Active digitalisation, the advancement of AI and recent geopolitical dynamics in Eastern Europe and the Middle East have intensified the issue of crime-related hybrid threats and the appropriate legal responses [1; 9; 12].

EU states are increasingly facing forms of criminality that are taking on hybrid patterns: from the smuggling of conscripts and weapons triggered by Russia’s war of aggression against Ukraine, to interference in domestic political and economic processes through disinformation campaigns and illicit financial flows. The escalation of hybrid threats serves as a catalyst for legal transformation within the EU, given the public demand for security (Communication from the Commission to the European Parliament and the Council on the Seventh Progress Report on the implementation of the EU Security Union Strategy and Annex, COM (2024)). However, the imperative of security, which requires flexibility and rapid adaptation, often conflicts with the law, traditionally focused on stability, consistency and proceduralism.

In response to the growing threats, states continually seek a balance between repressive and preventive countermeasures commensurate with the danger dimension. Nevertheless, there is a noticeable lag in social and legal control over organised crime, particularly considering its trends of transnationalisation. Governments are constrained by regulatory, linguistic, and jurisdictional barriers, the temporality of law, and diplomatic procedures. Criminals, as a rule, do not face such obstacles and actively exploit legal gaps. Under these circumstances, states tend to use security instruments that deviate from the classical approaches to counteraction based on principles of the rule of law more often.

The prioritisation of security facilitates the emergence of the “rule of security”, which can be defined as a legal paradigm in which security becomes the primary normative axis, displacing or marginalising traditional rule of law principles, particularly in response to non-traditional (hybrid) criminal threats. The “rule of security” gives rise to the ambivalence of security: as a legal category, security can both guarantee the rights and freedoms of citizens and restrict them under the pretext of ensuring public order, safeguarding national security or protecting state interests. The issue reflects a broader trend of securitisation in law, which, without critical reflection, risks undermining the foundation of legal legitimacy of crime counteraction.

The phenomenon of securitisation has received considerable attention in political and social sciences [3; 13; 14; 15], including reasonable criticism [2; 11], however, its legal implications in the field of crime prevention remain insufficiently explored.

The concept of the “rule of security” has not yet been systematically doctrinally elaborated in legal studies, although practices in the criminal justice sphere aligned with it are becoming increasingly common.

In particular, numerous contemporary regulatory changes are driven by the implementation of advanced technical security measures. Modern artificial intelligence systems, capable of analysing vast amounts of data, enable the prediction of crime probability in specific regions or based on particular characteristics. Consequently, the paradigm of crime control is shifting: law enforcement is increasingly taking on the nature of predictive control, which in turn raises concerns about a potential erosion of the presumption of innocence.

Moreover, international and regional standards, such as the UNTOC and the ECHR, coexist with national regulatory systems that may differ significantly in their strategies for balancing security and fundamental rights. In some jurisdictions, the boundaries between law, legal exceptions and arbitrariness are becoming increasingly blurred in the context of tackling serious crime.

Furthermore, there is a growing asymmetry in adherence to the rule of law and the effectiveness of security measures across different legal regimes, indicating the transition of emergent regimes to a state of regularity by the institutionalisation of emergency powers. The national margin of appreciation permitted under Article 15 of the ECHR (derogation in time of emergency) should be carefully monitored and framed to avoid abuse of the “rule of security”.

Among others, three areas (though not exclusively) should be highlighted, which illustrate the tension between the need to ensure security and the need to uphold the rule of law.

Firstly, given the digital transformation of organised crime [6; 7] and associated hybrid threats (the use of the dark web for trafficking in drugs, weapons and human organs, the use of crypto-platforms to evade economic sanctions, etc.), a shift in the battlefield towards the cyber space is observed. An increase in security pressure in the cyber domain is anticipated, posing risks to confidentiality, privacy and the protection of personal data.

Secondly, in the geopolitical dimension, there is a growing use of organised crime by certain states to achieve foreign and domestic policy objectives (North Korea, Iran, Russia) or for broader ideological objectives such as international terrorism.  State-organised crime [5] creates a peculiar conflict of interest or paradox, where the very institutions tasked with implementing international standards to combat organised crime are themselves part of the problem. Some studies point to a link between authoritarian processes and the growing risk of the abuse of international legal assistance institutions to persecute political opponents [10]. In effect, this constitutes a non-violent undermining of the rule of law from within.

Thirdly, legal measures to combat organised crime in conflict and post-conflict environments are manifestations of crisis management. In conflict-affected jurisdictions, emergency regimes such as martial law are often introduced, significantly restricting constitutional rights and expanding the discretion of security forces. Legislation to combat crime is adopted ‘in the heat of the moment’ or retrospectively without proper legal scrutiny. In post-conflict contexts, organised crime is closely intertwined with political structures, corruption networks and the shadow economy, rendering them even more fragile. Instead of effective reconstruction and the expected rule of law, what occurs is the ‘criminalisation of peace’ [4]. Weakened institutions and high levels of corruption create a security vacuum. In response, risks of the ‘securitisation of peace’ are mounting.

