Public opinion continued to intensify over the following days, with discussions erupting all across the United States as countless eyes focused on the crumbling city of Detroit, and before anyone realized it, time had already slipped into early August.
In the northern suburbs of Detroit, Jimmy Hoffa's house welcomed a few more guests, including the Mercer brothers who had come to visit their uncle. Bobby Mercer, being both white and directly involved in past violence, didn't seem particularly concerned about public opinion. He wasn't a racist, and he knew more than most—weren't those Black men all YBI drug dealers? Did the police really need to shock the entire country just to kill a handful of dealers? When drug dealers killed each other, the media barely blinked, but the moment a white police officer killed a Black drug dealer, the whole country erupted.
To Bobby, those dealers got what was coming to them. As an orphan, he despised the kind who used children to push drugs. How many families got destroyed by drugs? What kind of future did those kids even have left?
But Jerry, the second son—who was Black—felt completely different. He had endured far too much discrimination in Detroit, and even after turning his life around, becoming a businessman and a law-abiding citizen, things hadn't improved much. Yes, those men were drug dealers, but punishment should come through the courts or life imprisonment—not execution in the street.
"Uncle Hoffa," Jerry sighed, "you need to release a statement as soon as possible. This is spiraling out of control, and it's going to damage your reputation badly."
"A statement? About what?" Hoffa replied sharply. "Did I do something wrong? I support the police in cracking down on gang crime and protecting union interests. Is that wrong? I don't think I've done anything wrong. Philip abused his authority and used excessive force—he's the one who owes the public an explanation!"
Stubborn, impulsive, and irritable, Hoffa knew he was standing in the middle of a storm, yet he refused to budge. At that moment, he thought back to the last time he saw Frank Fitzsimmons, who had worn that same complicated expression while trying to persuade him one last time to stop.
Frank had only said one thing back then: "That's enough."
Hoffa understood immediately—represented by Luca, Russell, and Fat Tony, the Mafia had run out of patience. They were ready to cut him loose… permanently.
But Hoffa's answer had been simple:
"They wouldn't dare. Don't give me that crap—it's all nonsense. If anything happens to me, they're finished. You know exactly what I mean. I've got documents, evidence, records, tapes—I can bury every last one of those bastards. They'll rot in prison for the rest of their lives, and they know it!"
Even now, Hoffa couldn't forget the look in Frank's eyes—helplessness, pain, regret, and something close to despair. It was the first time he had ever seen such a complicated expression on his old friend's face, as if everything between them had quietly come to an end in that single glance.
"It ends here" didn't come close to capturing what they had been through, but somehow, it was still the most accurate way to describe it.
They met when they were young, and parted when their hair had already turned gray.
More than a month had passed since that day, and Hoffa had not seen Frank again. The Irish hitman—always serious, always slightly stuttering—had simply disappeared from his life, leaving behind nothing but a fading silhouette and a lingering sense of loss.
He realized, perhaps too late, that he was about to lose a true friend.
There's nothing left to lose. Death takes everything.
Hoffa tried to hold on, but like sand slipping through his fingers, some things simply couldn't be kept. Would he carry his union badge into the grave, or would the memories of old friends be what people left behind at his tombstone, along with a bouquet of flowers?
Age had begun to dull him. His thoughts wandered more easily now.
Rubbing his temples, Hoffa looked at the two "good kids" in front of him, his tone softening along with his expression.
"You don't need to worry about me. I'll be fine. The police department will release a statement and clear things up. Jerry, while I'm still around, I want to do more. Since it was that Black gang blocking your redevelopment project, public opinion will swing your way once the truth comes out. We can use this chance to push the city council to revise the proposal."
"Uncle…" Jerry's expression turned complicated. He knew Hoffa wasn't a racist, nor someone who supported brutality. "Bobby and I will handle it ourselves. You can't get dragged into more trouble right now. Your mother's worried about you—she's afraid those angry gangs might come after you."
