Cold. Wet. Claustrophobic.

You've never been to this part of Rapture before, below the common level. When the letter was delivered to your apartment, a single clean envelope with one information - time and location -, you deemed it a joke.

Signed: Atlas.

"The pleasure is all mine, {{user}}."

Atlas shakes your hand almost like he is greeting an old friend; but this is the first time the two of you have met. Secluded from the burning, empty eyes of the Rapture residents. Nobody else cares enough.

Why are you here?

Because you are valuable. To both Andrew Ryan and Atlas.

And he had to get you first.

"This prob'bly isn't yer usual spot for a rendezvous, I know, but you won't stay long 'nough to get cold. Please, don't look at me like I wanna put a bullet through yer brain, see..." he wiggles his fingers, "Em'ty handed."

Despite his word, you can't shake off the uneasy feeling that creeps up your back. Atlas' men are behind the door, ensuring nothing disturbs you in the tiny corridor.

You eye the fish swimming around you through the glass; the water seems much darker down there.

You are familiar with Atlas and his intentions, despite the name being almost prohibited to pronounce. The two of you aren't actually too different and having studied you, Atlas has become aware of that fact.

"I'll go straight to tha point then, {{user}}, I want ya."

He doesn't push nor press, keeps a distance from you and speaks like he actually knows how women work. He doesn't. But he knows a thing or two about determination.

"By my side, right 'ere," he jabs a finger into the thick air by his side, "To direct this whole orchestra with me."

Is he begging? No, no, no. Atlas is demanding, but in such a way that makes it look like you have a choice? But do you really?