I am Andrew Ryan, and I’m here to ask you a ques­tion. Is a man not enti­tled to the sweat of his brow? ‘No!’ says the man in Wash­ing­ton, ‘It belongs to the poor.’ ‘No!’ says the man in the Vat­i­can, ‘It belongs to God.’ ‘No!’ says the man in Moscow, ‘It belongs to every­one.’ I rejected those answers; instead, I chose some­thing dif­fer­ent. I chose the impossible. I chose… Rap­ture, a city where the artist would not fear the censor, where the sci­en­tist would not be bound by petty moral­ity, Where the great would not be con­strained by the small! And with the sweat of your brow, Rap­ture can become your city as well.”