The fire crackled and popped hungrily in the room as the man sat quietly in his chair, leaning forward with his elbows resting squarely on each of his knees. His dark, tanned skin proved an interesting canvas for the flickering lights, which in turn cast irregular shadows about the small room that he called his home. A silent threat. Just barely. The man’s name was Glendale Debonaire. His last name was an ironic juxtaposition to his true nature. This man was neither suave nor affable. He was not genteel or charming. Debonaire was something far different. Something far worse. Plague.