He's not about to interrupt anything, at least not right away. The landing of the staircase is a hallway that curves away to the right; when Sinclair turns the corner he'll find a long stretch of uncluttered wall on his left and a door with a sparking panel to his right. And beyond them: the actual door to Andrew Ryan's office. Or at least it had better be this time, jesus christ, this place has more entryways than Return of the King will have endings.

The door is closed; Jack is inside.

Jack...

...when he gets to the office, he has to hack the door. And that itself tells him that either it's someone else's home now, or it's untouched.

And it's the second possibility that turns out to be true.

Ryan is still lying on the floor. There are still bullet-holes everywhere from the bots that strafed Jack as he escaped. He doesn't check yet to see if the red Fontaine Futuristics sign is still in place; he's already crouching next to Ryan's body.

It's soft, beginning to rot. His face is eggshell white, but where he touches the floor, where Jack can see skin, he's turned an ugly blotchy purple. The smell is getting towards horrendous. Which is to say it's not much worse than any other part of the city you could name.

The broken golf club is still embedded in his skull, for fuck's sake.

Jack reaches out to touch it, pull it out or something -- but he can't, he pulls his hand back as if it's been burned.