TAKE A SEAT. HE'S KEPT IT WARM FOR YOU.
There's a bar with no sign at the end of a street where it always rains. The piano is out of tune, the jukebox is playing a record nobody put on, and the pendulum says it's three eleven. Waiting for you at the back table is Silas Vane: fedora, a withered rose in his lapel, and the smile of an old cardsharp. Not a scrap of flesh on his bones.
Silas won this place fifty years ago, in a game of twenty-one. He hasn't closed its doors since. Tonight, he's found someone to play with, and he has no intention of letting them leave.
TWENTY-ONE, NOT BLACKJACK
Americans call it blackjack. Silas calls it twenty-one, and in his house, he makes the rules. Draw cards from a deck you can modify, place them wherever you like, and decide when to stand. Every hand you win earns you chips from his purse. Every hand you lose puts them right back in his pocket, until your last Credit is gone.
And when your Credits run out, the price is paid in Lucidity. Every mark that goes dark leaves you a little more here, and a little less somewhere else.
Four rounds per night, four moods of Silas. In the first, he's a gracious host. In the second, he grows bored and deals random cards just to see the look on your face. In the third, his fingers begin to tremble. In the fourth, ties are his, because he can't stand the thought of a hand ending in a draw. And every six hands, the pendulum raises the stakes.
BETWEEN ROUNDS, THE BAR
Between games, you can get up and explore the place. Touch things, open drawers, look out the window (there's a sea out there; don't ask how long it's been there). Have a drink at the counter: it's the only way to restore your Lucidity, and Silas knows that all too well.
And then there are his little games. 108 puzzles across eight chapters, in the spirit of old-fashioned pub brainteasers: liquid transfers, matchsticks, switches, paths, gears, queens on a chessboard. Each one hides a piece of a story Silas never tells in full, and a memory of her.
HIS MANY FACES
Silas doesn't keep you here by force. He keeps you here with tricks. He pours you a drink, gives you a winning hand, lends you money, and writes it all down in a black ledger. Each trick reveals a different face: the host, the gentleman cheat, the thief of time, the jailer. And sooner or later, every face begins to crack.
Keep a journal. Write down what you see. Cross out the theories that turn out to be wrong. At some point, beneath the music, you'll think you hear a beep. Steady. Distant.
“Before the war, I tell you. Which war? One of mine. I've fought plenty, boy, and lost every last one at twenty-one. Have a drink. No, don't look at the glass. Look at me. Do I look like the sort who'd poison his guests? Don't answer. I haven't got a face anymore. Drink up, then stay seated. That's the house rule. I wrote it myself. Tonight.”
— Silas Vane, at the bar, at three eleven
WHY WON'T HE LET YOU GO?
One More Hand? is a card game wrapped around a mystery, or a mystery played out through cards. It's witty for as long as it can be, melancholy when it needs to be, and it never explains grief outright. Instead, it shows you an object (a rose, a stopped clock, a suitcase) and lets the object do the talking.
You can win at twenty-one. Getting up from the table is another matter.
KEY FEATURES
A game of twenty-one that forgives nothing and forgets nothing. Cards, chips, a purse to empty, and a Lucidity meter you must keep from going dark. Whatever you lose, Silas pockets. Every last bit of it.
A deck that evolves with you. Stitch upgrades into your cards, buy constellations at the pawn shop, and learn the house rules one at a time, whenever he decides you're ready.
Four rounds, four versions of Silas. The gracious host, the bored dealer, the trembling gambler, and the man who refuses to accept a tie. Each round has its own quirks. Learn to read them.
108 puzzles across eight chapters. Hand-drawn brainteasers, a journal for your notes, and hints you can purchase with jukebox coins. Nothing is there by accident.
A bar waiting to be explored. The pendulum, the window overlooking the sea, the liquor trolley, the safe, the door that won't open from this side. Everything can be touched. Much of it remembers.
Silas, alive in a manner of speaking. An animated skeleton who talks, whistles, lies, laughs, and occasionally forgets how. Complete with a journal to keep track of what he says, and what he leaves unsaid.
More than one ending. It depends on what you find, what you understand, and when you decide to stand up.
Living, ink-drawn noir. Hand-drawn illustrations, original smoky-club music, and sounds that come from the things themselves (the record from the jukebox, the rain against the glass).
Play your way. Mouse and keyboard or controller, fully remappable controls, sound captions, larger text, and adjustable text speed.