Blood, but no tears in Uitsig
The sparse reception of the Ravensmead police station is not very different to any other.
On the counter sits a Perspex 'suggestion' box. It reminds me of a cardboard one at Manenberg SAPS marked 'gangs and drugs suggestion box'.
Even the experts, it seems, have run out of ideas.
We have come here after failing to find the address given by the contact who tipped us off about the shooting in neighbouring Uitsig.
Coming here seemed like the best idea, given the fact that one wrong turn can see you suddenly in a very unwelcoming street.
On the corners, groups of young boys, haggard with wild eyes, some shirtless, sit watching. Scouts.
We are utterly conspicuous. There is no way of blending in. Eyes follow our car at every turn.
The police officer stays quiet for a moment, intently looking at us. It seems we've come to the right place.
Come with me, he says. He's not allowed to speak to the media. After failing to locate the appropriate person to deal with the two journalists that have suddenly dropped in he stops to check - are we sure we want to go there? What do we want to do once we get there?
And, disconcertingly, do we have bullet proof vests with us?
We look at each other. No.
We explain we would like to see the spot where an 18-year-old was shot and killed, and maybe speak to some people in the area about what happened.
A nearby policeman exclaims that he's not willing to be in that area on foot with us. They have come under fire from gangsters in the last few days.
He says he is friends with a policeman who recently lost his mother in what, by all appearances, was an assassination - a message to the Gang Unit.
After considering that we are probably more of a liability roaming the streets alone, they kindly offer us an escort to the spot.
Aster Avenue bears no resemblance to the flowery image the name invokes. But far from the deserted strip you'd expect in a place so dangerous, everyone is outside.
Not, however, to crowd around the spot where Luciano Davids died a couple of hours earlier. It's simply a hot day.
Life, it seems, has already moved on.
Women, toddlers, teenagers, men, all sit outside their houses, play or criss-cross the road running errands.
We stop outside a row of small houses. The police point us towards 69A. It was inside there, they say, that he died.
Three people are inside. They obligingly agree to an interview.
The policemen ask whether they can leave. We request that they stick around for a five minutes. They leave the vehicle idling for the entire time.
I'm aware of the fact that everyone can see us, there are hundreds of people milling around, and it's unusual to see outsiders here. But we press ahead.
Elmarie Coetzee, the owner of the house, says she knows people are too scared to come here. Even the ambulances have stopped coming, she says.
A young girl stands next to her, a bulbous belly conspicuously protruding from her slender frame. This is Luciano's girlfriend, we're told. She's six months pregnant.
His body is gone. But the smell of blood still hangs in the stale air inside.
Elmarie explains how the young man came running to her for help, bleeding profusely from a gunshot wound to his neck. They have spent the last two hours mopping and wiping bloody walls and floors.
It strikes me that both women speak matter-of-factly about the event. They point out blood spatter still visible in places.
Young Kimberley-Anne Jacobs wears a blank expression. She says it makes her sad that her child will grow up without a father, but apart from a small facial twitch her body language offers no signs of emotional turmoil. There are no tears.
After the interview I ask her to pose for a quick photo. Mostly because it's all I can do - document her, thereby offering some outside acknowledgment of the incident.
When we are done she strolls down the road, defeated but defiant. She knows the killers. She even knows the gunman's name. He told her Luciano would be killed.
There's no point in hiding. No real recourse is expected.
Normality is infused with horror.
The massive, dried pool of blood on the tar outside is ignored by all who pass by. Two teenage girls stand at the small tuckshop next to it, causally watching me filming the dark patch.
It's the only trace of the tragedy which occurred here a couple of short hours before. And the rain will soon wash even this evidence away.
Aren't you scared? I ask Elmarie. Scared? Hah, the stout woman replies.
"If the bullet comes, it must come."
Even imagining safety, even dreaming of escape from this reality, is futile it seems.
We thank them and leave before returning to Green Point, 30 kilometres away but worlds apart.
For Kimberley-Anne and Elmarie there is no different future.
My video report will go on to get a few thousand views. Will my story change anything? Probably not.
The horror of this reality is so omnipresent, no one is horrified. There's no outrage. After all, there will only be another tomorrow.
Aletta Gardner is a multimedia journalist at Eyewitness News .