You walked in rich. You walk out bankrupt.
A free street RPG. Ten skills to 99, bosses with names, a bell that raises the dead — and a block that saw your arrest on the news.
Free in your browser — phone or computer. Nothing to download.
No account needed to start.
The case
Yours was just in the papers.
Every ReignCoin account frozen at nine a.m. by federal order. Pensions, college funds and a church building fund: gone.
You ran Reign Capital and its coin, ReignCoin — “a bitcoin fund that paid its first investors with its last investors’ money.”
On the morning the money ran out, your banker asked you to sit down. Then he told you why.
Reign Capital — account status
Every account tied to ReignCoin
Frozen 9:00 a.m. by federal order
Superior Court
The State against [your name]. Reign Capital. ReignCoin.
Forfeited: the cars. The houses. The accounts. The coin.
Sentence: one year.
You walked in here rich. You walk out bankrupt.
— Judge Crane
County — month eleven
“There’s a block right under the precinct they’ll let you out of. Man there with a crown over his head. Rook. Me and Rook ran that block before you were born.”
— Duncan, your cellmate
Thirty days later the door of the 12th Precinct opens. Rook is waiting. So is the block.
The block remembers
“I was sitting right here when they walked you out of that bank in a suit. Prettiest arrest I ever saw.”
— Ms. Gladys
“My cousin put his whole check in ReignCoin. He’s still mad. Don’t worry, he don’t know it was you.”
— the Kid
“You sold people a coin that was just other people’s money. Out here we call that a Tuesday.”
— the Hustler
The block
Moves cars. Doesn’t ask questions. The first man with work for you.
Rules of the block are simple: what you can take is yours.
Owns the lot with the worst house on the block, and is embarrassed about it.
Congratulations. You own a problem.
Over the trestle. Cooks on a door balanced on two crates and calls it a kitchen.
Don’t tell Rook I gave you that. He’d want his knuckles done and I don’t do knuckles.
Runs the rec center in the projects. Has since before the towers went up.
This is the projects — twelve stories of people who don’t want you here.
The block’s memory. Front porch, folding chair, sees everything.
And pull your pants up. I can see what you had for breakfast.
Keeps a list. The list is the job.
Heard you owed a lot of people. On my list you just owe me the job.
The pawnbroker. A loupe screwed into his eye, bulletproof glass in front of him.
Everything’s fake till I say it’s real. The minute I say it’s real, it’s three times what I paid you.
Why play
Fists, guns, chem, toughness, cooking, cars, contracts, fixing, jewelry and faith. Every one levels the old way: one action at a time.
Show me the ten skillsEvery crew’s card says what it’s weak to. Read it, or read the ceiling of a cell.
Show me the triangleThrow the Dust, ring the church’s old bell, and a dead man gets up on your side.
Show me how to raise the deadStrip cars. Cook at the drug lab. Fix up the ugliest house on the block. Every job levels something.
Show me the workCeez, Dre, the Tower King, Big E. When something rare hits the ground, a column of gold says so.
Show me the bossesArmor off the street. Chains, grills and tailored suits on the Boulevard.
Show me the dripHomies, crews, trades, chat and the high scores.
Show me how to play togetherTen skills
Every skill climbs the same curve, one action at a time. The first levels come quick. The nineties don’t.
Hold a skill and it shows your xp, what’s left to the next level, and a goal you set. A needle fills as you close in.
Level up and four pistols circle your head and fire three volleys into the air. Brass on the ground. Nobody has to tell you.
Thirty marks go on your rap sheet along the way. Fifteen more stay hidden until you earn them.
The triangle
Every crew on the island fights one way. Bring what beats it and you hit a third harder and miss less. Bring the wrong thing and you hit a third softer — and they’ll explain the rest. The crew’s card tells you what it’s weak to before you swing.
“See? Different game. Chem beats guns, fists beat chem, guns beat fists. Keep that in your head and you’ll walk out of most things.”
— Rook
The Lookouts, the dealers on the purple house’s corners, the cooks in the condemned building.
9 Block on the loops, the Set’s shooters, the men on the port’s gate.
The court boys, the stoop kids, the Set’s soldiers, the King’s men.
GRIT isn’t a side. It’s how much you can take — your health, and the armor you can wear.
Pharmancy
The church in the projects keeps an old censer and a hand-bell from back when it had a choir. Load the censer with Dust and swing it. Ring the bell, and a dead man climbs out of the cloud to fight beside you.
At Pharmancy 5 it’s a wino. He keeps their attention on him. At 20 it can be a junkie, and he brings poison.
He’s yours for a couple of minutes. He doesn’t ask questions. He can’t.
“The church’s old censer and the hand-bell, from back when this place had a choir. Wood. They don’t shine, but they swing.”