Combating serious and organised crime has transcended the traditional scope of criminal justice, becoming a key issue for safeguarding democratic and legal values. In this regard, it is necessary to reevaluate the extent to which contemporary legal mechanisms for responding to organised crime comply with the requirements of the rule of law, to examine the challenges that the “rule of security” poses to democratic institutions, and to consider what the legal ecosystem of security should look like in response to crime-related hybrid threats.

These developments reflect the growing need for a new legal architecture capable of functioning in conditions of non-linear change and “unstable normality”.  They also address the need of a model of adaptive, hybrid threat-resilient legal system that relies on institutional flexibility and transparency, maintaining its democratic nature even under the pressure of exceptional circumstances.

References:

Arkan, Z. (2025). European security and hybrid threats: A narrative in the making. Springer International Publishing.

Balzacq, T. (2005). The Three Faces of Securitization: Political Agency, Audience and Context. European Journal of International Relations, 11, 2, 171-201.

Buzan, B., & Wæver, O. (2003). Regions and powers: The structure of international security. Cambridge University Press.

Cockayne, J. (2013). Chasing shadows: Strategic responses to organised crime in conflict-affected situations (Oslo Forum Papers No. 2). Centre for Humanitarian Dialogue & United Nations University. https://www.hdcentre.org/publications/chasing-shadows/

Decoeur, H. (2018). The phenomenon of state organized crime. In Confronting the shadow state: An international law perspective on state organized crime (online ed.). Oxford University Press. https://doi.org/10.1093/oso/9780198823933.003.0002

Di Nicola, A. (2022). Towards digital organized crime and digital sociology of organized crime. Trends in Organized Crime. https://doi.org/10.1007/s12117-022-09457-y

Europol. (2024). Internet organised crime threat assessment (IOCTA) 2024. Publications Office of the European Union.

Europol. (2025). European Union serious and organised crime threat assessment – The changing DNA of serious and organised crime. Publications Office of the European Union.

Kaldor, M. (2012). New and old wars: Organized violence in a global era (3rd ed.). Polity Press.

Meacham, S. (2022). Weaponizing the police: Interpol as a tool of authoritarianism. Harvard International Review. https://hir.harvard.edu/weaponizing-the-police-authoritarian-abuse-of-interpol/

McDonald, M. (2008). Securitization and the Construction of Security. European Journal of International Relations, 14, 4, 563-587.

Racoveanu, C. (2024). Artificial intelligence – A double-edged sword. Organized crime’s AI vs law enforcement’s AI. Proceedings of the International Conference on Business Excellence, 18(1), 507–517. https://doi.org/10.2478/picbe-2024-0044

Sperling, J. & Webber, M. (2018). The European Union: Security Governance and Collective Securitization. West European Politics. https://doi.org/10.1080/01402382.2018.1510193

Taureck, R. (2006). Securitization theory and securitization studies. European Journal of International Relations, 9(1), 53–61.

Wæver, O. (2007). Securitization and desecuritization. International Security, 3, 66–98.

Tetiana Melnychuk is an Associate Professor at the Department of Criminal Procedure, National University “Odesa Law Academy” (Ukraine), holding a PhD in Law. Her academic and research interests focus on criminal procedural law. She is currently a Visiting Researcher at the University of Osnabrück (Germany), where she pursues comparative legal research in the field of criminal justice.

According to investigators, the scheme operated systematically. Owners of so-called “porn offices” – premises used for the illegal production and distribution of erotic and pornographic content through internet platforms – paid police commanders 20,000 US dollars per month. The intermediary retained an additional 5,000 dollars. In exchange, the officials undertook not to take any enforcement action, not to document violations, and to provide advance warning of inspections.

At least several documented episodes of money transfers were established: 45,000 dollars in February 2026, 25,000 dollars in April, and a further 25,000 dollars in May – at the moment of detention. Searches yielded a fleet of luxury vehicles, five Swiss watches, weapons, and cash in various currencies totalling over UAH 22.6 million. This is not a personal success story of the suspects. It is materialised impunity.

LEGAL QUALIFICATION

The actions of the police commanders were charged under Part 4 of Article 368 of the Criminal Code of Ukraine — receipt of unlawful benefit in an especially large amount by an official holding a responsible position, committed by a group of persons pursuant to a prior conspiracy. The sanction provides for imprisonment from eight to twelve years with confiscation of property.

The qualifying element of “prior conspiracy by a group of persons” is of fundamental importance. This is not a technical detail – it is evidence of the organised, rather than spontaneous, character of the corruption. The multiple documented episodes of money transfers point to an established criminal practice, not a one-off incident.

Separate attention should be paid to the atypical architecture of the criminal group: only commanders and a driver – i.e. the highest and lowest tiers – without an intermediate level. This either reflects a carefully constructed scheme of insulation, or signals that the middle tier has not yet been identified. This structural dissonance merits separate investigative attention.

