The hall in Stockholm was all glass and steel, the kind of place where economists liked to pretend they were engineers. Rows of professors, NGO staffers, fintech consultants, and a scattering of crypto bros in slim suits and pastel sneakers.

The banner across the stage read: “The Economics of Uncertainty.”

Sofia glanced down the table. She was the youngest panelist by two decades.

The moderator opened with a broad question about the “wisdom of the crowds.”

A senior professor from Zürich leaned into his mic. “Aggregating bets can, under certain conditions, predict elections more accurately than polls. But one must ask, is this really wisdom? Or simply gambling?”

The audience chuckled politely.

Sofia adjusted her mic, her voice calm. “I’ve never been comfortable with the phrase wisdom of the crowds. Crowds panic. Crowds burn witches. Crowds buy tulips at ten times their value. If that’s wisdom, we should all be frightened.”

A ripple of laughter spread through the students.

She went on. “The interesting thing about prediction markets is not that they are magically wise, but that they surface information. A price becomes a signal. And signals, if transparent, are hard to fake. That’s the real innovation.”

The government official on her left, a tall man with the air of permanent authority, cleared his throat. “With respect, Miss…?”

“Sofia Salonen.”

“Miss Salonen. These markets are gambling schemes, dressed in mathematics. They undermine our legal frameworks. Who decides which events may be wagered upon? A sovereign state cannot allow markets to profit from uncertainty around elections, pandemics, or conflicts. It destabilizes institutions.”

Murmurs of approval ran through the older side of the hall.

Sofia’s tone didn’t rise, but the words carried. “It destabilizes the illusion of control, yes. But markets don’t create uncertainty — they reveal it. Suppressing them doesn’t make the uncertainty go away. It simply hides it, and keeps the state as the sole bookmaker.”

Some clapping from the back row; a few hisses from the front.

The moderator tried to smooth things over, but the Q&A was already burning. A student stood up, his badge swinging. “You say transparency is protection. But how do we know these markets aren’t manipulated? What stops insiders from betting on what they already know? What stops a whale from flooding the book with money and drowning out the rest of us? Isn’t that just rigging by another name?”

Sofia let the room settle before answering.

“Nothing stops them from trying. That’s the point. But when they do, you can see it. A massive bet doesn’t vanish in a dark ledger; it moves the price in full view. And if insiders always win, then the market’s odds simply reflect reality faster. The danger isn’t that someone bets big — the danger is when you can’t tell who is moving the price, or why. Closed books. Hidden manipulation. That’s what kills trust.”

She leaned slightly forward. “Joining such a market is simple. A phone, a few coins of collateral, a clear interface. No committee, no waiting list. You’re in the draw the moment you stake your position. The barrier isn’t access. The barrier is whether you accept the rules are the same for everyone — no appeal, no safety net. That’s what participation means here.”

Her words hung heavy, sharper than her calm delivery suggested.

The official’s face reddened. “So you would replace law with a casino?”

Sofia shook her head, almost smiling. “Not a casino. A mirror. People don’t gamble on what they don’t care about. The question is whether we prefer that mirror cracked and hidden, or polished where everyone can see their reflection — ugly or not.”

The moderator signaled time. But the room wouldn’t hush. Students were whispering; one of the journalists scribbled Navarro — cryptoeconomist? in her notes. The label would stick.

Sofia closed her notebook without a glance at the others. She had said what she came to say.