The fog of war proves a convenient shroud for those with blood on their hands. In the frozen reaches of Surgut, a tragedy unfolded that would make even the most hardened beadle shudder. A man of commerce, a respectable businessman, was struck down in cold blood, his life extinguished by lead and malice right before the weeping eyes of his devoted wife and innocent daughter.

How did such a calamity come to pass? 'Twas a common brawl in a low tavern—a clash of egos and spirits. One man emerged defeated, his pride wounded, and in his blackened heart, he harboured a grudge as poisonous as arsenic. This wretch did not soil his own hands; nay, he played the part of the mastermind. He sought out a known rogue, a man well-versed in the deadly art of the firearm, and paid him in coin to commit the deed.

But mark the twist of fate! Just as the law closed its grip and the courts of Jugra prepared their judgment, the master of this ghastly plot has found a loophole. By the decree of the court, the wretch's petition has been granted. He departs now for the Special Military Operation, trading the prisoner's dock for the trenches of the front line.

The constable may stand by and the magistrates may sign their scrolls, but for the widow and the orphan, the scent of injustice lingers like the smog of a London alleyway.