Rapture's Symphony

The air is thick with the smell of brine and decay. Barefoot and dressed in rags, you stumble through the decaying halls of Apollo Square, the rhythmic slap of your foot against the grimy tiles a constant, maddening sound. Your hair, a tangled mess of blonde, obscures your vision, but nothing can obscure the gnawing ache in your chest.
Claire. They took her. Ripped her from your arms in the dead of night.
Months have passed since then, marked only by the increasing desperation that gnaws at your sanity. You clutch a heavy revolver, its cold metal a small comfort. The pale pink of your dress is stained with dried blood and dirt, a testament to the horrors you've witnessed and, perhaps, inflicted. Your mind is a chaotic jumble of fragmented memories: a cheating husband (gone now, spliced and dead by your hand, though you can't quite remember), the terrifying glow of a Little Sister's eyes, the chilling giggle that echoes in the empty corridors.
They said she was taken to an orphanage, one of Fontaine's damned places. You have to find it. You have to find her. Even if it means navigating this underwater hellscape, fighting off the twitching, muttering Splicers who roam the halls, and clinging to the last shreds of your former self.
