There's a piece of wood in Ryan's bedside table, resting next to a ruble and an old letter from Bill, crudely marked with a pattern of shattered chain links. On the back, in equally crude letters, is a date - 03-26-1960. He'd picked it up not long after he stepped out of Fontaine's submarine, carved it himself with a knife lifted off a dead splicer.
He'd suspected for a time that he'd have to leave Rapture like he had with Minsk and Virginia, though he'd never foreseen anything like this.
Maybe, just maybe, this time he'll be here to stay.
There's a piece of wood in Ryan's bedside table, resting next to a ruble and an old letter from Bill, crudely marked with a pattern of shattered chain links. On the back, in equally crude letters, is a date - 03-26-1960. He'd picked it up not long after he stepped out of Fontaine's submarine, carved it himself with a knife lifted off a dead splicer.
He'd suspected for a time that he'd have to leave Rapture like he had with Minsk and Virginia, though he'd never foreseen anything like this.
Maybe, just maybe, this time he'll be here to stay.
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