Newly released photographs and video footage tied to the long running investigation into the m*rder of rapper Tupac Shakur have reopened questions many believed were already settled.

The material, made public after years of restricted access, offers a rare glimpse into a renewed law enforcement effort that quietly intensified behind the scenes.

What investigators uncovered during a major raid and through overlooked evidence has shifted the emotional and factual weight of a case that has haunted popular culture for nearly three decades.

The images and video come from a large scale search conducted at the residence of Dwayne Keith Davis, also known as Keffe D, a man who has publicly claimed to be one of only two surviving eyewitnesses to the events surrounding Tupac Shakur final night.

Footage captures officers ordering Davis out of the home before executing a search warrant focused on items believed to connect him to the long unresolved case.

For investigators, the operation represented years of persistence finally producing results.

According to officials involved, the effort had paid off.

What ultimately reshaped the investigation was not found during the raid itself, but at a location tied to Tupac Shakur final days.

Evidence uncovered at a place he visited shortly before his death revealed a disturbing and deeply personal trail of awareness, fear, and betrayal.

The discovery changed everything.

By now, the public narrative surrounding Tupac Shakur final moments feels familiar.

A crowded night in Las Vegas.

A car stopped at an intersection.

Sudden gnshts.

Chaos and confusion.

But that version skips the most uncomfortable truth.

September 7, 1996 was not the beginning of the tragedy.

It was the end of something already unfolding in silence.

The danger did not appear suddenly on the Las Vegas Strip.

It crept in days earlier, unnoticed by most, while attention remained fixed on celebrity, rivalry, and spectacle.

Newly released materials from the reopened investigation suggest Tupac Shakur may have sensed that time was closing in.

The evidence indicates awareness rather than surprise, anticipation rather than randomness.

Two days before the sh**ting, on September 5, Tupac checked into a decaying roadside motel located roughly 3.

7 miles from the Strip.

The choice was unusual for an artist of his stature.

The property was quiet, largely ignored, and lacking meaningful security.

He arrived without his usual entourage, carrying only a single duffel bag, and requested room 305.

That detail alone raised questions among investigators years later.

High profile figures rarely choose places designed to disappear into the background.

Yet that appeared to be precisely the point.

The motel featured cracked walls, worn carpet, and minimal foot traffic.

It was forgettable by design.

Room 305 was not about comfort.

It was about isolation.

A front desk employee later recalled that Tupac asked no questions about amenities or checkout time.

Instead, he asked how many exits the building had.

Investigators would later describe that as a survival question, not a casual inquiry.

Inside the room, the artist behavior reportedly shifted.

Over the next 48 hours, he slept little, paced frequently, and checked the windows repeatedly.

Witness accounts described a car seen near the motel on multiple nights, never drawing attention, simply watching.

That presence alone was enough to alter trust and perception.

Phone calls during that period became shorter.

Familiar voices no longer felt safe.

People he once relied on felt suddenly too close.

According to those who later studied the timeline, this was not panic without reason.

It was adaptation.

When detectives revisited the motel years later, they did not expect to find anything meaningful.

The location had long been considered irrelevant.

But inside a dresser drawer in room 305, they found something that should not have been there at all.

A spiral notebook dated August 1996.

The pages did not contain lyrics or poetry.

Instead, they held names, numbers, and tallies.

Several names were crossed out with such force that the paper had torn.

Dates were circled repeatedly.

September 6.

September 7.

A single number appeared again and again.

500,000.

One name was circled so deeply that ink bled through multiple pages.

Investigators described the markings as desperate, obsessive, and deliberate.

This was not casual note taking.

It looked like someone tracking betrayal.

One line stood out above all others.

This is when it goes bad.

That sentence alone reframed the narrative.

It suggested anticipation rather than shock.

Awareness rather than coincidence.

The discovery did not end there.

Behind a slightly loose bathroom mirror, officers later located a cassette tape wrapped in a towel.

The label was simple and unadorned.

Play if I am gone.

When the tape was reviewed, the tone surprised those who heard it.

There was no bravado.

No anger.

No performance.

Tupac voice was calm and subdued.

He spoke about being followed, about counting threats over the previous month, and about realizing that the danger was not coming from obvious enemies.

It was coming from people close enough to smile at him.

At one point on the tape, there was an extended silence.

Not static.

Just quiet.

Then a soft statement that sounded less like a warning and more like acceptance.

He suggested that if he did not survive, the story would be labeled random.

He insisted it was not.

For investigators, the tape represented something rare in high profile cases.

Not evidence of the act itself, but evidence of awareness before it occurred.

The motel room held another detail that nearly went unnoticed.

Low on the wall near the bed, partially obscured by shadow and years of grime, were markings that initially appeared to be damage.

Scratches consistent with furniture or luggage.

An officer joked about the condition of the room.

Then someone adjusted the light.

The scratches formed words.

They were carved deep and uneven, as if made in urgency rather than care.

Four words became visible.

I trusted the wrong people.

Those words never appeared in any official report.

They named no suspect.

They identified no weapon.

But they pointed inward, not outward.

They accused proximity rather than strangers.

For law enforcement, that kind of implication enters dangerous territory.

Official documentation favors clean facts.

Timelines.

Locations.

Forensic detail.

A sentence carved into a wall does not fit neatly into procedure.

It does not accuse someone unknown.

It suggests betrayal by those already inside the circle.

The words remained undocumented, left behind as the room was eventually closed again.

After Tupac Shakur death, attention shifted rapidly.

Media pressure mounted.

The Strip.

The car.

The chaos.

Anything that did not align with that narrative faded into the background.

Room 305 became inconvenient.

Reexamining it too closely would have raised questions few were prepared to answer.

Questions about trust.

About insiders.

About what Tupac may have known before the public did.

As a result, the motel room remained untouched for more than a decade.

It was not until 2008 that cold case investigators revisited the location with fresh eyes and fewer assumptions.

One question finally gained traction.

Why was Tupac alone in that motel.

And why had no one gone back.

When the door to room 305 opened again, officers described the atmosphere as heavy and unresolved.

The room felt paused in fear.

It was not just a place to stay.

It was a place where someone waited.

For years, the investigation focused on a single question.

Who pulled the trigger.

Standing inside that room, surrounded by notebooks, tapes, and carved warnings, detectives realized the more uncomfortable truth.

The danger did not come from strangers.

It came from familiarity.

From trust misplaced.

Room 305 did not change the timeline of Tupac Shakur death.

It changed the understanding of it.

The renewed investigation, fueled by newly released video, photographs, and long ignored evidence, continues to evolve.

While no single discovery provides all the answers, together they paint a picture far more deliberate and far more human than the chaotic version long accepted.

What remains is not just a question of who was responsible, but how much was known before the final night.

And how many warnings were left behind, quietly waiting to be seen.