One mailbox. Five broken fates. Every letter costs a piece of you.
A rusted bronze mailbox appears at your door one rainy night. Inside: five desperate letters from 2016 — a girl drowning in debt, a child surviving a massacre, a teenager disfigured by her manager, an orphan the world calls a monster, and an apprentice whose entire school burned to ash.
You write back. The world rewrites itself.
Ten years later, the girls you saved have become five of the most powerful women alive: a financial empress controlling 1% of the nation's wealth, a mercenary queen commanding 400 elite soldiers, an AI founder controlling 10% of global computing power, an international actress with a billion fans, and a legendary physician who heals — or kills — with a single silver needle.
They've spent a decade searching for you. Now they've found you.
But every letter you sent left a gear-shaped bronze burn scar on your chest. And their devotion has hardened into something far more dangerous than love.
KEY FEATURES
Each heroine commands a different domain. Your choice at Chapter 20 determines which queen you face first — and which four become unpredictable, increasingly obsessive threats lurking in the margins of your story.
Forget everything you know about romance games. In Chrono Mailbox, agreeing with her, accepting her gifts, and telling her what she wants to hear will push her obsession past the breaking point — and lock you into a beautifully crafted Bad End. Survival demands the courage to push back, to say no, to be cruel when she needs it most. The real password isn't "please her." It's "contain her."
Every End is a fully illustrated CG, unlocked in a permanent gallery. A golden cage atop a skyscraper. A city burning in financial meltdown. An AI that erases your identity and replaces you with a simulation. Players will deliberately choose wrong just to see what happens. That's the point.
One of the five heroines can detect your save/load actions, counts how many times you've rewound, and remembers your choices across playthroughs. Load too many times trying to romance someone else, and she will confront you. Her holographic display leaks emotions she refuses to show on her face. She is the only character who knows she is in a game.
In Chapter 1, the mailbox runs out of energy. You must delete 20 words from your letter by dragging them into a trash icon. The game silently records every deleted character — including typos and hesitations. Sixty chapters later, the final antagonist reveals his power source: your discarded words, pulled from trash_protocol.dat. The ultimate Meta twist: the boss's weapon is something you fed him yourself.
The mailbox doesn't run on science fiction logic. It runs on Buddhist causality — karma. Every miracle it grants is borrowed against the protagonist's lifespan. The bronze burn scars on his chest are not punishment; they are receipts. The True Ending requires the heroines to voluntarily sacrifice their empires — burning the artifacts that anchored a decade of unearned fortune — to save the man who saved them. Gods step down. Queens fall to earth. What remains is love without power.
When a heroine's jealousy rises, her true thoughts leak through ASMR-proximity whispers in your left or right ear — layered beneath her composed dialogue in the center channel. The volume of her madness scales with her obsession meter. When it overtakes the center channel, her mask has cracked.
shared chapters → 5 diverging routes (30 chapters each) → convergence through a mirror-image nemesis arc, temporal erasure, and a True End that requires scars collected across every route. Multiple playthroughs aren't optional — they're architecturally necessary.
