I have walked the fog-choked alleys of the worst rookeries, where the air reeks of gin and despair, but some crimes freeze the blood even in a seasoned chronicler's veins. A most heinous conspiracy, calling itself the 'Empire of Geese,' has cast its shadow across the Urals, weaving a web of filth that reaches as far as the distant ports of Latvia and Estonia.

Mistress Ekaterina Mizulina, a woman of resolute spirit, has sounded the alarm. She speaks of a clandestine trade in the most forbidden of images—shameful portraits of children, sold like common livestock to foreign buyers. She has petitioned the highest magistrates—the Prosecutor General and the Ministry of Internal Affairs—demanding that the iron grip of the law be tightened upon these scoundrels.

Yet, mark the tragedy! While poor souls tremble in their wake, the ringleaders of this 'Empire' dwell not in the damp misery of Newgate or a cold cell, but in the comfort of Noginsk. There they sit, sipping their fancy coconut brews and granting interviews to the press, as if their hands were clean of this slime. It is a scandal that would make any honest constable howl with rage!

The details are truly wretched. In Yekaterinburg, a young maiden was betrayed by the one person who should have guarded her—her own mother, who delivered the child straight into the clutches of a predator. The 'Geese' preyed primarily upon lads between the ages of eleven and sixteen. Through the cruel arts of blackmail and threats, these boys were forced to film their own degradation, haunted by the fear that their shame would be flung into the public squares for all to see.

One wonders where the detectives are? Where is the vigilance of the precinct? While the villains feast and the victims weep, the law seems to be merely strolling by in a daze, leaving the doors of the 'malina' wide open for these monsters to continue their trade.