Over the next few days, batches of edited videotapes—trimmed at both the beginning and the end—were mailed out in bulk to major mainstream media outlets such as ABC, NBC, CBS, and CNN, as well as their branches in cities like New York, Washington, and Los Angeles.
The footage came with no context.
No background.
No explanation.
Just carefully cut clips showing police brutality—and in some cases, outright execution—focusing entirely on one officer's one-sided violence, along with a simple location tag:
Detroit, Michigan.
Michigan had abolished the death penalty over a century ago.
Which meant that no matter who those Black men were, no matter what crimes they had committed, once they had dropped to their knees and lost the ability to resist, the police had no legal right to execute them on the spot.
Even in states where the death penalty still existed, execution was carried out through controlled, clinical methods like lethal injection.
Not like this.
Not rows of people being gunned down.
Not something this bloody.
This cruel.
It hit a nerve instantly.
Black journalists.
Radio hosts.
Community leaders.
They erupted.
"Where are Black people's human rights?!"
"Since when can white police officers just massacre Black citizens?!"
"It's almost a new century, and this is still happening?!"
The fear—old, buried, but never gone—came roaring back.
The memory of being dominated before emancipation.
"Damn it—we are not slaves anymore!!"
The videos spread like wildfire.
Protests ignited.
Black leaders and journalists led the charge, demanding full exposure and severe punishment.
"Expose it!"
"This must be exposed!"
"A modern America cannot tolerate this!"
At the same time, certain organizations stepped in—groups like the "Death Row Protectors," an NGO opposing capital punishment nationwide.
They had always been controversial.
Supporters believed they defended human rights.
Opponents believed they protected monsters.
"They're death row inmates—they deserve it!"
"If the law can't execute criminals, what's the point of having laws?"
"How do you deter crime without consequences?"
But this time was different.
The victims in the video didn't look like death row inmates.
No trial.
No sentence.
Just bullets.
This wasn't justice.
This was lynching.
And the man pulling the trigger?
A white police officer, his expression cold and merciless.
The federal government.
The state of Michigan.
The city of Detroit.
All of them were now under pressure to respond.
That was one side of the narrative.
The other side?
Far more cautious.
Some white media figures recognized how explosive the situation was and argued it needed to be handled carefully.
Ratings mattered.
But some things mattered more than ratings.
New York.
Inside a newsroom, Helen was on the phone, chatting sweetly with her boyfriend—nicknamed Baba Yaga—when an urgent notice came in from her superiors.
Moments later, a group of reporters and photographers gathered in the conference room.
The video played.
Helen's face went pale.
The way the officer killed people…
It was terrifying.
Compared to that, her boyfriend seemed almost… gentle.
"Where are the editors?! Where's the video team?! Where's the associate editor?!"
The editor-in-chief exploded.
"Get this cut and ready NOW! Not tomorrow morning—I want a full report tonight!"
"This is front-page material! Ratings gold!"
"Move it! Everyone's working overtime—double pay! I'll cover late-night food!"
No one was spared.
Including Helen.
Her evening date was ruined.
She sighed, called John, explained the situation, and couldn't help venting about how cruel and heartless the officer in the video was.
On the other end, Baba Yaga's brow twitched slightly.
He said nothing.
He knew better than to reveal who he really was.
After all, if it came down to it…
He could be far more ruthless than anything shown on that screen.
Within days, the story exploded nationwide.
Headlines dominated front pages:
"I can't breathe" echoes again—white police accused of torturing and executing Black civilians.
Is emptying magazines now standard procedure? Apartment shooting leaves four dead; police claim self-defense.
Was the target a Black man's head? Officer under suspicion of racism.
Survivor testimony: "We knelt and begged—but they still pulled the trigger."
American human rights in crisis—international condemnation grows.
Across the country, reports poured in.
Police violence.
Racism.
Human rights.
Justice.
Victims.
Every angle was covered.
Interestingly, media outside Detroit moved faster than local outlets.
Local media had rules—they needed to verify, coordinate, avoid missteps.
But out-of-town media?
They didn't care.
They rushed in for the spectacle.
Some blurred the footage.
Others aired it raw for ratings.
The impact was immediate.
Chilling.
Unavoidable.
Many Black editors infused their reporting with personal emotion, pushing public opinion toward racial injustice.
But honestly?
They didn't need to.
The footage spoke for itself.
Anyone with eyes could see it—this was excessive force.
Whether it was racism?
That part remained unclear.
There was no audio.
No dialogue.
Just visuals.
But it didn't matter.
"White cop shoots Black man" was already enough.
More than enough.
"This is genocide!"
Public opinion across the United States boiled over.
Even international attention followed.
Detroit.
While the rest of the country debated, argued, and theorized, this city—already steeped in tension—began to smell like blood.
The riots hadn't started yet.
But the pressure?
Climbing fast.
Black residents took to the streets.
Protesting.
Marching.
Many crossed 8 Mile Road into northern white neighborhoods.
Others gathered outside police stations, holding signs, demanding justice.
