The bar was nearly empty. A football match murmured from the TV in the corner, but no one was watching. Alias sat alone at a back table, coat still on, a glass of water untouched.

Buba arrived late, as always, but slower now, at ease. He dropped a thick bundle of pages on the table — the Pegged White Paper, bent and scribbled all over.

“I’ve been through this thing more times than I can count,” he said. “Read it on the train, in bed, between sales. I know it like a song now.”

Alias waited.

Buba tapped the cover.
“This part — no boss, no one to call when it goes wrong. You don’t just hint at it, you hammer it. That’s hard. Brutal, even.”

Alias’s reply was steady.
“That’s the point. If someone can steer it, someone else will take the wheel. Pegged survives only if no one drives.”

Buba leaned back, half-smiling.
“And Section Six — the people who move it. That’s us. You’re clear about it: if we mess up, Pegged messes up. No excuses, no backup plan.”

Alias nodded.
“No disguise. Pegged lives only if people like you carry it. No court, no fund, no rescue.”

Buba’s voice softened.
“You know what that means on the ground. It’s the guys with nothing. Street sellers, migrants, hustlers. They’ll carry the risk. No lawyers, no banks. If it burns, it burns them first.”

Alias met his eyes.
“And that is why it has to be fair at the root. No insiders. No back doors. Every draw the same.”

The match on TV rose and fell. Buba folded the paper carefully, slid it into his jacket.

“I don’t buy every word,” he said. “But I get it now. And if I get it, I can move it. I’m with you.”

Alias inclined his head, shoulders loosening a fraction.

Buba stood, smoothing his jacket.
“I’ll start small. Bring me something I can put in a man’s hand, and we’ll see how it moves. After that — it’s on me.”

He left without looking back. Alias stayed at the table, glass of water untouched.