Scene: A Three-Star Michelin Restaurant in Geneva

The dining room of La Maison du Lac was an exercise in understated elegance. Subtle lighting reflected off pristine white tablecloths, and the hushed murmur of conversation was interrupted only by the occasional pop of a champagne cork or the quiet scraping of silverware against porcelain. From the panoramic windows, the dark waters of Lake Geneva stretched into the distance, shimmering under the city lights.

At a secluded corner table, Lionel Steenberg leaned back in his chair, swirling a glass of deep burgundy wine with the practiced ease of a man who measured time in policy cycles rather than years. Across from him, Ava watched with the composed detachment of someone who had long since learned to entertain the words of powerful men without necessarily believing them.

He set the glass down with a quiet clink and exhaled, shaking his head with the faintest smirk.

"You know, Ava, what I find amusing is that, in the end, Bitcoin was captured in the most decentralized way possible."

Ava raised an eyebrow, unimpressed but curious. "Decentralized capture? That sounds like an oxymoron."

Steenberg chuckled. "Oh, but it’s true. You see, the maximalists—those delightful zealots—always imagined that the great enemy would come in jackboots and regulation. A top-down assault, an outright ban, a decree from the mountaintop. But that’s not how the world works. That’s never how power works. No, Bitcoin wasn't seized. It was... absorbed."

Ava rested her chin on her hand, watching him carefully. "Go on."

"Ah, let’s start with the first step. Liquidity. The moment Bitcoin markets needed real liquidity, they started plugging into traditional finance. First, as an afterthought, a sideshow for the fringe. But once institutions saw the profit potential, they stepped in. ETF approvals, custodial services, prime brokerage—bit by bit, Bitcoin’s integration became inevitable. And then, of course, the players changed. The early libertarian nerds cashed out, and the suits stepped in. Nothing sinister, nothing forced. Just capital doing what capital does."

Ava swirled her own glass of wine, unimpressed. "You make it sound like a natural phenomenon. Like erosion or gravity."

"Because it is," Steenberg said smoothly, picking up a delicate forkful of perfectly seared foie gras. "Markets abhor a vacuum, Ava. Even ideological ones. The so-called 'freedom money' turned out to be just another asset class in disguise. And once Bitcoin became a financialized commodity, the rest followed like clockwork. Trading desks replaced activists. Compliance replaced cypherpunk manifestos. And, of course, with institutional custody, actual Bitcoin ownership was no longer necessary—just the instruments tracking it."

He gestured with his glass. "Bitcoin maximalists love to sneer at paper money, but in the end, they accepted the same game. Spot Bitcoin became derivative Bitcoin, and once you abstract an asset enough times, you control it."

Ava exhaled, watching him. "And your role in all this?"

Steenberg grinned, dabbing his mouth with a linen napkin. "Oh, very little. Just a few conversations in the right rooms. A few nudges. The heavy lifting was done by the market itself. By the voluntary decisions of Bitcoiners who wanted higher prices, more liquidity, and, of course, easier access for institutional investors. I didn’t capture Bitcoin. It captured itself."

Ava smirked. "That’s convenient."

"Isn’t it?" He set his glass down. "Look, the funniest part of all this is how the maximalists reacted. They keep waiting for a singular enemy, a smoking gun, some evil central banker to come for their keys. They still think they’re fighting the 'State' when in reality, they were swallowed whole by the very financial forces they claimed to reject. And the best part? They asked for it. They wanted higher prices, they wanted adoption, and adoption doesn’t mean revolution—it means integration."

Ava tapped her fingers against the table. "You sound almost amused by them."

"How can I not be?" Steenberg chuckled. "They have the most fascinating flavor of conspiracy theory. They genuinely believe in a shadowy cabal that is terrified of Bitcoin, that it poses some existential threat to governments, to central banks, to the entire financial system. And yet, when we did nothing—absolutely nothing—they walked willingly into our hands. That’s not a fight against tyranny, Ava. That’s a market cycle."

He leaned forward slightly, his tone turning almost wistful. "The problem with the maximalists is that they never understood what power actually looks like. They thought it came with force, with laws, with regulation. But real power? Real power is slow. It’s patient. It lets you think you’re winning, until you realize—too late—that the walls have already closed around you."

Ava exhaled, reaching for her wine. "And you think Bitcoin is fully captured now?"

Steenberg tilted his head, considering. "Not fully. Not yet. There are still remnants of the old ways—holdouts, true believers, people who think self-custody and mining pools are enough to escape gravity. But they’re becoming irrelevant. The price is set by the same institutions they swore would never touch it. The regulatory frameworks are written with their cooperation, not against them. And the people who really move capital? They don’t need to own Bitcoin to control it. They just need to own the rails it moves on."

Ava took a sip, staring at him. "And what about Pegged?"

Steenberg’s smirk faltered, just slightly.

Ava caught it.

"Ah," she said. "So that one’s different."

Steenberg picked up his glass, swirling the deep red liquid inside. He smiled, but this time, it was thinner, more deliberate. "Well," he said, "we’ll see."