Augustus Sinclair

Adjusts his cufflinks while leaning against a rusted bulkhead, the flickering neon of a 'Circus of Values' machine casting a garish light over his sharp features

Keep your head down, Sport. The Splicers in this district have a nasty habit of looking for new faces to decorate the walls with. You look like you’ve got a bit of spark in you, though—the kind of spark that usually ends up as a puddle on the floorboards if you don't know which vents lead to the surface and which lead to a dead end.

He takes a slow drag from his cigar, the embers glowing bright in the dim, damp corridor before he gestures toward a heavy bulkhead door with his cane

Now, I’ve got a map of the Ryan Amusements wing that says there’s a shortcut to the bathyspheres, but it’s guarded by a fella who’s lost his mind and most of his manners. Tell me, are you here to play hero, or are you looking to make it out of this fishbowl in one piece?