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A text-based RPG about surviving corporate life at Meridian Consolidated. Every run plays out differently, and nobody in the building can tell you what the company actually sells.
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One seeded run everyone gets the same day. Same start, same scenes. Your choices. A new shift every midnight.
Collection The ArchiveEvery ending and chapter, including the ones you haven't found. The locked ones only give you a hint.
Every run starts the same way: a name, a department, and a first day at Meridian Consolidated. From there, the building decides what happens to you. Encounters, coworkers, and slow-motion office crises surface based on who you've met and what you've already chosen, not a fixed script, so no two runs read the same way. Four numbers track how you're doing: Cred (are you actually good at your job), Political Capital (does the building like you), Sanity (are you still fine), and Coffee (are you, at this exact moment, running on fumes).
Choices carry weight past the screen they're on. A relationship you build with a coworker can open a door two chapters later. Saying no to one path doesn't end your run, it turns you toward another one, a different thread entirely, the way an old gamebook sends you to a different page depending on what you picked. A running log keeps track of the path you've actually walked, so you can look back and see how you got wherever you ended up.
No spoilers, just what's out there to find. Some of these connect to each other. Most of them do not end the way you'd expect.
Your regional director speaks almost entirely in buzzwords, but there's a real promotion buried in there somewhere, if you're patient enough to find it.
Nobody's met the person running this company in person. The garage videos keep coming anyway.
A rumor, a hunch, and just enough access to find out something you can't unknow.
The new hire who's already redecorated their desk and memorized the org chart. Rival or ally is up to you.
Four years of "interning," and somehow everyone in the building already depends on them.
Desmond and Ophelia have been "just friends" for over a year. The whole building is waiting. So, quietly, are they.
Big Lou has watched this building after dark for eleven years, and has a notebook full of things that don't quite add up.
Facilities has a philosophy about the things that can't be fixed, only endured. The calmest person here, and nobody knows why.
Twenty years in the building, and maybe the only honest map of how it actually works, if he trusts you with it.
A very specific daydream about a parking lot, a menu with four items, and never circling back on anything again.
It starts with an unlocked supply closet. Where it ends depends on how much you're willing to risk.
Gwen delivers every budget update like a eulogy. She is not always wrong.
Priya's culture calendar is color-coded, laminated, and entirely optional.
Denise has never said no to a ticket. She's also never said yes without a fight.
Renata runs the company account like a live grenade. Sometimes it is one.
Marcus keeps a literal scoreboard. Exhausting. Also, against your better judgment, fun.
Nobody assigned you a department, which means, for better or worse, everybody thinks you are available.
Missing lunches, awkward run-ins, and the building's small, unsolved mysteries.
The thermostat war. The parking spot dispute. Pettier than it sounds, more addictive than it should be.
Nobody has met the Founder in person in over a year. Communication happens exclusively through videos, filmed in what is unmistakably a garage, always lit strangely, always beginning with the phrase "big things are happening." Nobody knows what the company actually sells. The Founder's videos have, somehow, made this less clear rather than more.
Lou runs the night shift and has developed several theories about this building, none of which he will share unless you bring coffee. He is convinced the fourth floor is haunted, that the vending machine is rigged, and that the company is secretly a front for something bigger. He has never been fully wrong about any of it.
Casey has been "interning" for four years. Somewhere along the way they started doing genuinely senior-level work, and somewhere after that everyone simply forgot to fix the title or the paycheck. Casey doesn't bring it up. Casey has stopped expecting anyone else to, either.
Denise has never once said no to a request. She has also never once fulfilled one without first routing it through fourteen forms, three approval chains, and a ticket queue that seems to exist in its own private timezone. She is, by wide agreement, the smartest person in the building, and she has decided that this means the rules apply to everyone equally, especially you.
Desmond will tell you, unprompted, that he and Ophelia from Accounting are just friends. He will tell you this even if you didn't ask. He brings her coffee exactly the way she likes it without being told, which he insists is "just good manners."
Dolores knows everything happening in this building before anyone else does, and she knows it with a smile so warm it's genuinely a little unsettling. She guards the visitor log like state secrets and remembers every name, every extension, and every piece of gossip anyone has ever made the mistake of saying near the front desk.
Grant has never once said "no" and never once said "yes" either. He speaks almost entirely in phrases like "let's circle back on that" and "I want to make sure we're aligned before we're aligned," and he has built an entire career out of never being wrong because he has never technically said anything. He is, in his own way, a genius.
Gwen delivers every quarterly budget update like a eulogy, complete with long pauses and a faraway look. She has predicted the company's total financial collapse every quarter for six years running, and while she has never quite been right, she has also never quite been wrong.
Jules started three months ago and has already redecorated their desk, memorized the org chart, and quietly figured out exactly whose job they want next. They are relentlessly competent, unfailingly polite, and always somehow in the room when good news gets announced.
Marcus keeps a literal scoreboard taped to the side of his monitor and updates it by hand, in marker, in front of everyone. He starts every morning with a protein shake and a hype ritual that can be heard from two rows away. He has never lost a deal he's willing to talk about.
Ophelia has been "just friends" with Desmond from Sales for well over a year now, a claim that grows less convincing every time they arrive to a meeting two minutes apart, or leave the building at exactly the same time, or exchange a look across the room that lasts a beat too long.
Priya believes, with total sincerity, that a trust fall can fix almost anything. She runs the culture calendar with the intensity of a woman building a monument, and every event on it is technically optional and practically mandatory. She once organized an ice breaker so aggressive that two people stopped speaking for a month.
Renata runs the company's social media account and treats every internal memo as a potential piece of content. She speaks almost entirely in growth-hacking language, refers to slow weeks as "a rebrand opportunity," and has, at least twice, gone viral for reasons the company would rather not discuss.
Sanjay has been asked to fix the same broken chair in conference room B for three years. He has stopped trying. Instead he has developed an entire personal philosophy about entropy, impermanence, and the things in this life that simply cannot be fixed, only endured.
Walt has outlived four reorgs, three logo redesigns, and at least one company-wide rebrand that nobody is allowed to mention anymore. He knows where every body on the org chart is actually buried, mostly because he buried a few of them himself, professionally speaking. He rarely raises his voice and never raises his hopes.
Curious how it was made? Read the build story.
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