Six players stake into one pot. Every round, each of you secretly picks a target and a price, and every bid lands at once. The last player holding tokens takes everything — including yours.
Everyone sits down with the same tokens. They live for this session only — and every one of them ends up in the pot.
Each round, pick a player and a spend — in secret. Spend X, and your target loses more than X. You never know who else chose them too.
Every bid lands simultaneously. Attacks on the same target stack. There is no winning bid — only what's left of you afterward.
Each round the pot drains a little from everyone still alive — and it escalates near the end. Hide all you want. You are still bleeding.
THE POT ONLY GROWS. PLAYERS ONLY SHRINK. FOUR FRIENDS IS ENOUGH TO START.
Every contribution in the pot carries the name of the player who put it there — and the round they stopped being able to fight for it. Survivors can see exactly whose money they're playing for.
The dead see it too. Their own labelled stake, still on the table, still being fought over — without them.
The eliminated stay in the room, an accumulating gallery around the table. Together — never alone — the dead decide whether and when to intervene. The rules decide who benefits. Always.
Not a scoreboard — the sequence. Who died when, who moved on whom, whose money the winner walked away with. It gets forwarded because it's evidence in an argument.
And under it, one button. Run it back rebuilds the lobby and pings all six seats — because the winner posts once, but the five who died want a word with you.
The tontine financed governments and buildings still standing today, haunted detective fiction for a century, and was eventually curtailed across Europe — in part because a scheme that pays you to outlive your co-subscribers gives you an interest in their not living long.
So we built one. Tokens instead of inheritances, fifteen minutes instead of a lifetime.
Spend nothing. Grieve convincingly. Let the table thin itself while the ratchet does your bidding — then bury the survivor.
One catastrophic overspend, delivered where everyone will feel it. Expensive, unmistakable, and excellent for your reputation.
Small, patient bids on the same name, round after round. Nobody notices the leak until the round nobody can stop it.
Dealt equally at the start, gone at the end. Never purchasable, never bankable, never traded. The pot they fill has no value beyond the session — its job is to be watched.
Every finish moves it — dying fourth beats dying first, and second place in a bloodbath is worth fighting for. It can't be bought, transferred, or reset. Your first game is unrated; the account prompt at the end is the offer to start keeping score.
HEAD-TO-HEAD RECORDS FOLLOW YOU TOO. YOU'RE 3–7 AGAINST YOUR BROTHER-IN-LAW, AND HE KNOWS IT.
One announced game at the historical maximum: twelve players, eleven eliminations, a gallery of ghosts around a single headline pot. You show up because it's on — and tomorrow morning, everyone has the same thing to talk about.
Nothing purchasable affects outcomes. Ever. Your odds are your play, not your wallet.
Everyone acts at once. No turn order to exploit, no waiting to be next.
The dead never pick who benefits. They act together, on everyone equally, or not at all.
Ties are never a coin flip. Every ending is deterministic — highest count entering the round wins.
Passive play is legal, and disconnecting isn't dying. Sit still, drop, rejoin. The ratchet keeps your seat warm — and your balance falling.
No nudge follows a loss. When you're done, you're done. Nothing here is designed to call you back at a weak moment.
No streaks that punish leaving. Records, not obligations. Nothing breaks because you took a week off.
No rewards for recruiting. Invites earn nothing. The link spreads because the game is worth playing, or it doesn't spread.
You hold the brake. Session limits you set yourself, cooling-off on request, and your time on the table always visible. Built in from day one, not when required.
There's a difference between a game people want and a game people can't put down. We are deliberately building the first.
SEND ONE LINK. SEAT FIVE FRIENDS. NO ACCOUNTS, NO DOWNLOADS.
CREATE A LOBBY