The fog of tragedy has descended upon a modest dwelling on Zarechnaya Street, where the air, once filled with the scents of home, grew thick with the metallic tang of blood. It is a wretched chronicle that would make even the most seasoned detective shudder.

There, in the dim light of a private house, two women—one born in 1895 and the other in 1923—were found butchered. The scene was a veritable shambles; multiple stab wounds had torn through their flesh, leaving them lifeless upon the floor. The culprit? One Mikhail Manin, a man of thirty-nine years, whose soul is as blackened as the soot of a London chimney.

How did such horror come to pass? The truth, as unearthed by the investigators, is as banal as it is brutal. Manin, a known rogue and a recidivist who had already tasted the bitterness of a prison cell for a previous murder, was steeped in drink. When his kin dared to cast a critical eye upon his intoxicated state—a mere remark upon his drunkenness—the beast within him awoke. In a sudden, violent frenzy, he snatched a kitchen knife from the table and fell upon his aunt and cousin with murderous intent.

After the deed, the wretch sought sanctuary in the rooms of a former mistress, lurking like a rat in the cellar. But the law is long-armed. The detectives closed in, and the villain was apprehended. Upon interrogation, the man confessed his guilt with a coldness that chills the marrow.

Now, the courts of Nizhny Tagil have cast him into the iron grip of the gaol, where he shall remain until August of 1926. The magistrate has ensured that this blood-stained scoundrel shall not walk the streets while the scales of justice weigh his crime. A dark day indeed, when a man's own blood becomes his prey.