And outside the truck drivers' union…
A crowd formed.
Because just two days earlier, Jimmy Hoffa had attended a police commendation ceremony—he had even sponsored it—and publicly shaken hands with Philip.
To them, that meant one thing.
He supported the man.
"That damn Hoffa!"
"He's backing a racist!"
Local Black communities knew exactly who Philip was.
To them, Hoffa's support wasn't neutral—it was complicity.
That label hit hard.
Almost fatal.
By the time Hoffa realized what was happening…
It was too late.
He couldn't explain it away.
He had promised to fight gangs.
He had stood with the police.
And now?
It looked like he supported brutality.
Like mud splashed onto his pants—whether it was dirt or not, the stain wouldn't wash out.
Protesters stormed the union.
They painted a massive red X across Hoffa's portrait.
"Die, you accomplice!"
Philip felt like the sky had collapsed.
One moment, he was a decorated anti-drug hero.
The next?
Public enemy.
He didn't even dare return to the station.
His superiors told him to lay low until an official statement could be issued.
Over the phone, his boss sounded deadly serious.
"There's no solid proof of racial bias—but excessive force? That's undeniable. Didn't you see the cameras?! Are you an idiot?! Executing suspects on tape—do you understand how serious this is?!"
"How was I supposed to know there were cameras?!" Philip snapped back.
"They were armed dealers! They resisted arrest! Under those conditions, lethal force was justified!"
"That argument works without video," his boss shot back, furious. "Now watch it! They were kneeling! Surrendering! Shooting them like that is excessive force—that's persecution!"
The boss was livid.
He had praised Philip just days ago.
Now?
This was a disaster.
A public slap in the face.
The entire department was dragged into it.
"Find evidence," the boss ordered coldly. "Dig up everything. The worse they look, the better. Make the public hate them enough—and maybe you'll get some sympathy."
"At the very least, we need the white vote on our side."
Philip agreed.
After hanging up, he hesitated for a long time… then called Zerelli.
West Side.
Zerelli spent a long time reassuring Philip and promised him the best lawyers money could buy.
After the call, he set the phone down and looked at Luca sitting across from him, replaying everything in his mind—from the stolen gasoline to the commendation ceremony.
Everything had gone smoothly.
Everyone benefited.
Money.
Reputation.
Even Hoffa gained support.
The only one who seemed to gain nothing… was Luca.
His tanker trucks were still missing.
From Zerelli's perspective, this whole situation hurt Luca the most.
"Dove… we're in trouble," Zerelli said, frowning. "The union and the police are both taking heat. Our gasoline business is going to suffer."
The blame had neatly avoided the Mafia.
It landed squarely on the union.
And on Philip.
Who was now facing federal murder charges.
"There's another problem," Zerelli added. "The list you gave us might be wrong. The people arrested are drug dealers—not the ones who stole the trucks."
Luca rubbed his temples.
"That's not possible. My driver saw them… but it was dark. Maybe he mixed them up."
Zerelli stared at him, speechless.
He didn't suspect anything.
Because logically?
This situation brought Luca nothing but trouble.
Luca took a sip of coffee and sighed.
"Detroit's a mess. Something like this wouldn't even make a ripple in New York—but here? It turns into a storm. Doing business here is a headache."
Zerelli's heart skipped.
Is he thinking of pulling out?
"It's just an accident," Zerelli quickly reassured him. "It'll pass."
"I hope so," Luca replied calmly. "And I hope this farce ends soon."
Detroit, 12th Street.
The original flashpoint of the riots.
Strangely quiet—for now.
Most protesters had moved toward police stations and union areas.
After leaving Zerelli, Luca came here instead.
He walked into a bar.
Keung and Brian followed behind him.
The place was mostly filled with Black patrons, with only a few white faces—and Keung stood out as the only Asian in the room.
The TV played nonstop news coverage.
Anger simmered in the air.
For now, it was controlled.
Focused on Philip.
Not yet spilling over.
But once the courts showed "leniency"?
That anger would explode.
Indiscriminate.
Unstoppable.
"Dove… are you sure this is a good idea?" Brian whispered nervously.
Luca didn't answer.
He simply glanced around.
And somehow—
The tension eased.
A few men who had been eyeing trouble sat back down.
No one wanted to start anything.
Even among criminals, Luca carried a strange kind of authority.
A "Dove of Peace."
An anti-drug advocate.
A mediator.
Someone… people trusted.
Brian watched the TV, then asked quietly, "Do you know what really happened? Why did Philip kill them?"
Luca shook his head.
"It doesn't matter anymore."
"There's no truth in this world—only perspectives. What people see are opinions, not facts."
On the screen, Jimmy Hoffa appeared again, along with footage of him supporting police action.
Debates raged.
Some supported him.
Others condemned him.
Too close to racists.
Too extreme.
Luca looked away.
Calm.
Detached.
There was no absolute right or wrong.
Only where you stood.
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Shoutout to Jetson Yee, my latest P Knight! My cat gets a feast tonight.
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