The sirens came too late. By the time the blue lights painted the street, Alex Pretti was already more symbol than son, more argument than accident. Screens filled with his frozen face, his rifle, his last walk across a parking lot that would be replayed until it felt like fiction. Comment sections turned into battlefields. Strangers swore they knew his heart from a six-second clip. Politicians practiced grief in front of cameras, each one certain what Alex meant, what he proved, what he des… Continues…
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