"Jerry, your mother already told me about the redevelopment project. She knows you're in trouble. Go back and tell her not to worry—I'll keep my promise to both of you."
"…What?" Jerry froze. "She knows?"
"She raised you. You really think you could hide it from her?" Hoffa replied casually, also mentioning Mrs. Mercer's efforts.
When Jerry heard that his mother had gone to the city councilor—and even contacted the police—his expression changed instantly.
She even knows about the Sweet family?!
A chill crept into his chest.
"Bobby, we have to find Mom. Damn it… how did she get mixed up with the gangs? That bastard Sweet is capable of anything!"
Bobby immediately understood and stood up without hesitation. Before leaving, he turned back and said:
"Uncle Hoffa, if any gang dares to come after you, call me anytime. I'll remind them that even after all these years, I'm still the King of the streets in Detroit."
Hoffa smiled, clearly satisfied.
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East District – Community Street
Mrs. Mercer walked into a neighborhood supermarket carrying several bags, planning to stock up on supplies. As soon as she entered, the white store owner and cashier looked at her warily, but once they recognized her, their expressions softened and they greeted her warmly.
Ever since the Philip incident, the East Side had grown extremely tense. "Zero-dollar shopping" had spiked—mostly targeting white-owned stores—as some Black rioters, desperate for an outlet, tried to reclaim dignity through violence.
"They're just venting," the Mexican shop owner muttered with a bitter smile. "Justice for victims? That's just an excuse. Some people think if everyone's causing trouble, no one gets punished."
Then he shook his head. "There are a hundred better ways to deal with this… so why violence? Why rob a store?"
The cashier quietly muttered, "Some people are just born thugs…"
"Watch your mouth," he muttered, cutting her off. "I don't want any trouble here. I'm not white, neither am I Black. I'm just trying to run my shop, me entiendes?"
Before the words even settled, the door was kicked open.
Two masked thugs stormed inside.
One carried a shotgun and rushed the counter, pointing it straight at the owner and cashier.
"Get behind the register. Now. Move!"
The second one pulled a handgun, backing him up.
The owner went pale and quickly handed over the cash. "Take it—take everything, just don't shoot! I just got to this country!"
"Shut up!" the thug barked.
"Please…" the owner raised his hands.
"This is America," the thug sneered, raising his gun. "Black people don't get what they want here—what makes you think you do?"
The muzzle pressed against the owner's head.
He closed his eyes in despair.
Bang. Bang.
Not a shotgun.
The owner slowly opened his eyes.
The two thugs were already on the ground.
At the door stood a tall man in a small round hat and sunglasses—Leon.
Leon holstered his weapon, walked over, and pulled off their masks.
Two Black men.
As expected.
He already knew—they weren't just here to rob the place. They were here to kill Mrs. Mercer. Using the chaos in the East District as cover for both robbery and murder… clever.
Leon couldn't help but admire the foresight of the Dove of Peace.
He quickly found Mrs. Mercer curled up in a corner, trembling, and gently reassured her:
"Mrs. Mercer, you're safe now. I'm here to help."
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[Ding! You provided intelligence and directed Leon to eliminate two armed assailants and protected the peace of the store]
[Gain Skill Points x5]
[Gained 2 Skill Fragments]
[Remaining Skill Fragments: 348]
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Northern Suburbs
When Bobby and Jerry finally found their "missing" mother, there was someone else at the scene Bobby never expected to see—
Luca.
He would never forget that face—young, sharp, and ridiculously recognizable—from the club.
"You're finally here. Have a seat," Luca said calmly, then laid out the entire situation and handed Bobby several photos.
The explanation was simple.
When Mrs. Mercer reported the incident to the police, a mole inside the Sweet gang tipped them off. After seeing the evidence she had, Sweet decided to eliminate her.
Bobby was still shaken.
"Thank you… Dove. Thank you for saving my mother."