— the Preacher
Your first one goes on the rap sheet as Necromancer.
Work the block
You want something, you take it off somebody. — Rook
Junkers on the north street, sedans on the main road, sports cars, the rigs on the semi lot and one armored van. Pop it, strip it, sell the parts.
The drug house kitchen. Back door only. Purple Drank, Lean, Dust, candles — and stones grown in a plasma machine.
Press your own rounds. Build at the bench. Buy the ugliest house on the block for $1,499 and fix it up until it has a TV that replays your finished jobs.
“There’s a raccoon, but he’s more of a roommate than a problem.”
— Sal
Ike buys broken silver. His back room melts it into bars, then rings, chains, censers and bells, set with stones.
Big Reg names a crew and a number. Bring him the number and he pays. Every tenth job is the big one.
Burn beads and rosaries at the House of Refuge. Light a candle for an edge. Give the Preacher a ring and he’ll wear it.
“The Lord sees you. So does everybody else now.”
— the Preacher
The board
Every boss has a corner and something worth taking. The boss log keeps the score: every time you put one down, every drop, how long since the rare one, your fastest time.
The grow house, past the bottom of the block.
His smoke has you swinging at air. He takes a drag to heal.
“Big E’s people. Smell like the greenhouse. Fight like it too.”
The roof.
“Black, no numbers, a minigun on a swing arm where the searchlight should be. Every pass it drops low over the parapet to line up the next one — that is when you hit it.”
The south tower, his own floor. Four guards first.
“Hasn’t come down off that floor in two years. Everything comes up to him.”
9 Block. The bottom of loop C.
“The chain alone is worth more than your rent.”
The Set. The courtyard.
“Talks up at the tower on the radio and calls it sir. Nobody else ever hears an answer.”
Up on the roof the gravel turns red before the big hits land. Move.
“Every one you put down, I cut a mark.”
— the Deacon, under the House of Refuge
The drop
Something worth having hits the ground and the street lights up — a column of gold, and four bats coming down around it. Duffle bags. The Kilo. The King’s Red Kit. The rarest guns on the island.
You pick how much a drop has to be worth before it gets the light. The rare ones get it anyway.
The island
“Including me.” — Old Head
Where you start. The precinct at the north end, the court, the loops, the purple house, the corner store.
The rec center, the towers, the condemned building, a pawn shop and a storefront church.
“A king. Of what? The elevator don’t even work.”
— Auntie
Over the trestle. A camp around the fire barrels, a den in the trees, a cabin with three animals.
“Trestle’s the only way over. Ain’t nobody swum that river since the plant closed.”
— Slim
Past the grow lot and the water tower: a truck stop, the port office, a breakers’ yard, a fish market, and a ship at berth one.
The crypt. The Deacon keeps a count on the wall.
Polished stone, globe lamps, money in the windows. Any ATM takes you there.
Rook’s car sits on blocks. Put an engine in it and it’ll bring you back here from anywhere.
“You come to in a cell at the 12th. The door’s open. Your stuff is in a bag at the front desk. Shook.”
Bail is a tenth of what it’s worth. The desk hands back your three best things free.
Five skies
Night, the way it’s always looked. Morning. Day. Sunset Strip — palms and power lines against the sun. Purple Haze — neon on the skyline and searchlights in the dark. Settings, Interface, Sky. It changes while you play.
Drip
Armor comes off the crews that wear it — four sets, by Grit. The King’s red goes on once you’ve finished Towers. Everything else is on the Boulevard.
“Top and bottom, set with stones. Your smile costs more than most cars on the block.”
— the Diamond Grill
“A line of diamonds around your neck. Nobody on the block has one. Now somebody does.”
— the Tennis Chain
Off the crews on the block and the stoops: caps, hoodies, jerseys, jeans and kicks.
“White high-tops, laces loose. Barely armor. You'll walk round puddles anyway.”— Fresh Kicks
Off the tougher crews: hard hats, work jackets, Dickies, Timbs, a Cuban link.
“Flat gold links, heavy clasp. Real, which on this block is rare.”— Cuban Link
Off the men around the King's tower, and the semi lot at the docks.
“Gloss black, a white stripe over the crown, the visor smoked dark. Nobody on the street knows whose face is in it.”— Biker Helmet
Fit a King's Red Kit onto any biker piece.
“One red piece on and the Set leaves you be; three or more and you hit harder.”
Off the crews at the docks. The vest you make yourself.
“Wheat Timbs with a steel cap under the toe. A kick with these in it ends a conversation.”— Steel-Toe Timbs
The Atelier. Four pieces, bought in order.
“Long camel wool. Looks like it belongs downtown. So do you, now.”— Camel Coat
The Atelier. Four pieces, bought in order.
