The air in those cramped, dismal quarters of Perm is often thick with the stench of cheap spirits and desperation. 'Twas here, in a communal hovel where walls have ears and patience is a rare coin, that a most hideous tragedy unfolded. October’s chill had settled upon the city when a quarrel erupted—one of those sudden, violent flares that ignite among men who have nothing left but their anger.

The victim, a wretched soul steeped in a foul mixture of strong liquor and narcotic poisons, was in a state of utter delirium. The defendant, consumed by a long-simmering hatred, saw his moment. In a fit of blind rage, he seized a screwdriver—a common tool turned into a murderous blade—and stormed into his neighbour's chamber. One thrust, deep into the chest, and the lifeblood ebbed away, leaving the poor devil dead upon the floor.

When brought before the magistrate in the Ordzhonikidzevsky district, the culprit pleaded his innocence, claiming he harboured no intent to kill and that the deceased had been the aggressor. But the law is blind to such pleas when the blood is spilled. The judge delivered a stern sentence: eight years and seven months of hard labour in a strict regime colony.

Yet, the condemned man does not surrender to his fate. He has filed an appeal, hoping some shred of mercy or a legal loophole might save him from the iron bars. For now, he awaits the verdict, while the ghosts of that wretched room still whisper of the madness that took place.