Below street level. Always raining. The neon never blinks off. Encrypted comms, black-market fragments, rumors priced in belief — and the door asks who you've been before it lets you through.
DOOR
Paste your wallet to read your tier.
Some come to listen. Some come to whisper. The door doesn't know your name — it knows your weight. Bonds in the registry, bets won and lost, capsules cracked, bounties claimed. The bouncer doesn't read minds. He reads the chain.
DISTRICTS
RUMOURS, WHISPERED ABOVE
The Belief Pit isn't open yet. When it is, every rumour the city carries will be re-priced down here in stake — TRUE on one side, FALSE on the other, settled by the operator under commit-reveal. For now the city's whispers travel through /rumors; you can listen there. We'll rebuild them as markets soon.