MyLine · launching soon · 18+ only
Swipe like nobody's watching, unwind in the Clubs, or Spin the wheel for a fresh conversation. When a Club conversation turns into the conversation — lock the door. Everywhere else is private by default.
How it's built
Under MyLine runs a reputation market. Every swipe, rating and locked room is a price signal — and the pool clears. Other apps moderate with a report queue and a thought. Here, the people that you will have an impact on will decide what you're worth.
Interactions end with a verdict from both sides. The share of counterparts who'd vouch for you is your consensus percentage — public, earned, slow to build and quick to lose. Unsolicited pics? The recipients vote, and senders don't survive the week. No report form begging a mod to care. The User-Base removes them. You never read your own score — it shows to others once enough people have rated you, and only where you hunt alone: the deck and the wheel. The Clubs stay scoreless.
Consensus feeds viability — your standing in the pool. High viability buys reach, placement, and a near ad-free feed: your ad load is indexed to what your matches think of your interactions — and to demand itself: the profiles everyone wants see the fewest ads of all. Be someone people are glad they met — clean feed. Be a liability — you see the ads, you fund the venue.
Search like you mean it. Real filters for exactly what you're after — standards other apps make you swipe blind for. Three theaters — Just Vibes, Friends-maybe-Benefits, After Dark — run through everything: your deck, your clubs, your spins, each full of people there for the same thing. We don't sell an experience; we build the environment that lets one happen. A pool that prices itself raises its own average, and a higher average pulls in the next thousand. That loop is the product.
Everyone holds a Jeopardy Vote — the User-Base's emergency brake. It never kicks anyone on its own: three votes landing on the same profile trigger an immediate manual review, run by us, ahead of every queue. Because the outcome lands mostly on the voters, a Jeopardy Vote is a stake, not a tantrum. Votes are adhesive, too — weight follows your long-term record here, so judgment that has held up for months moves more than an opinion that arrived yesterday:
Flagrant or malicious behaviour found → every voter gets their vote back, plus one more. Good judgment compounds.
No evidence either way → every voter takes a stripe. Six misses in sequence pulls your vote on the spot — and a running accuracy record catches what streaks can't: spacing out bad calls won't save a bad hit rate. The User-Base stays accurate.
A vote built on emotion, aimed at someone's visibility → all your votes stripped, three stripes, and votes cashed against you count double: two is enough to put you under review.
A market needs prices, so prices are the price of admission: your weekly rating quota unlocks conduct history on the people you're about to meet — hit it and their record opens up, skip it and you browse blind. The quota can't be gamed with noise: ratings fired off at random stand out mathematically against the distribution of everyone else's, and the response is ramifications to that account's ability to participate — how deep and how long stays our call — with a red ✕ pinned to the corner of your card, right where your percentile sits. Hitting quota pays in more than information, too: rewinds, super likes and Jump Starts are all earnable right there — no money needed, just an opinion.
Enforcement
The system follows your decisions and your conduct over the long term, and weight follows the record — the longer your judgment holds up, the more your vote counts. Those who stick around deserve to be around, and the ones who truly deserve it won't be here forever. They find someone.
Every ban — automated or reviewed — arrives with one trial attached. Take the Final Stand and you get boost-level exposure while the User-Base re-scores you on the /100 scale: beat the floor that banned you and you're back, with a grace week behind you. Lose, and that's three strikes on one pitch — the ban goes permanent, and facial records, agreed to at signup, keep the door shut for good. One Final Stand per account, offered at your first ban, never banked for your last.
Drop below the rating floor three times inside any twelve-month span and the ban is permanent — no pending trial, no fourth season. The pool doesn't carry passengers.
No holding onto past glory: day 372 after your photos went up, with nothing newer posted, the rule bites and the old set expires. End the week with no living photo and the watch begins — one new picture by Friday keeps the account alive, none locks it. Unlocking takes support, government ID, and a photo taken the day you ask: proof it's you, as you are now.
