The Acapulco smells of frying oil and hot stone, the terrace still crowded though the hour is late. A small fan pushes air in circles. Alias and Buba sit in their corner as always, the white paper between them, stained now with coffee rings.

Buba flicks the pages, restless.
“Your wheel is clever, Mr. Banker. But wheels don’t feed a man. Tell me plain: what does your Pegged put in a hand? A number on a screen? A promise?”

Alias shakes his head. “Not a promise. A #PEG is a stablecoin. Anchored one-to-one to what people already trust. Ten in, ten out. Always the same value. The draw only decides who holds it, not what it’s worth.”

Buba watches him. “So if I win ten #peg, I can spend it as ten euros tomorrow?”

“Yes. That’s the point. It doesn’t inflate, it doesn’t collapse. It’s not a gamble. It’s money—redistributed by chance.”

Buba sits back, smiling faintly. “Then the shape matters. On the street, no one asks for definitions. They ask if it looks right, if it spends. If it hesitates, it dies.”

Alias nods. “That’s why #PEG is designed to be as familiar as possible. A code, a QR, whatever form—something anyone can check instantly. No names, no signatures, just: valid or not. The draw is invisible behind it. All they see is the value.”

Buba drums his fingers on the table. “Recognition is survival. A mantero doesn’t sell the best shirt, he sells the shirt that looks like the real thing. Same law for money. If it passes the eye test, it moves. If not, forget it.”

He leans forward, lowering his voice. “And discipline matters. One man pushing fakes, one man careless, and the whole line pays. The network is merciless. Does your Pegged carry that same discipline?”

Alias hesitates, then answers. “Yes. There are no second chances. If a transfer fails, it fails. If a draw is missed, it’s gone. No one—not even us—can change it after. That’s the discipline.”

Buba studies him for a long moment, then closes the paper with a flat hand. “Good. Because without that hardness, it would just be another trick. And tricks don’t last.”

The terrace hums around them: the scrape of chairs, the call of the lottery vendor outside, the smell of grilled sardines drifting in. For a moment, neither speaks.

Finally Buba says, “If it really holds its shape, then maybe… maybe it travels further than Spain. In Senegal, people know chance. They live with it every day.”

Alias looks up. “You mean the tontines.”

Buba nods, eyes steady. “Exactly. If Pegged can sit beside those circles, then perhaps it has legs.”