One tap, a window a few hundredths of a second wide, and a hundred tiers to learn never to miss it.
The needle sweeps the dial from 0 to 100 and never stops. Tap the screen to freeze it inside the slot. That's all — and that's what stays hard for a hundred tiers.
A narrow zone at the centre of the slot doubles your earnings. Aiming for the core instead of the slot is the difference between finishing a tier and clearing it.
Slow the needle, widen the slot, freeze the clock after a perfect, save a miss. Every difficulty in the game has a countermeasure you can buy — none of them is simply endured.
The slot drifts, closes, jumps. One needle lies. The power cuts out for a second without warning. They arrive one at a time, each with its own chapter to learn it.
Every tier cleared unlocks its picture in the gallery. They can't be bought: they're earned, and it's the only collection in the game that costs nothing.
A skin isn't a colour scheme, it's a material. Lightning, comet, iridescent bubbles, cathode afterglow, ice crystals. Each one recolours the menus too.
No sign-up, no email, no profile. Your progress lives on your phone and nowhere else.
They unlock as you push through the campaign and run on the same map: climbing a mode means climbing the hundred tiers again. Each one tests something different.
What it asks for: rhythm. A charge gauge drains continuously and every successful stop pushes it back up. You have to keep pumping.
What it asks for: consistency. No gauge, no clock: three lives and a map that climbs forever. Simply keep going.
What it asks for: precision. Only the golden core counts — the ordinary slot isn't even drawn any more.
What it asks for: both at once. A gauge that never resets, thirty seconds per level, a single life, and a needle that speeds up with every tier.
Eleven screenshots taken on a phone, untouched. From the menu to the gallery, by way of a run and the end-of-tier screen. Tap a thumbnail to see it full size.
There's something. We won't say what.
