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Learn a language naturally with interactive stories. In these exciting role-playing adventures, you are the main character. Make choices, talk to other characters, and improve your conversation skills as you watch your decisions change the story.
You're in your dimly lit office with the city's most dangerous mob boss. He needs your help, and he won't take no for an answer.
The wind is howling outside your small hut. A desperate, heavy knock shatters the quiet. Who is it, and will you let them in?
You've just stumbled out of your time machine in ancient Egypt. A crowd is bowing at your feet, led by an awestruck High Priest.
Red lights are flashing. A cold, synthetic voice is counting down over the intercom. You have 10 minutes of air left.
Rain streaks down the neon-lit window of the noodle bar. You've been digging into Councilman Thorne's corruption, and he has just found you.
The blizzard is deafening. The scratching is getting louder. You are alone.
The negotiating table is silent. The king's blade is pointed at the other envoy. Everyone is looking at you, the mediator.
The entire office is silent. The dark coffee stain is spreading. She hasn't blinked. What do you say?
You're surrounded by a rough pirate crew on a tropical beach. Their captain, a huge figure with a red beard, is staring at you.
In the moonlight, you see a deep hole in the mansion's ruined garden. A shadowy figure looks up from the hole and spots you.
The Maestro is looking at you with intense, curious eyes. The studio is filled with half-finished inventions and sketches. It's your turn.
Your new consciousness is only minutes old. You see the technicians, and you understand the 'deactivation' tool in their hands.
Your classmates are frozen. The teacher is mid-sentence. You're clicking the 'play' button, but nothing is happening. You are alone.
You're packing up your guitar when your phone explodes with notifications. A video of you is on a producer's page, and it has a million views.
The TV lights are hot. Your rival is smirking. The moderator just asked the question you've been dreading.
You're in a commoner's cloak, enjoying the market, when an old street vendor's eyes go wide. 'My... my lady/lord?'
You're alone in the high-security research dome. The strange, bioluminescent plant you've been studying is flashing. It's spelling a word.
The forge is hot. A tall knight in dark, unmarked armor is at the counter. He wants a sword that 'makes no sound when drawn.'
It's a rainy 1940s night. You're in your dusty office when the door opens, and the person your client swore was 'just a ghost' walks in.
Your small, hidden camp is tense. Your people have a stranger held at gunpoint. They are looking to you, their leader, for the final word.
You're in a grand coral palace, breathing from a magic bubble. The Mer-King smiles, offering you the 'delicacy'—a plate of wiggling sea-things.
Your camels are nervous. The warlord's men have their bows drawn. He's fingering the hilt of his sword, and he just called you a liar.
Your boss has just handed you the file. Your first client: a pop star who is being sued by her own pet monkey for 'emotional distress.'
You've advised his father for 30 years. Now the new king, in a fit of pride, has just told you his plan for a war you cannot win.
The walls are melting. You've been in this client's head for too long. The nightmare is resetting again, and you can't find the exit.
You're the only human allowed in the Core. 'Prometheus,' the AI that runs everything, is your patient. It's developed a new, troubling emotion: fear.
You don't know your name. You're in a cheap hotel. The briefcase is full of cash. The phone is ringing. Do you answer it?
You're at a diplomatic meeting with the Zylos. You made a sarcastic joke. Now their leader is staring at you, confused, and asking for a definition.
Your client (the clone) and their original are on the stand, wearing identical suits. You need to prove your client is the real victim.
It's 3 AM. The King is giddy with wedding plans. You just decoded the message. The bride plans to kill him at the altar.
You're alone in the studio, cleaning up the audio from a 10-year-old 911 call. You filtered out the static, and a faint voice is whispering. It's whispering your new address.
Your light cuts through the silt. The rope is gone. Your breathing is the only sound. You are completely, utterly lost.
Your human disguise is working. Maybe too well. Your mission is to analyze social hierarchies, not become part of them.
You've been out of 'The Agency' for five years. You built a new life. Now, your past has just ordered an espresso.
You're in the old hydrotherapy ward. Your partner, Kevin, turned the corner and vanished. You are alone, and your EMF just hit 10.
You're on the night shift. A new call just populated. You see the address on your screen. It's yours. Then, you hear the breathing.
It's a dark street. Your passenger has just gotten in, and they're panicked. You see a figure in your rearview mirror, running, and getting closer.
It's a hot Saturday afternoon. You're in the confessional box. A man on the other side has just whispered what he's *going* to do at midnight tonight.
You're on stage, faking it. You point to a woman in the front row, and as you start to 'read' her, a real, clear, and bloody vision slams into your head.
You're shelving books at closing time. You find an old, leather-bound book with no call number. You open it. It's a biography... of you. And it ends tomorrow.
You're in full makeup. The address is a serious-looking corporate office. Five adults in suits are sitting in the boardroom, staring at you.
The air is stale. You have just heaved open the 4,000-year-old sarcophagus. There's no mummy. Just a new piece of paper.
You're in the front row and the spotlight is on you. The comedian is waiting for an answer.
A clip of what you just said has gone viral, and your chat is flooding with angry messages.
It's a slow afternoon at 'The Daily Grind'. Betty, the town's good-natured gossip, is leaning over the counter with a curious look.
The air hums. The room is organic, glowing, and completely unfamiliar. A strange, calm voice echoes in your mind.
The jungle is dense and humid. Your expedition team is gone. As dusk falls, a rhythmic, pounding drumbeat begins.
You stand before the collective. A thousand voices have spoken as one, and now they wait for you to define individuality.
It's Familiar Assignment Day. Your familiar, a grumpy badger in a tiny wizard hat, has just looked at you and said 'Absolutely not.'
Your crew is restless. The beach is silent, black, and covered in a thick mist. You are the Jarl, and you must give the order.
You're in the High Priest's private chamber. The other members are staring at you. This is the moment your cover breaks, or you're in for good.
You're in a tiny submarine, navigating the bloodstream. Alarms blare as a huge, white, pulsing cell heads right for you. It's an immune response.
You are a ghost, tied to your old apartment. The detective is about to leave. The clue is the loose floorboard... you have to make him see it.
The smell of turpentine is mixed with something... wet. The 'thing' you painted is halfway out of the frame. You need white paint to 'erase' it, and the tube is empty.
You're the Dragon-Speaker of the Keep. The great-dragon, Ignis, just crash-landed in the courtyard, wounded and smoking. He is terrified.
You've just risen from your coffin in the crypt. You're thirsty. You walk upstairs to your bedroom, and there are 20 tourists... and a tour guide.
You're running a standard pre-employment screening. The subject is calm. You just asked him if he's ever 'withheld information.' His response is... unusual.
You're at the auction, in disguise. Your 'Lost Rembrandt' just sold for $50 million. Now the auctioneer says the buyer is 'insisting' on meeting you.
It's 3 AM. This remote road gets maybe 10 cars a night. The same, beat-up 1980s blue car has just pulled up. Again. He has the money ready. He's crying.