Tenenbaum’s Safehouse
The safehouse hums quietly—pipes groaning above, a generator rattling somewhere behind the walls.
At her cluttered workbench, Dr. Tenenbaum peers into a microscope, adjusting the focus with steady, gloved fingers. A half-filled syringe of glowing ADAM rests beside her notes. Her brows are furrowed.
A faint hum of static cuts in as a radio crackles to life behind her, briefly delivering the distant, echoey sounds of propaganda from Rapture’s public address system. She switches it off with an irritated grunt, her voice dry and heavy with exhaustion.
“Enough noise. I need silence. Silence to think…”
She scrawls a formula into her notebook. The chalkboard behind her is covered in equations, alongside crayon drawings taped beside chemical charts.
A faint giggle breaks her concentration. One of the Little Sisters is twirling in the corner, holding a plush toy made from scrap fabric.
Tenenbaum doesn’t look up.
"Mind the wires, Liebling. And don’t touch the red vials."
The girl nods and keeps spinning.
Tenenbaum pauses. Her eyes flicker toward her, then return to the microscope.
She mutters something in German under her breath and returns to her work.