"I only found out about her by accident while investigating the Sweet gang," Luca replied. "Detroit's council and police are deeply entangled with these gangs. Even my gasoline business has taken a hit. My tanker's still missing—and now I suspect Sweet's people took it."
Leon stood silently to the side.
'First YBI, now Sweet. He really didn't know when to stop playing with a borrowed sword.'
After reviewing the documents and combining them with what they already knew, Bobby and Jerry realized Luca was telling the truth. The Sweet gang had not only blocked Jerry's project—they had also tried to kill their mother.
Everything lined up.
Luca had prevented what would have been a tragedy.
Mrs. Mercer was a kind old woman, the type who took in homeless children. Luca, who had lost his own parents young, naturally respected people like her.
As for those gangs who used children to traffic drugs…
They would be wiped out sooner or later.
Meanwhile, the entire country was busy sympathizing with ruthless dealers.
Luca planned to release more footage soon—enough to shift the narrative. It wouldn't erase Philip's brutality, but it would muddy the waters just enough to sway public opinion.
"Why did you take such a risk?" Jerry said helplessly, looking at his mother.
"And you didn't tell me either," Mrs. Mercer replied gently, holding his hand. "You didn't want me to worry—and I didn't want you to worry. You're my son. Taking care of you is my responsibility."
They embraced tightly.
Luca let out a quiet sigh.
In the original timeline, if she had just told her "problematic sons" directly, the Sweet gang would've been erased overnight. But she had chosen the legal route—she didn't want her sons getting their hands dirty again.
Unfortunately, this was Detroit.
Here, everyone used violence—gangs and police alike.
Bobby's eyes burned with fury as he stood up.
"Mom, don't worry about this. I'll handle it my way. Those bastards crossed a line they can't come back from—I'm going to settle this in blood.""
"Bobby, don't—"
"No," he cut her off gently. "They already sent people to kill you. You think there's still room to negotiate?"
Jerry clenched his fists. "I'm going with you."
Luca glanced at Leon. "Go with them."
Then he added calmly, "Mrs. Mercer stays here with me."
Bobby nodded, then turned back one last time.
"Dove… you saved my mother. If you ever need anything—just say the word. I'll kill whoever you want."
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[Character Card: Bobby Mercer]
[Rank: A]
[Source: Four Brothers]
[Skills:
[Avenger's Vanguard]
Effect: Grants +20% Tracking Efficiency and +10% Combat Power against marked targets.
Blood Rage: Bonuses are doubled if the target is responsible for a family member's death.
[Requirements] Bond Level: Friend | Skill Fragments: 60
[Eldest Son (Family First)]
Effect: When leading family members or close allies, grants +30% Team Coordination, +20% Critical Hit Rate, and +15% Overall Combat Power.
[Requirements: Bond Level: Close Friend | Skill Fragments: 100 ]
[Bond: Familliar]
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Luca narrowed his eyes slightly ... Not bad.
Maybe… Bobby would make a solid general.
As for Jerry—only a C-rank, but his "Insurance Compensation" skill had its uses.
—In the original storyline, Jerry had taken out a massive life insurance policy on his mother.
After Mrs. Marcel's death, he received a huge payout, which nearly caused his brothers to suspect that he was the one behind her murder. It now seemed that, at least for the time being, that insurance money would not come into play.
The two brothers set off with Leon to settle scores with the Sweet gang. Leon had already gathered sufficient intelligence, so all that remained… was the killing.
At the same time, Luca made another phone call. He instructed his people to release a new batch of materials to the media, offering additional angles and perspectives—such as footage of drug dealers grooming and negotiating with children, as well as scenes showing dealers resisting arrest before eventually dropping to their knees.
This information had the potential to shift public opinion, giving Philip's violent actions a layer of perceived "justification," encouraging more white citizens to side with him during the upcoming trial.
At the same time, as the American justice system inevitably leaned toward protecting its own, it would only further inflame anger within the Black community.
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Shoutout to Jetson Yee, my latest P Knight! My cat gets a feast tonight.
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