Story-first games you can actually finish.

All Time High

“How far would you go in a mania? Every choice has a ledger. Every gain has a price.”

A moral-descent thriller told through your phone, your feeds, and a trading terminal. Chase a California fortune one “just one more trade” at a time — through a crypto mania where every gain costs something. Your choices write the ledger. Six endings.

A work of fiction — depictions of trading and markets are dramatic fiction, not financial advice.

Dear Nobody

“A war you never see. A love that exists only on paper. A pen that has started to answer back.”

You are the censor reading letters between two lovers who have never met — striking words from a wartime correspondence that begins, impossibly, to answer your own pen. Every word you cut is cut from the relationship too. Six endings.

1453: Fall of Constantinople

“Everyone knows the city will fall. No one knows who they’ll be that day.”

Venice, 1500. Anna Notaras is writing down testimonies of the siege, and four witnesses sit at her table — a janissary, a baker’s daughter, an engineer, a noble. They live the same fifty-three days from both sides of the walls, and their accounts don’t always agree. Your choices cross between their stories.

Please Confirm the Deceased

“The paperwork says one thing. The body says another. Sign anyway.”

You work nights at a morgue intake desk. Bodies arrive with paperwork, and the paperwork is your job — check it, question it, stamp it, send it on. Most nights the two agree. The nights they don’t are the ones you will remember. Seven nights, forty-five intakes, and instruments that tell you things the forms do not.

Per My Last Email

“Every reply is two decisions, and the second one is the real one.”

You are the newest hire on floor six at Bellwether & Locke, and the account you inherited is not a new account — it belonged to E. Vale, who is no longer with the company. Ten business days of email. You choose what you say, then you choose who sees it: reply, reply-all, forward, CC, BCC. The routing is permanent and it goes in your file. A CC that seemed polite on Day 2 is evidence on Day 9.

The Previous Owner

“Shelve carefully, and do not read the margins.”

Run a secondhand bookshop in London, 1994. Every book remembers who owned it before — pressed flowers, letters, notes in the margins. Across books that should never have met, the same hand keeps writing. You inherited the rules with the shop.

Town Hall

“Whatever you stamp becomes true.”

The town is half empty, but the town hall still opens at nine. You are the clerk — the mayor is unreachable, the other offices are dark, and the seal on your desk still works, which makes you the government. Permits, licenses, certificates of birth and death: the paper is a claim, your stamp is the fact. Then step out to the town map and visit what you signed — the reopened bar, the condemned house, the pier that is suddenly private property.

The Off-Season

“The hotel is closed for the winter. You have the keys.”

You are the winter caretaker of a seaside hotel nobody visits between October and March. The owner is away until spring and her rules are pinned above the desk in her own handwriting: no guests, no exceptions. But the season has an instalment to make and the boiler eats oil, so an empty house is not safe — it is bankrupt. Then somebody knocks: off the last bus, in the rain, with cash and no booking, and a reason they would rather not give. You decide who gets a key, and which room.