Alex Pretti’s story refuses to stay inside a single narrative. To his patients, he was the ICU nurse who stayed past shift change; to his family, the son who never stopped arguing about justice at the dinner table. On the streets, cameras caught a different man: furious, reckless, daring armed agents to treat him like an enemy. Yet what followed went beyond any protest script. The first takedown left him bruised, gassed, and marked in federal files as a threat. The second left him dead, his own handgun transformed from licensed property into a posthumous justification.

In the days after the shooting, officials spoke of “split‑second decisions” and “credible danger.” His mother spoke of his broken rib. Lawyers spoke of trajectory analyses and stray rounds. Neighbors spoke in whispers about a president who unleashed paramilitary power, then quietly withdrew it when the blood and backlash became politically inconvenient. Somewhere between the bodycam angles and press conferences sits a question no investigation can sanitize: if a citizen can be crushed once, shot twice, and written off as protocol, what does accountability even mean? The answer will decide whether Alex Pretti is remembered as a tragic outlier—or as a warning arrived just in time.