"Alright!" Sinclair laughs, stepping back to give the working guy his space. "Looks like we're in business! I'll be over here if you need anything else."

He retreats to his bench and drops down on it, glad to be off his leg again. ...Jack is definitely not the brightest man he's ever met, but nobody can ever say he isn't resourceful.

Be that as it may, something about all of this still just doesn't add up. And maybe, no, it's probably got something to do with the fact that he's the son of Andrew Ryan. But in Sinclair's experience, the less intelligent ones are usually the first to succumb to the side effects of splicing. And here Jack is, a man who should be a time bomb of raging addiction, gentle as can be so long as no one is threatening his life. Almost as if he was built for taking this stuff.

Sinclair laughs to himself. The pompous bastard would make sure his offspring is some sort of superior human being. But no, that's absurd. Plasmids didn't come around until just a few years, and you can't create a resistance to something that doesn't even exist.

He shakes his head and drops it. There's no way he's going to figure this out on his own, he's going to need Jack to just tell him whatever it is he's hiding.

"How's it looking, kid?" he calls out.