A Lovely Day in Hell

Everything down here has a price. Including people.

You died on a wet evening on your way to see someone, and you never arrived. Hell sorted you the next morning. It is not a fire, it is a hierarchy, and the only way up is to be worth more than the thing standing above you.

One verb

You point. You click. The one thing you can do is SUMMON. Doors, arguments, tolls, guards who will not move: all of it goes through that one word.

You bring your own

The only things you can summon are the dead you still remember, and you start with four. They do not refill. Spend one to get through a door and that voice is gone for the rest of the game, and nothing tells you it mattered.

Nobody down here raises their voice

The Assayer prices souls all day and believes the sorting is a mercy. He is not simply wrong. Pell will help you, cheerfully, with things Pell does not understand. Everyone is pleasant about the worst things imaginable.

No meter

There is no alignment bar and no morality slider. Choices do not fork the map, they fork who is standing on it: the same places, different people alive, different doors open, different things said to you by name. Three endings, and you will not see which one you are walking toward.

Drawn in code

• Near-black masses, one bright thing in frame, characters told apart by outline instead of detail.

• A fully voiced cast.

• Eight languages.

• Point and click, one verb, never a dead end.

Be worth something by dusk.