August 21st, 1960

Somewhere at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean, between Greenland and Iceland, lay The city of Rapture. With its towering art deco buildings and futuristic glowing lights, Rapture looked like something out of a dream. Indeed, it was a dream. It was the dream of one man, Andrew Ryan, who sought to create the last bastion for the best of humanity, free from the parasitic world. Rapture's inhabitants brought with them their own hopes and dreams, of prosperity, independence, and perhaps even happiness. But all dreams must die, and Rapture was no different.

Somewhere in the city, a man was staring out of a window in his apartment. It was a very posh apartment, located in one of the more wealthier districts of the city. There was a spacious living room, a bathroom, a small kitchenette and an office which doubled as a bedroom, where the man was currently sitting. He was a tall, thin man, with a medium build. From his Italian mother were dark hair, dark brown eyes and Romanesque nose. From his Irish father were his high cheekbones and ruddy complexion.

He peered out of his apartment window with a sense of disgust. "Look at this place", he said out loud to himself, "It's all gone to hell."

For Rapture had indeed gone to hell. The city's foundation was cracked and broken. Several buildings were flooded and abandoned. The majority of the population was either dead or deranged-the man himself was barely holding onto his sanity-and the ones with enough sense in them barricaded themselves in their homes, with enough food, water, some weapons, and a way out (when life became too unbearable). The man was well stocked in all of these. At least, he'd make it through the week.

The man, still at his seat, poured himself a glass of Lacas Scotch from a bottle on his table. He pulled out an Oxford Club Cigarette from carton in his desk drawer, while a small fireball formed in his left hand, which he used to light the cigarette. After taking a deep drag from his smoke, and consequently blowing out a voluminous cloud of tobacco, the man opened another drawer with an audio diary, that is, a small tape recorder device the size of a book, and pulled out a sizable collection of tapes. They were tapes he made of his life from earlier, happier times.

The man often listen to his diaries between the long silences that now marked his life. There wasn't much to do, really, except eat, sleep, splice, and wait, for nothing specific, but something that could tell him he could stop hiding.

But until then, the man popped in his first diary, and pressed play.