Same job every time: nine separate purchases collapse into one pouch. Each one argues it from a different angle.
A till receipt is the most literal object for "what this costs you". Nine line items print one by one, then the tear line, then one.
Everything on that receipt arrives blended and weighed, with every ingredient printed on the pouch in order.
One pouch · 24 servings · one reorderSpatial rather than numeric. Nine tubs lift off the shelf and one pouch is left standing on it.
Reframes the pain from clutter to admin. Nine dates scattered across a month against one.
Type only, no imagery. The nine categories add up on screen and resolve into one word.
Counts steps rather than products. Nine things to do before work against one.
Not a count, a coordination problem. Nine products overlap where doses double up and leave a gap nothing covers.
Nine labels bought separately were never designed to sit next to each other. Some ingredients arrive twice over, and the things none of them carry stay missing.
Physical rather than numeric. Nine containers drawn against one pouch, at the size they take on a shelf.
A scenario rather than an argument. Nine tubs do not go in a bag for a week away. One pouch does.
Nine tubs · four of them will not fit

One pouch · 24 days of it
Nine ingredient panels fanned out, each one a separate thing to read and trust. They clear and one is left.
A systems drawing. Nine inputs pipe into one output, which is literally what the blending step is.
Nine till receipts fly in and stack. They hold, scatter outward, and the pouch wires itself to every one of them. Combines the receipt, the stack and the manifold in one run.