Nine worlds. No filler.

A living WebGL organism. Thirty-two thousand particles morph from sphere to helix as you scroll — dark, precise, unmistakably intelligent.

Typography as architecture. Monumental grotesk headlines, a cursor-driven project index, and one violent orange accent on monochrome restraint.

Horological quiet luxury. A genuine engine-turned guilloché plate, cut to canvas and lit by a moving lamp, behind a draggable thirty-year dial that re-cuts the pattern as the family's horizon moves.

An operations board rendered as design. Live-feeling container states, a customs clearance ladder and a tariff explainer, built for a trade that is judged on whether the box moved.

Screen-print modernism that prints itself. Each section arrives plate by plate — green, mango, hibiscus, ink — mis-registered, then snaps into register under a squeegee wipe. Every poster is drawn in the browser.

Joyful clutter, arranged with intent. A collage masthead of polaroids, receipts and ticket stubs — draggable, peeling on hover — with hand-scrawled notes and specials running on a ticket marquee.

The material as the argument. Hardwood grain, named joints and an honest account of what is cut by hand versus machined — a maker's site that shows the working, not just the finish.

A roof survey you can watch happen. Modules tile onto a real factory plan as you scroll, capacity and payback counting up beside them, then a twenty-five-year model with every assumption printed underneath.

A treatment train that runs on the page — six units, water visibly clearing between them, live parameters falling to the guaranteed limit. Then the numbers they sign for, and the cost per cubic metre, published.