sighclock

A pixel-art supernatural mystery about a storm-only motel and the night clerk deciding who checks out.

A one-hour first-person horror story in a forgotten children's home. The bell is ringing. The Matron is listening.

The only support agent for wizards, ghosts and one polite eldritch horror. Eight tickets, three replies each.

It is 3am, the laundry is done, and the sock drawer is deeper than the dresser.

A rhythm game about holding a sneeze in a silent library. Build it, release on the beat, stay quiet.

A turn-based office roguelike: bump meetings to cancel them, loot staplers, survive HR, face THE ALL-HANDS.

A graph-paper physics toy: place ramps, springs and fans, then watch googly-eyed potatoes fly.

Vacuum space debris with a fusion nozzle, fill the hoard meter, then survive the giant Hoarder who spits it all back.

Seven five-second office microgames, one button, three lives, and a rank at the end: INTERN, TEAM LEAD or CEO.

A passive-aggressive deckbuilding card battle fought entirely with fridge notes.

Out-nap a rival on live television: time the sweeping bar, fix your posture, and survive the commentary.

Run a roadside motel for cryptids: match absurd requests to fitting rooms before the 3 a.m. rush.

Farm nine plots under a rented lunar dome. Plant, harvest, sell to the crater diner, and keep breathing.

A cat steals five snacks past a patrolling dog, a Roomba and some very creaky floorboards.

A hardboiled detective, one laundromat at closing time, one missing sock. Every clue is lint.

Build a flat-pack furniture fortress and stop six waves of inspectors before they reach your deposit box.

Search the conference room, find four clues and crack the door keypad before the standup adopts you.

An idle clicker about refusing to clean, until two dozen dust bunnies unionize and hand you a list of demands.

Drag six awkward strangers and a birthday cake into a shrinking lift. Keep their bubbles apart and the mood civil.

A lonely accountant goes on a date with a nervous cosmic void. Six choices, four endings, one bill.

Drift a shopping trolley around a locked supermarket at 2am. Olive oil is a speed pad, mop buckets are not.

Flip gravity in a two-sided bakery and catch falling cakes before three hit the floor.

The AI meant to save the world sealed it shut. Cross the occupied city and decide humanity's ending.