The fog of lawlessness has descended upon the settlement known as Emerald Hills. In this wretched corner, a pack of street urchins—lads barely fourteen to seventeen years of age—have taken to haunting the shop-fronts like ghosts of the rookeries. They approach the honest folk with a plea: buy them a bottle of strong drink, or suffer the consequences.

One poor soul, having the decency to refuse such a request, was met not with gratitude, but with a flurry of blows. The scene, a veritable brawl of the lowest order, was captured by some unseen eye and flung into the public gaze via the Telegram channel of the Shot publication: [https://t.me/shot_shot/96915].

Local residents, trembling in their boots, report that this is no isolated scuffle. In a mere handful of days, three such assaults have occurred. The street has become a haunt for these young scoundrels, who treat the pavement as their own private 'malina', terrorizing anyone who dares defy their whims. Where is the constable? Where is the vigilance of the precinct? The streets cry out for the grip of a firm hand!

And as if the city were not plagued enough by such depravity, tidings have arrived from the south. It is told that a youth of nineteen and his masked confederates—friends of a certain lady of the night—descended upon a Muscovite gentleman. Their motive? A blood-vendetta for the perceived 'ill-treatment' of their companion. Clad in medical masks to hide their villainous visages, they sought a bloody reckoning. Truly, the world has gone mad, and the criminal element grows bolder by the hour.