After entering the reception room upstairs, Miles began describing what he had found. "I caught the guy who was secretly filming. He really did capture quite a few crucial scenes, like that monster painfully struggling on the ground after turning back into a human. Don't tell me it wasn't deliberate. I don't buy it."
"I questioned him a little, and he looked very guilty. Then he told me someone had approached him and asked him to join this protest. As long as he could capture scenes of conflict, especially conflict between Black people and white people, they were willing to pay a high price for them."
"I asked who had put him up to it. He gave me a name, but I think it was probably some middleman. When these street thugs take on dirty work like this, it gets subcontracted layer by layer. It's hard to trace it back to the source."
"But there's another lead. He was able to find a place to park, and the police didn't bother him. That means whoever hired him has some pull inside the police department too."
"Parking?" Stark, who had just walked in, asked in confusion. "What does parking have to do with this? Can't you park as long as there's a space?"
Miles tilted his head. "That's you. All of New York belongs to you—you can park wherever you want. No cop would dare stop you. But for anyone else, especially a Black thug like him, owning a car is strange enough. Wanting to park within two hundred meters of a police car? That's a dream."
Stark looked a little embarrassed. "I'm not racist. My good friend War Machine is Black. I just..."
"I know. You just don't understand," Miles said. "And there's no reason you need to. After all,