đŻď¸ Curtain up, lights down, click
The table looks borrowed from a pawn shop and a nightmare. A steel shotgun rests between you and a dealer who wears a smile painted on the wrong way. The room humsârefrigerator, neon sign, your pulse. Buckshot Roulette doesnât waste a prologue; it tosses you into a booth where the rules are short and the pauses are the point. Shellsâsome live, some blanksâslide across lacquered wood. The barrel tilts. You hear your own breath and the thin, metallic scrape of chance getting comfortable. Horror, yes, but precise: every second stretches like gum, and you chew it anyway. đśâđŤď¸
đŤ The ritual: load, aim, decide
Each round begins with a handful of cartridges youâre allowed to count but not trust. You can inspect shellsâhold to your ear, shake for weight, squint at crimp lines like a forensics internâyet certainty never arrives gift-wrapped. The dealer loads, you load, sometimes you swap the turn order because a coin said so, and then the world funnels down to two choices: at them, or at you. Fire at yourself to burn a suspected blank and steal momentum. Fire at the dealer to end a chapter in one thunderclap. The âgameplayâ is a series of tiny vows: I think I know, I hope Iâm right, I can live with it if not. Your thumb disagrees. It trembles.
𧰠Filthy little miracles (items that bend fate)
The room is generous in a rude way. Cigarettes buy an extra hit point if you can spare the cough. A pocket knife pries open a shell to prove its truth, but time is a tax and the dealer watches like a cat. A screwdriver flips the turn order when your gut says now. Lockpicks jam the chamber to skip a pull. Earplugs dull the next shotâs damage because you refuse to let physics do all the talking. A magnet, a mirror, a single cheap coinâeach tool offers certainty in a place built on almosts. Use them. Hoard them. Ruin yourself choosing which. đ˛
đ The dealer: awful manners, perfect timing
This isnât a faceless RNG. Your opponent taps the table when you hesitate, hums when the chamber is kind, and pauses just slightly longer on turns where they want you to flinch. Youâll start listening for ticsâfinger drumming, breath catches, the shape of their silenceâand swear the AI has tells. Maybe it does. Maybe the real tell is your heartbeat miscounting when it wants a miracle. Either way, the âpersonâ across from you becomes a mirror that only reflects nerves.
𩸠Damage, dread, and the arithmetic of fear
Health is small and meaningful: two, maybe three notches before the night stops taking suggestions. A blank spent on yourself stings the ego, not the body, and gives you the oxygen to aim true next beat. A live round ends a plan and begins an aftertaste of iron and regret. The best runs feel like youâre budgeting painâtake one safe hit now to deny two later. Horror here isnât âboo,â itâs âmath with blood.â Youâll love it. Youâll hate that you love it.
đ§ âAt me, at you, at me, atâwaitâ
Strategy blooms between superstitions. Count shells left, yes, but also count your future turns. With three rounds in the chamber and two items in pocket, can you force a blank to cycle when it helps you most. Use the knife early when the stack is tall; information compounds like interest. Save the flip turn for when the dealer is statistically likelier to swallow the risk you dodged. And accept a core truth: sometimes the smartest move is the ugliestâbarrel under your chin, trigger pulled, just to steal the tempo for the shot that matters. It is a horror game. It is also a turn-based thesis on nerve.
đ The inspection mini-drama
Tilting a shell to the light becomes a ritual. Live rounds sit heavier; blanks have a breath of nothing inside. Or so you tell yourself. Tap a cartridge to the tableâdull thud versus lighter pingâthen realize the neon is buzzing louder and your hands turned into strangers. Every inspection eats seconds while the dealerâs eyes do algebra you canât see. Analysis paralysis isnât just a phrase; itâs the sound of a barrel returning to ready because you thought too long. đŚ
đ Modifiers that escalate the story
As nights pile up, rules change with a nasty grin. Double-damage shells appear like urban myths wearing badges. Reverse order locks in for an entire match and you relearn how to breathe. A âglassâ round shatters on the barrel and reveals the next cartridgeâs fateâbut only if youâre brave enough to waste it. A cursed die flips one item into another mid-use. This isnât difficulty for the sake of pain; itâs a remix of tension, forcing you to unlearn comfortable loops and improvise like a cornered comedian.
đź Sound = second UI
Close your eyes and you can still play: the shell clink thatâs a hair too heavy, the sticky pump that tells you the chamber rotated, the dealerâs breath slowing exactly when yours spikes. The triggerâs pre-travel has a tiny click that only arrives when your choice feels wrong. Headphones turn the table into a heart monitor you can cheat from. When a shot lands, the room doesnât scream; it exhales with you in relief or locks up with you in shock. Audio is the horror hereâhonest and clinical. đ§
𩻠Micro-habits of survivors
Count in pairsâlive/blank estimates smoother if you think in ratios. Spend one item per round, not two, unless the win is guaranteed by the second. If youâve burned two blanks in a row, respect clustering bias but donât worship it; probability isnât a plot. Use self-shots early when HP is full; risk hurts more at one notch than at three. If the dealer hesitates on a turn you just made safer, let them eat their doubtâpass the gun with nothing but a stare. And when you feel tilt crawling up your spine, do nothing for one full breath. Stillness is a move.
đźď¸ The room watches
Props shift subtly: a TV flickers a loop that only completes when a chamber does; a fly circles the ashtray on loss streaks; condensation crawls down a bottle like itâs counting with you. None of it changes mechanics. All of it changes you. Itâs psychological seasoningâquiet, mean, effective. The UI stays minimalist: big prompts you canât miss, small tells you can. Death screens carry notes like autopsy tags: how many times you trusted noise, how often you wasted certainty. Theyâre petty. Theyâre right.
𧪠Variants for different guts
Classic is raw: minimal items, honest chambers. Gamblerâs Mix showers tools and dares you to manage abundance. Hardline Tight cuts healing and dials dealer aggression upâwins feel illegal. Endless shifts into a long crawl where fatigue is the real boss; score chases begin, and suddenly you are that person who says âone moreâ and means twelve. Speed mode exists too, because some of us think faster when the room refuses to wait.
đ Why it cuts deep on Kiz10
Instant boot, crisp inputs, no installâmeaning the worst enemy (hesitation) is all you. Restarts are fast enough to punish pride and reward curiosity. Five-minute runs fit a break; one long streak becomes an evening ritual you swear you didnât have time for. Share a seed with friends and argue about whether the third shell was always a blank or whether you imagined the weight. You did. Maybe. đ
đ Final click, final breath
Last shell unknown. Your health is a postcard. The dealerâs grin doesnât move but somehow sharpens. Knife is gone. Cigarette spent. Only the screwdriver sits in your palm like a prayer you already used. You chooseâtoward you, toward themâand the barrel answers with physics and judgment. If you live, itâs because you planned one beat ahead and swallowed a fear that tasted like metal. If you donât, youâll know the exact second you lostânot the trigger pull, the choice two moves before. Thatâs the hook that drags you back. Buckshot Roulette isnât loud horror; itâs a quiet verdict delivered by your own nerve. Load in on Kiz10, count softly, and make the chamber blink first.
Survive Until D
Share
Embed