“Cream silk, skull on the back. Do not fight in it. You will fight in it.”— Silk Shirt
The Atelier. Four pieces, bought in order.
“Black, cut for you, lined in red. Fits over a vest if you insist.”— Tailored Jacket
“Glass cases, soft lights, and a guard who’s already decided you can’t afford it.”
Chains from $1,999 to $13,999. Grills from $800 to $6,000. Rings and watches. Bought in a row — each piece opens the next.
Three outfits: camel, designer, suit.
“Black felt, red band. You have to commit to it.”
— the Fedora
“Three chairs, one TV, and an argument about the best rapper alive that started in 2004.”
Hair, color, beard and ink.
Play together
Make an account and your character lives on our server — sign in on any phone and it’s there. Add your homies and the game tells you when they come on. Start a crew. Trade. Talk. Climb the high scores.
By invite During the alpha, accounts are by invite. Got a link? Open it — the game fills in the invite for you. No link? Play signed out. Your game saves on your phone or computer.
FREE TO PLAY. No loot boxes. We’ll never sell the grind — no xp boosts, no better drops, no contract pay.
Nobody on the board yet. Be the first.
The boards: Total level, every skill, quest points, mobs, bosses, cash, wealth, deaths, bail paid and the fastest roof run.
Open the scoresThe alpha
Both on purpose.
News
Questions
Contact
A problem with your account, an idea, something that isn’t right — send it here and it lands with the people who run the game. A bug in the game itself is best sent with the Report a bug button inside the game: it carries the detail with it.
He’s still waiting.
Play freeFree in your browser — phone or computer. Nothing to download.
News
The game
BANKRUPT is a free street RPG you play in your browser. You start with nothing on the block, a year after the whole island watched you get walked out of a bank in cuffs. You level ten skills, run 37 quests for the people on the block, put bosses down and build yourself back up.
Every skill climbs the same curve, one action at a time. The first levels come quick. The nineties don’t.
Hold a skill and it shows your xp, what’s left to the next level, and a goal you set. A needle fills as you close in. Level up and four pistols circle your head and fire three volleys into the air. Brass on the ground. Nobody has to tell you.
Thirty marks go on your rap sheet along the way. Fifteen more stay hidden until you earn them.
Every crew on the island fights one way. Bring what beats it and you hit a third harder and miss less. Bring the wrong thing and you hit a third softer — and they’ll explain the rest. The crew’s card tells you what it’s weak to before you swing.
Grit isn’t a side. It’s how much you can take — your health, and the armor you can wear.
The church in the projects keeps an old censer and a hand-bell from back when it had a choir. Load the censer with Dust and swing it. Ring the bell, and a dead man climbs out of the cloud to fight beside you.
At Pharmancy 5 it’s a wino. He keeps their attention on him. At 20 it can be a junkie, and he brings poison. He’s yours for a couple of minutes. He doesn’t ask questions. He can’t. Your first one goes on the rap sheet as Necromancer.
Every boss has a corner and something worth taking. The boss log keeps the score: every time you put one down, every drop, how long since the rare one, your fastest time.
Up on the roof the gravel turns red before the big hits land. Move.
Something worth having hits the ground and the street lights up — a column of gold, and four bats coming down around it. Duffle bags. The Kilo. The King’s Red Kit. The rarest guns on the island. You pick how much a drop has to be worth before it gets the light. The rare ones get it anyway.
Rook’s car sits on blocks. Put an engine in it and it’ll bring you back here from anywhere.
“You come to in a cell at the 12th. The door’s open. Your stuff is in a bag at the front desk. Shook.” Bail is a tenth of what it’s worth. The desk hands back your three best things free.
Night, the way it’s always looked. Morning. Day. Sunset Strip — palms and power lines against the sun. Purple Haze — neon on the skyline and searchlights in the dark. Settings, Interface, Sky. It changes while you play.
Armor comes off the crews that wear it — four sets, by Grit. The King’s red goes on once you’ve finished Towers. Everything else is on the Boulevard.
Make an account and your character lives on our server — sign in on any phone and it’s there. Add your homies and the game tells you when they come on. Start a crew. Trade. Talk. Climb the high scores.
During the alpha, accounts are by invite. Got a link? Open it — the game fills in the invite for you. No link? Play signed out. Your game saves on your phone or computer.
Free to play. No loot boxes. We’ll never sell the grind — no xp boosts, no better drops, no contract pay.
Chat hides slurs, always, and swearing unless you switch it on. Block anyone. Report anyone. For players 18 and over.
Wiki
Every item, crew, quest and skill in the game.
Built straight from the game’s own numbers, so it’s never out of date.
Community
Who’s on top: total level, every skill, quest points, mobs and bosses, cash, wealth, deaths, bail paid and the fastest roof run.
Choose what gets built next.
Tell us what the game needs.
