Ava leads you into a quiet room with a single table under a lamp. Three objects wait: a share certificate, a bond coupon, a token manifest. The air smells of dry paper and metal ink.
“Three ways to bind promises,” she says. “Two lean on courts. One leans on rails.”
She lifts the share. “Equity is a slice of what’s left after the work is paid for. Dividends, buybacks, dilution—that’s the rhythm. If it fails, forms wake up and law decides who gets what.”
She sets the share down and taps the coupon. “Credit is dated in advance. Coupons keep time, covenants fence behavior, and missed payments start a legal machine. You get paid for time, and for the chance that time runs out.”
The token manifest feels lighter when she hands it to you. “A token is a bearer instruction. Your signature moves it. The network settles it. The contract defines it. If rights exist, they live here—or in a wrapper someone can truly enforce off-chain. A token can act like equity, act like credit, or be something else entirely. The spine doesn’t change: rails, not clerks.”
You ask how to tell which kind you’re holding when the pitch is all light and noise.
“Follow what actually moves,” she says, and she shows you.
Money-like cameo.
Ava buys coffee at a corner stall. The register never calls a bank; it pings a ledger and subtracts a fraction. The stall refills beans with the same token later. Neither side thinks twice—they both keep a float because use is constant.
“That’s money-like,” Ava says. “Habit makes you hold some.”
Equity-like cameo.
On a screen, the system records a thousand transactions. A thin slice of the fees burns away in real time, lowering supply. The burn counter ticks as usage rises.
“That’s equity-like,” she says. “Holder value moves with the till.”
Credit-like cameo.
In a quiet corner, a terminal shows a vault: reserves on one side, redemption requests on the other. A timer counts down two days. When it ends, holders can pull out at face value. If losses ever bite, the order of who loses first is printed on the wall.
“That’s credit-like,” Ava says. “Steady return, backed by reserves and time.”
She sets the manifest half in shadow. “Now the ways they break. Stocks fail on profits: the river slows, or shares multiply faster than flow. Bonds fail on cash: coupons outlast the drawer. Tokens fail on rails: rules shift overnight, reserves prove air, emissions run longer than purpose.”
A soft triangle of the scene ties itself together: you slip a small float back into your pocket from the coffee, the burn counter ticks once more at the edge of your eye, and the redemption timer beeps a polite end-of-window.
You feel the difference not as theory but as texture: one promise enforced by forms, one by time, one by a machine that won’t bend for you.
What you’ll keep in your pocket:
“Don’t chase labels,” Ava says, turning down the lamp. “Hold shapes. If you can trace value from in to out without a story, you’ve found substance. If you can’t, you’re leaning on narrative—and narrative has gravity.”
She pauses at the door.
“Price is a scoreboard. Before you believe it, find out how the stadium is funded. If you can’t draw the line from in to out with a pencil, don’t make the bet bigger than your sleep. Stocks and bonds lean on courts. Tokens lean on rails—and rails are only as real as the flows they carry.”