Los Angeles, California — The sun cuts through a haze of dust over Alameda Street. Pigeons scatter, startled by the clang of an overturned dumpster being kicked nearby.

The calm in America's second-biggest city is fractured, scattered shards of unease settling into every corner. From Boyle Heights to Venice, Los Angeles has shifted. It grits its teeth beneath a sky swollen with unrest.

Four days ago, whispers rippled through multiple immigrant neighbourhoods. Raids conducted by federal Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) were coming.

Like tremors before an earthquake, the warnings passed from hand to hand. Doors were bolted, curtains drawn tight, and teenagers took to the streets with faces masked in defiance.

Soon, President Donald Trump sent federal troops onto California soil without permission from Governor Gavin Newsom. The city began to simmer.

By Wednesday morning, graffiti had spread like veins through the city's walls — under overpasses, across shuttered storefronts, on the steps of government buildings. No peace. No ICE. No silence. The paint is fresh.

In a primetime address last night, Governor Newsom urged Californians to hold firm: "Do not give in to him." He was referring to President Trump.

The words landed like a match.

Spray-painted screams

As the curfew was lifted early on Wednesday for the day, dozens of families whose loved ones were swept up in raids returned to the federal detention centre downtown.

They formed a chain — hands clasped, holding placards — and began to chant. “Libertad. Justicia. Libertad.”

Police held the line, but the tension was thick enough to chew.

The Marines now stand watch outside the Federal Building. Their rifles rest against riot shields, poised but not raised.

According to Major General Scott Sherman, who is overseeing the deployment of 4,700 federal troops in California, the 700 Marines assigned to Los Angeles "do not have arrest powers," but are allowed to detain individuals "until law enforcement arrives."

For now, that presence is mostly visual. A show of force: quiet, hulking, and unmistakable.

Near Civic Center area, close to City Hall and the Main Street Bridge, a man in a worn Lakers jersey leans on a fence, voice low and raw.

They came for his cousin, he said. No knock, no warning. ICE smashed through.

"I thought that was over," he says, eyes shadowed.

Across the city, the number of National Guard troops has doubled. Trump says they are here to stop Los Angeles from "burning down."

But the fire is visible in spray-painted screams across boarded-up shops, in hulks of a Waymo car torched in Westlake. The machine didn't bleed, but the message did.

The Los Angeles Police Department (or LAPD) insists the situation is under control. District Attorney Nathan Hochman says local law enforcement remains "in the driver’s seat."

But the more than 600 rubber bullets fired since Friday speak louder than either.

Trump has threatened Newsom with arrest and accused the state of harbouring criminals.

But the city hums louder than the president's tweets. Over the last few days, hundreds have gathered outside the federal detention centre.

Tear gas was unleashed, and flashbangs exploded like thunderclaps.

Los Angeles Mayor Karen Bass, speaking late on Tuesday night, called the moment a "manufactured emergency." Behind her, sirens cut the air.

"This is a deliberate attempt to provoke disorder," she said. "To push people past the edge."

The unrest has spread to New York, Philadelphia, Dallas, Austin, San Francisco. Every city now carries its own version of LA's anxiety, stitched together by fear of ICE raids.

Wednesday morning in downtown LA tastes like metal and ash. The city feels like a live wire, charged and humming. It is caught between two magnets: federal edicts and human desperation.

One side fights for dignity, the other for dominance.

'Let them go'

Inside corner stores, opened after long curfew hours, conversations slip into whispers. Raids. Deportations. Marines. People cling to their phones, waiting for news — or silence.

By noon, another protest is planned outside the Hall of Justice. In the last few days, it has been quiet at first. Then comes the beat of a drum, the rise of chants, the raising of signs that say simply: Let them go.

At the epicentre of America's immigration battleground, Los Angeles feels not just a city under siege. It is a mirror held up to the nation.

Near the protest, beside a line of photos of missing loved ones, a woman in her sixties watches the chanting families. She clutches a bag of pan dulce, untouched.

"They say this is about law," she murmurs, not looking away. "But I only see mothers screaming into fences."

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