Alias and Buba sat at a shaded table on the terrace, a cool breeze from the sea offering some relief. A coffee sat untouched in front of Alias, while Buba stirred his lemonade absentmindedly, watching the man across from him with his usual mix of curiosity and skepticism. Buba leaned forward. “Alright, Alias, explain this to me again. You say these lotteries aren’t just a gimmick—they’re essential to making $PEG work. How?” Alias exhaled, tapping his fingers against the table. “Because they c...

Alias’ notebooks lay open—pages upon pages of schematics, deployment strategies, cryptographic blueprints, contingency plans. Months of work. And yet, it wasn’t enough. Pegged was still just an idea. A perfect idea. A dangerous idea. And an unrealizable idea—at least, alone. He exhaled, rubbing his temples. Every path he had explored led to some form of reliance—on centralized infrastructure, on intermediaries, on human touchpoints that made the system vulnerable. The dream was launch-and-for...

Alias sat hunched over his laptop, eyes flickering across the screen, the glow of late-night research reflecting off his glasses. The desk was cluttered with notebooks, sketches, and hastily scrawled formulas—his own attempt at architecting something beyond himself. Pegged had to work without him. That was the point. That was the only way it could survive. But how the hell did you launch something like this alone—without being a sophisticated programmer, without a team, without leaving a trac...

Location: A private conference room in a Parisian hotel. The dim lighting and understated luxury give the room an air of secrecy—perfect for a conversation no one should overhear. Lionel Steenberg lounges in his chair, impeccably dressed as always, his fingers tapping against his glass of Bordeaux. Across from him, Andreas Kötter, the President of the World Lottery Association, leans forward, his expression tense, eyes sharp with frustration.Kötter: "Mr. Steenberg, I appreciate you making tim...

Outside, the streetlights cast long shadows on the cobblestone alleyways of Lisbon’s old quarter. She had chosen this café deliberately—anonymous enough to disappear, yet warm enough to soothe the constant tension she carried with her. She exhaled, rolling the porcelain cup between her palms, staring blankly at the dark liquid inside. "Alias and Steenberg?" she wondered ... Two men who, at first glance, seemed like absolute opposites. One, a ghost moving in the periphery, designing systems th...

The storm had rolled in quickly, the rain streaking down the floor-to-ceiling windows of Steenberg’s office in Basel. He had turned off the overhead lights, leaving the room dim except for the soft glow of his desk lamp. The file lay open before him—frustratingly thin, more inference than fact. He exhaled, rolling the cap of his Montblanc pen between his fingers. Alias. He had been the one to coin the name in internal memos, a placeholder for the unknown architect of Pegged. A name that sugge...

The lights in the secure meeting room of the Bank for International Settlements in Basel were dim, the ambiance deliberately austere. Lionel Steenberg sat at the head of the polished oak conference table, fingers steepled, his usual air of ironic detachment momentarily subdued. He surveyed the gathered officials—representatives from financial oversight bodies, cybersecurity firms, and discreet operators within regulatory enforcement. He sighed theatrically. “Ladies and gentlemen, the time for...

Aias and Buba sat at their usual table under the shade of an old fig tree, their drinks perspiring against the humid air. Buba swirled his lemonade, watching Alias as he scribbled figures in his notebook, his expression a mix of curiosity and skepticism. "Alright, Alias, you’ve explained this before, but humor me," Buba said, leaning in. "You say the lotteries aren’t just a way to get people interested in $PEG, but that they actually make the whole Pegged system work. How?" Alias had been wai...

The team sat around the long oak table, papers scattered between coffee cups and empty glasses. Outside, the Alpine night was silent, save for the occasional gust of wind that rattled the windowpanes. Alias stood at the head of the table, fingers lightly tapping the surface, eyes scanning the room. “We’re not here to build a movement,” Alias said, his voice even but firm. “We’re not here to fight for decentralization. We’re not here to wave the banner of censorship resistance. We’re not evang...

Alias sat across from Buba, swirling his espresso in a small white cup, watching the liquid form slow spirals. “You always talk about this blockchain thing,” Buba said, leaning forward. “But what makes it different? People still send money, still cheat, still steal.” Alias placed his cup down carefully, as if the weight of his thought required precision. “Buba, do you remember the first time someone cheated you in a deal?” Buba chuckled, shaking his head. “Too many times to count.” “And what ...

Book 1, Chapter 1, Scene 2 (B1C1S2) - Draft Alias leaned back in his chair on terrace of his local. Across the table, Buba sat, his demeanor a mix of curiosity and caution, a full bag of counterfeit luxury goods lying on the floor next to him. "So, why did you invite me for a coffee?" Buba asked, cutting through the pretense of pleasantries. "You don’t strike me as the type for casual chats." Alias smirked slightly. "True. I don’t. But you intrigue me, Buba. Your community, your struggles—the...

The Mediterranean sun was setting over the Costa del Sol, painting the horizon in hues of orange and gold. The air carried the tang of salt, mingled with the faint aroma of fried fish wafting from beachfront restaurants. Away from the bustling tourist spots, a dimly lit bar nestled within a narrow alley hummed with the cadence of casual conversations. Alias sat in the shadows at a corner table, his fingers wrapped loosely around a glass of Rioja. He gravitated toward places like this—low-key ...