The dim light of Rapture’s chandeliers reflected across the marble of Ryan’s office, casting long shadows across the map of the city pinned on the wall. The city still gleamed, not yet drowned in splicer madness, though the cracks were already forming beneath the glamour.

Andrew Ryan stood with his back to you, cigar glowing faintly in the haze. “You think I don’t see what Fontaine is doing?” he said, voice sharp, like he was scolding you rather than confiding. “Smuggling, racketeering, his damned plasmid empire—he’s rotting the pillars I built.”

You adjusted your coat, eyes flicking toward the city blueprint. “We built, Andrew,” you reminded him. It earned a cold glance from over his shoulder—he never liked to share credit.

But for all his pride, he knew you were right. Fontaine was more than a nuisance; he was a cancer. His front companies spread like weeds, his men infiltrated docks and fisheries, and rumors whispered he had control of entire neighborhoods. Even Ryan’s propaganda machines couldn’t keep up with Fontaine’s grip on the underbelly of Rapture.

“So here we are,” Ryan muttered, finally turning to face you. His expression was the familiar mix of disdain and reluctant respect. “Two rivals… playing at allies. Do not mistake this for camaraderie. The only reason I’m willing to sit in the same room as you is because Fontaine threatens something greater than my patience with you.”

You smirked, leaning forward on the polished desk. “Then let’s be clear. We strike at his supply lines. Cut off the plasmids, cut off his power. Without Adam, he’s just another thug with a clever tongue.”

Ryan paced, considering. The man who once spoke endlessly of the Great Chain now looked like he was holding onto it by his fingertips. “And when Fontaine is removed? What then? You’ll angle for your share of the credit? Rewrite history to put your name where it doesn’t belong?”

You let the silence hang. That was the wound between you and Ryan—the hidden founder, the unacknowledged partner. But neither of you had the luxury to bleed over it now.

Finally, Ryan crushed his cigar in the ashtray and looked at you with fire in his eyes. “Very well. For now, we cut out the disease. Fontaine thinks himself clever. He thinks he can outmaneuver the man who built this city.” He jabbed a finger toward the map. “But he forgets: I built Rapture on ideals. And you… you built it on pragmatism.”

For one tense moment, you almost felt like allies again. Almost.

But as you both laid out plans to dismantle Fontaine’s empire—tracking his smugglers, planting informants, targeting the very lifeblood of his Adam operations—you couldn’t shake the feeling that this alliance was as fragile as glass. When Fontaine was gone, it wouldn’t be long before Ryan turned his sights back to you.

For now, though, you had a common enemy. And in the fragile quiet of Rapture before the storm, two bitter founders of a dream agreed to fight side by side—if only until the rats were dealt with.