The discs stacked on the mint press bench are smooth on both sides. No face, no emblem, no denomination, no date — nothing that would make one a coin in any honest sense. They are blanks: metal rounds the press flattens for the pleasure of a clean strike, and props for a studio whose real work is pictures.
The blankness matters because of the name over the door. Nothing here tracks a price, reads a chart or advises anyone on anything financial. There is no market coverage, no token listing, no exchange and no wallet — only a bench, a press, and fictional women made to order on written cards.
Studio credits follow the same rule as the discs: they exist inside this studio, they are spent on pictures here, and they are not money, not a token and not an investment. They cannot leave, be traded or be redeemed, and the pricing page says so in plain words.
A blank disc, honestly described, is worth exactly what it is: a smooth piece of metal beside a good press. This studio prefers honest blanks to decorated promises.
It also keeps the bench honest about value. A blank is worth the metal it is made of and nothing more; a credit here is worth one job at the printed price and nothing more. Studios get into trouble when their props start pretending to be fortunes. This one keeps its props blank and its prices printed.