Early line privileges
⚡ A Jump Start pins your card first in matching decks for a window — including in front of people who passed on you before. Later you earn them topping the boards or hitting your weekly rating quota. Right now, you earn them by being early:
The swipe side of MyLine stands completely on its own — discovery settings, hidden browsing, rewinds, super likes. A full deck and zero stage fright, for people who'd rather be found quietly than perform live. Every card carries its owner's consensus score — a 7.4 across 59 reviews tells you more than any bio. The deck deals inside your theater, too: environment first, experience second.
The Clubs are where you go to just talk — live rooms, eight spots each, every club living inside a theater so the room starts on the same page. Drift in, settle into a conversation, stay as long as it's good. Mid-chat anyone can propose a lock; the room votes. Carry the majority and the holdouts get a clean choice — switch to yes, or step out — and nobody new gets in until the room unlocks. The room that remains is unanimous. Locks are a Clubs thing — everything else on MyLine is private by default. Your consensus score never follows you in here, either: the room reads the person, not the number. Rough stretches get repaired in the Clubs — groups pull people up, and some rooms discover your kind of noise was exactly what they were missing.
Spin is spontaneity you keep in your pocket: pull it up in a queue, at a pregame, on the couch with a friend leaning over your shoulder — and the wheel hands you someone brand new. It's the lowest-stakes conversation there is, because their opinion of you can't weigh anything: they only know what you've chosen to show. The wheel still answers to your filters and your theater, your consent toggle is visible to both sides, and a report auto-attaches the last 60 seconds as evidence — so the fun stays fun. Some nights, though, the stranger who owes you nothing says the one thing everyone else was too careful to say. That's how lines begin.
Ghost mode is the theaters' invisibility cloak. Flip it on and your card leaves the decks and the club counts; you drift rooms as an anonymous 👻 on a ghosts-only channel, with an optional photos-only second identity for the anonymous deck. Ghosts still answer to the User-Base — a fully separate consensus ledger with separate bans — and your real profile is untouched either way.
Every profile carries a flair — one color, keyed to the theater you actually live in, so people get the general idea without ever seeing the specifics. Spend your nights in After Dark and you wear the strongest color we have: a rose red built to pull people in, not to stop traffic. Friends-maybe-Benefits runs warm coral, and Just Vibes glows a calm violet. Between the anchors sit two blend flairs for time split across neighboring theaters — exact quarter-steps on the scale, so every 25% shift in your gravity moves the color the same algebraic distance. What you did stays yours — what you're like is on display.
Under the deck runs a quiet index: of every hundred people who open your card, how many swipe and then actually message. We never print it, never put it on a board, and never let it throttle your reach — your visibility answers to the consensus you can see, not a number you can't. The index does one job: it pairs you with people whose pull matches yours, so likes turn into conversations that mean something instead of trophies that never reply.
Likes carry weight, and the weight is earned. Fire on everyone, every day, and your likes quietly thin — full value the first day, lighter the next, lighter again, until the people you like never feel them at all. Time spent actually reading a profile counts for more than the flick that follows it, so the decay hunts the habit, not the mood: a fast fifteen minutes doesn't dent the person who spends the rest of the hour genuinely looking. It's written into the terms, so nobody gets to be surprised.
Leaderboards for the competitive: like→conversation turnover, longest average call. Nothing you do counts until you opt in — the quiet majority never appears on a board at all. Top placements claim ⚡ Jump Starts: your card pinned first in matching decks, even in front of people who passed on you before.
This is a live simulator of the real build, right on the page. Press play and it tours itself — the deck, the Clubs, Spin, the boards — no effort required. The moment you touch it the tour stops and it's yours: same build, your hands, a demo profile that lives in your browser and nowhere else. We're selling the right to choose, so we conform to you first — start by choosing to watch.
Leave an email and you're in line for day one.