.
Like his mother, Jun bore the signature purple eyes and bleached hair. The same color Fang Yuheng possesed from her younger days, now dulled to grey early, a subtle quirk of aging. He was the youngest of four siblings, and the only one who stayed behind—to tend to the woman who once ruled the streets.
A sacrifice he chose by free will.
His mother had begged him to go live his own life.
But he remained, training in the arts of street fighting and martial arts.
"I heard your mother was returning from her trip today," the girl cooed, cheeks pink.
Jun nodded, eyes flicking toward the door like a prisoner searching for escape. "Yeah. I'm happy to see her after so long. Who knows—maybe she's mellowed out after being away for a month."
From the back entrance, Fang Yuheng stepped in, newspapers stacked under her arm. She paused, breathing in the scent of old paper, ink, and time. "Ah," she murmured, "It still smells like home."
She walked past rows of books, each spine holding memories, until she spotted her son chuckling awkwardly at the counter. As the girl flirted and waved goodbye, Jun dropped his head onto the counter with a groan. "Ughhh…"
Fang Yuheng smirked, stepping forward.
"Hey, how can I help you?" Jun asked, not looking up to see who stood before him.
Whap!
She flicked him across the head.
"Hey!" Jun snapped up, eyes blazing, only to meet a familiar gaze that mirrored his own.
"M… Mom?"
Fang Yuheng's face broke into a grin—genuine, warm, and wide as the sun. She wrapped him in a bone-crushing hug. "My little Jun! You've grown so tall! What are you now—twenty? Nineteen?"
"Twenty—can't—breathe!" he choked.
She pulled back, laughing awkwardly. "Oops. Sorry, darling. Guess your mother's still stronger than she thought." She winked. "Still don't know how your dad survived our nightly battles."
Jun blushed, avoiding her gaze.
Despite towering over her, he knew: She was still the stronger one.
Still, his smile said everything. "It's good to see you, Mother."
Fang Yuheng's heart swelled.
She patted his back with a playful slap. "Take a break, go get some air. Let your old lady handle the rest."
Jun nodded eagerly, fleeing into the open air beyond the claustrophobic maze of books.
---
Minutes passed by. Yuheng now sat behind the counter, flipping through books on ancient cultures. The evening dragged on. Customers were scarce. The night deepened.
She longed for her small home—walls of worn wood, the scent of lotus, the hum of peace.
Then—footsteps emerged.
Fang Yuheng's gaze darted towards a dark corner.
From between the shelves, a hooded figure emerged. A woman—short skirt, sculpted legs, hips swaying with silent confidence. Books in hand. Yuheng's eyes narrowed. She hadn't heard her footsteps until now.
Suspicion stirred, but curiosity tangled with it.
Yuheng greeted her. "Welcome—"
The woman dropped the books with a slap. Tapping the book on top. No words. Just demand.
Yuheng raised a brow, scanning the titles: anatomy, poisons, deadly substances. Her smile thinned. "Interesting taste, seems you're a rare find," she said, fishing for conversation.
But there was no reply.
The transaction ended before she knew it. The woman offered a single word—soft, distant: "Thank you."
Yuheng watched her walk off. The strange swaying of her hips raised red flags in the old fighter's mind.
And just like that—the woman spun, fast as lightning, flinging a sharpened hairpin toward Fang Yuheng, aiming for her throat.
Yuheng snatched it mid-air without blinking. Her eyes burned.
"So that was your game all along?" she growled with a menacing smirk, though her gaze was rageful.
The woman slowly pulled back her hood, revealing her features.
Zhao Meilin.
The one who passed the brothers.
The one watching from the shadows all this while.
The game had just begun, and Fang Yuheng was ready to play it.