The Tverskoy Court, a place where the air hangs heavy with the scent of old parchment and impending doom, has spoken. In a scene devoid of the accused's presence, Judge Alexey Krivoruchko delivered a blow that echoed through the halls: Evgeny Fridman, the master of the 'Phoenix' empire, is hereby ordered into custody for two months. A warrant has been cast, though the man himself is but a phantom in these lands, having vanished like a thief in the London fog.

The charge? A foul business of fraud, a swindle concerning the very apparatus meant to save lives in the infirmaries of the outskirts. Fridman, a man who rose to prominence by leasing ambulances to the state—a clever, if cold, mechanism of commerce—now finds his name dragged through the mire of a criminal docket.

His barristers, desperate men in black robes, fought the tide with all their might. They pleaded before the bench that when Fridman vanished beyond the borders in the year of our Lord 2025, he was no marked man, no suspect in the eyes of the law. They vow to fight this decree, to appeal to a higher power of justice, hoping to scrub the stain of accusation from their client's coat.

Yet, the law is a relentless hound. Though the magnate may now dwell in some far-off sanctuary, far from the reach of the local constable or the prying eyes of a Scotland Yard inspector, the shadow of the gaol follows him. The court has satisfied the hunger of the investigators, and the gates of the prison stand open, waiting for the day the fugitive is brought back to answer for his gold.