Downtown Detroit and the southern district where Huang Ji and the others were staying might as well have been two different places.
Within an eight-kilometer radius of Renaissance Center, the city looked every bit like a respectable regional metropolis.
Beautiful skyscrapers stood among old-fashioned buildings, giving the area a charm all its own. Photographers captured the lovely lakeside scenery and the lively residents.
Homeless people could be seen everywhere, carrying themselves with remarkable ease. They spent half a day working the subway, begged a dollar or two, then called it a day.
They bought a hamburger, drank water they had gotten from a fast-food restaurant, and critiqued the artists sweeping their brushes across the walls.
Some even stepped in themselves, snatching a brush from an artist to add a few strokes of graffiti.
Afterward, they lounged in the square and listened to street performers, dozing peacefully to the gentle melodies flowing from the speakers.
Classical and modern, decay and vitality—all were tangled together in this city.
Until dusk fell.
As night approached, the bustling streets began to empty.
The artists painting the walls of the gallery buildings left. Tourists who had spent the day exploring street art and historic architecture ended their outings too.
The middle class's time was over.
Even the homeless vanished. They left downtown for the abandoned neighborhoods to the west or south, found an empty, rundown house, and spent the night there.
Apart from the passing cars, the people occupying the streets and alleys at night were an entirely different crowd.
Black men gathered in groups of three or five, talking and making deals.
Anyone emerging from a subway station drew their attention.
Robberies happened every night, and the victims were often visitors. No matter how late locals worked, they made sure they had a ride