Work that is online right now — open it, click around, check the headers. Every card links to something you can see for yourself.
A rental marketplace running in production: listings, map search, landlord accounts, passwordless login and an AI assistant that answers in Albanian. Three languages, installable as an app, and a catalogue that updates itself every day.
A portfolio site for an architect, in Italian only. Static export, no database and no monthly fee: photographs are prepared in AVIF and WebP at six widths, so the opening image costs a phone 12 kB instead of 164. Measured on 9 September 2026: 100 on Lighthouse accessibility and best practices, and the whole page lands on a phone in 330 kB.
A 3D racing game that runs in the browser with nothing to install — career mode, a garage of built-to-order cars, multiplayer and music. Proof that "website" is not the ceiling: the same stack that ships a landing page also ships this.
The chat on this site answers questions nobody scripted, then hands the conversation to a human when it should. Free models behind it, so it costs nothing to keep running — and it is told what it may never promise.
The same audit we sell, run on our own production site: HSTS with preload, a tightened content security policy, two-factor on accounts, alerts to Telegram, and backups restored to prove they work. The headers are public — check them yourself.
A dental practice site with a booking flow that picks treatment, day and time and keeps a running summary beside the form. Forty-minute appointments, prices agreed before the drill and same-day emergencies — a practice that reads calm and books in three clicks.
A small hotel, image-led and dark, with a booking bar that counts the nights, adds the tourist tax and totals the stay while you change your mind. Eleven rooms above the water, and a stay that prices itself while the guest is still deciding.
A shop that behaves like one: size changes the price, the bag slides in, quantities adjust, the free-delivery bar fills as you go, and the bag survives a reload. Six single origins under one house look, and a bag that survives a reload with everything still in it.
Twenty-seven zone pages built from the catalogue itself, each one answering the query somebody actually types — how many flats, the average rent, the average size, and the listings underneath. Search Console confirms them: this one carries 62 live listings and its own numbers, updated nightly.
A tenant says what they need and gets matched as listings appear, instead of refreshing a search page. It runs on a chain of free models with a fallback for each, so the feature costs nothing per month and still answers when one provider is down.
A link in the email or a QR code scanned from the phone — added beside the password, never replacing it, so nobody was locked out on the day it shipped. The QR is not the credential: it carries a claim that has to be redeemed, which is the part most implementations get wrong.
The assistant on the architect’s site explains how the studio works and what a survey involves — and is told what it may never do: quote a price, book an appointment, or invent a reference. Ask it what a renovation costs and it sends you to the survey instead.
A property page where the scroll is the ascent: pinned horizontal panning, split text revealed behind a mask, an altimeter tied to scroll position and a colour that interpolates with height. Plain HTML, CSS and JavaScript — no framework, no build step, no licence.
A kart racer that runs in a browser tab with nothing to install: three laps, a full track, karts, a HUD and a timer, in a bundle small enough to open over mobile data. Built to find out how far the web platform goes before a native app is the honest answer.
A tactical shooter built on the real city: 9,638 buildings imported from OpenStreetMap at true scale, loadouts, two modes and two zones, running in a browser tab. The interesting part is not the game — it is that the geometry of a whole city streams into one and works.
A six-piece shop where the motion is the point: the scroll is smoothed, headings arrive line by line from behind a mask, cards uncover themselves, the tiles lean toward the cursor, and the lookbook pans sideways while the page holds still. Sizes sell out, the bag survives a reload, and it installs on a phone.
Flowers are sold on a date, not a basket, so the date is the interface: a fortnight of days with Sundays closed and today greyed out once the van has gone at one o’clock. The card message types itself onto a preview, and the order summary carries the day, the slot and the words.
The question a law firm’s site usually dodges, answered on the page: pick the matter, how complicated it is and how soon you need it, and the fee range appears with what is and is not inside it. Austere on purpose — rules draw themselves, headings uncover from the left, no photograph moves.
A trade site that answers the two questions before the phone call: do you come to my postcode, and what does it cost. The postcode field gives three different honest answers — on our round, just outside with £20 on the hour, or too far to be worth either of us — and every job carries a band with what is excluded printed beside it.
The spaces left are on the timetable rather than behind a login. Booking a class moves the counter and the bar under it, a class at twelve of twelve offers a waiting list instead of a dead button, and the memberships page says plainly which one most people should take.
Booking with two dimensions instead of one. A skin fade takes forty-five minutes and Marco does not do beards, so the free times are the intersection of who you picked and what you picked — and picking a barber who cannot do the service drops it rather than letting you book something nobody will turn up for.
The registration is the whole interface, drawn as the plate people recognise before they read it. Put one in and the page names the car, works out how many days the MOT has left and colours it accordingly, then preselects the MOT if it is close — and takes £20 off when it is booked with a service.
Two questions a restaurant site has to answer before anything else: are you open, and can I get a table. The status line works itself out from the printed hours, and the booking changes with the party — six people find fewer sittings free than two, because that is how a forty-cover room works.
The other half of a booking page: the week the front desk works from. Drag an appointment and it refuses what would double-book a chair, run past six or land on a closed Saturday — and says which. Arrow keys move it too, because a front desk is faster with keys than with a mouse.
Charts built the way charts should be: one axis each and never two, a palette checked against colour-blind vision rather than chosen by eye, the change written with an arrow and a word so it never rests on red and green alone, and a table under the graph for anyone the graph does not serve. Dark mode is its own set of steps, not an inverted flip.