REDACTED

You have a cellar, a press, and a case of movable type. The Ministry keeps a list of what the city is allowed to read, and you are not on it.

Every night you set words into the press bed and pull a print. Alliteration pays. Rhyme pays better. A word nobody is allowed to say pays best of all — and every one you print raises the Heat, until somebody kicks the door in.

Nine nights. Three districts. A censor waiting on every third one, and each of them has read your last pamphlet.

• Compose, don't draw. Lines score on the patterns you build out of them — alliteration, rhyme, crescendo, echo, manifesto.
• Banned words are the whole gamble. Each one doubles the line and stacks Heat faster than the last; extras in a single line count double.
• Type wears out. Every tile you print chips. The night market sells fresh slugs, a wider bed, and fonts that quietly rewrite the rules.
• Three printers. The Poet rhymes, the Agitator burns the evidence, the Archivist never runs short.
• Getting out is its own problem. Meet the last quota and you still have to leave the city, carrying whatever Heat you earned getting there.
• Then do it harder. Four Crackdown levels above the standard run, and an endless city for anyone who escapes.