During his lifetime, and even now, Riggs has always felt a sexual chemistry with self-involved women. He’s good audience – attentive, admiring – a faceless form in a red velvet theater, until his paramours are encouraged to reveal the extent of capacities previously known only to themselves. And yet these relationships, on the rare occasions he consummated them, always fizzled in the first act. So now he wonders whether his talent for observation, which in his own self-involvement he had always considered a virtue, was in fact a disengagement from the world, which had only made murderous demons of the women he had admired. Perhaps the real demon was Riggs, an anti-demon corrupting the world with his absence. And now he was a ghost (poetic justice) sentenced to his own individually tailored hell, only capable of observing as the world passed through his hands. No. Now more than ever, he must take action.