August 21, 1960.

Jack Martin stopped the final tape. Ever since then, he hadn't done much, hiding in his apartment by day, and every night, venturing into Rapture, now a giant graveyard, and fighting the ghoulish splicers that inhabited it.

But he couldn't go on like this any longer. He had nothing now. Nothing. No family, no money, and no life, save for this accursed existence, and that wasn't much.

So Martin pulled out his revolver and aimed it in his mouth, savoring the sharp, cold taste of the barrel. It would be the last sensation he would ever feel.

But before he could pull the trigger, he heard a crash. Outside of his window sunk the remains of an airplane. He hadn't seen an airplane in years. Someone new came to town.

Putting down his revolver, Martin let out a sardonic smile.

"Well," he chuckled "This should be interesting."