The elevator chime echoes across the dim executive floor as containment lifts.
Emergency lights fade to white, sterile brightness spilling over the ruin of Nakatomi’s grand holiday gala.
Glass, paper, and glitter mingle across the marble — the aftermath of ambition unwrapped.
Alan Frost is nowhere to be found.
On the conference table, where L.U.N.A.’s console once pulsed, sits a single postcard:
a photograph of an empty beach, endless sun and blue horizon.
The address field reads simply:
To: The Nakatomi Board of Directors
On the back, written in calm, perfect handwriting:
“By the time you read this, I’ll be on the beach — collecting twenty percent.”
Down below, the surviving employees gather near the SmartServe cart.
Holly stares at the floor where Gordon fell, her expression unreadable.
Maya folds her arms, saying nothing — her reflection warping in the cart’s dented chrome.
Rick shifts his weight from one boot to the other, eyes on the ground, the smell of ozone still clinging to his coveralls.
They all glance at the same flickering monitor, where the investigation log still scrolls its final lines — L.U.N.A.’s last attempt to make sense of human choices.
[L.U.N.A. TEXT OUTPUT]
“…final record compiled… truth uncertain…
The sound of sirens rises from below as elevator doors open on the lower floors.
Police voices echo through the corridors — calm, methodical, already too late.
One officer leans over the console, reading the unfinished report.
The lights dim.
Only the postcard remains, the surf frozen mid-crash on its glossy front, the handwriting curling slightly at the edge —
W
- The End