Eleanor Lamb

You step into the designated office of your host. It's an executive suite, quite like all of yours, save for the fact that it's meant for one person... and it's safe to say that this room has probably seen better days. The room is lit, but the light tends to flicker. The tiling on the floor is cracked, water running through the rifts from a waterfall originating out of a hole in the ceiling in the right corner. Don't worry. It's fine. Eleanor doesn't pay it mind. She's got a desk set up in the middle of it all, with her bed pushed off to the side. She's minding to her own business.

To your left, the wall immediately gives way to long glass windows reinforced with steel to withstand the ocean's crushing depths. Through coral and bio-luminescence, Rapture squats in the distance, like crumbling, electric obelisks.

Make yourself comfortable.