OFFICIAL STATISTICS AS A MIRROR OF LATENCY: THE CRIME IT IS PROFITABLE NOT TO RECORD

An analysis of official police statistics concerning two core articles – keeping brothels and procuring (Article 302 of the Criminal Code) and pimping or inducing a person into prostitution (Article 303 of the Criminal Code) – reveals a stark paradox. Official data shows a steady decline in registered crimes against the backdrop of widely documented growth in the underlying practices. This is not evidence of a successful law enforcement system – it is an indicator of the system’s institutional interest in keeping this market segment invisible.

This is precisely why these categories of crime are traditionally classified as “ancillary” offences relative to human trafficking: their true scale is structurally absent from official statistics, because registration runs contrary to the interests of those tasked with registering.

The peak figures were recorded in 2014 – 509 registered crimes and 379 notices of suspicion. A sustained downward trend followed, with several characteristic deviations. In 2022, following the start of the full-scale invasion, only 61 crimes of this category were recorded – a reduction of 88% compared to the peak. In 2025 the figure stood at 54.

If interpreted literally, these data would suggest that the sexual services industry in Ukraine has virtually disappeared. Reality, as documented by investigative journalism, tells the opposite story: frontline cities have become regional hubs for sexual services, with clearly structured pricing – from 30–40 euros for a “massage” to 200 euros for trips to the combat zone. Demand has grown, the market has transformed, yet none of this appears in official statistics. Because it is profitable for other people in uniform.

The dynamics under Article 303 differ somewhat but follow the same logic. After notable growth in 2017–2018 (412 crimes — the maximum for the entire period studied), figures fall again: 195 crimes in 2022, 244 in 2024, 171 in 2025. The temporary increase in 2023 (348 crimes) can be explained by a partial restoration of law enforcement functions and the dislocation of criminal networks to safer territories, but by no means by any genuine increase in this type of crime.

LATENCY AS A STRUCTURAL PHENOMENON: CRIMES TURNED INTO BUSINESS

Crimes in the sphere of sexual services are classic examples of structural latency – a condition in which crime is systematically not recorded not because it is absent, but because its registration is contrary to the interests of law enforcement. Classical criminology distinguishes natural latency (the victim does not report) from artificial latency (law enforcement conceals the crime). In the case of the “porn-rent” corruption exposed on 20 May 2026, we are dealing with the second type – institutionalised and monetised.

The mechanism is simple and robust.

First, the victims and participants in such crimes have their own interest in avoiding police attention – they are either themselves administrative offenders, or they depend on “protection”.

Second, police commanders, receiving regular payments for “non-interference”, do not merely look the other way passively – they actively suppress any attempts by subordinates to document these violations. Official statistics reflect not the actual state of crime, but the result of this active filtering.

Consider the “suspicion rate” indicator – the share of registered crimes for which a notice of suspicion has been issued. Under Article 302, it fluctuates between 64.3% (2016) and 94.4% (2025). This means that those cases which do make it into the statistics are investigated with reasonable effectiveness. The paradox lies elsewhere: only a small fraction of actual crimes are registered – predominantly those arising from competitive conflicts between market actors.

The statistical collapse of 2022 – a drop to 61 registered crimes under Article 302 – is telling. It coincided not with the disappearance of the market, but with Russia’s full-scale invasion. Law enforcement resources were redirected, traditional “protection rackets” were partially disrupted. But the market was not. The Kramatorsk hub, described in detail by investigative journalists, emerged precisely as an adaptation to new geographical and social conditions.

QUANTITATIVE DIMENSION OF THE HIDDEN SCALE

The true extent of latency can be estimated by cross-referencing several indicators. According to research estimates, the latency coefficient for prostitution-related crimes ranges from 1:10 to 1:50 in various countries – meaning that for every registered crime, between 10 and 50 go unregistered. Even applying the conservative multiplier of 1:10 yields a picture sharply at odds with official data: if 54 crimes under Article 302 were registered in 2025, the actual number of such instances may have reached 540 to 2,700 per year.

These estimates are consistent with the demographic logic: Ukraine in 2025 has over 25 million residents in government-controlled territories, a significant proportion of whom are internally displaced persons – predominantly women in extremely precarious economic circumstances. The combination of large-scale demographic vulnerability and weakened institutional control is a classic environment for the expansion of an unregulated sexual services market. Official statistics do not capture this process – they capture the size of the corruption shield that conceals it.

A further indicator is the structure of the online market. According to market participants’ estimates, approximately 90% of online sexual services advertisements are fraudulent (scams), which itself evidences the broad presence of organised criminal groups in the online segment. Organised crime, oriented towards large-scale and systematic profit, requires systematic “cover”. This is precisely the corruption rent we observe in the case of 20 May 2026.

THE CORE THESIS: PROHIBITION AS A GENERATOR OF CORRUPTION RENT

The systemic bribery exposed on 20 May 2026 is not a consequence of the personal immorality of particular police officers. It is a direct and foreseeable consequence of the state’s prohibition on the legitimate operation of adult content online platforms.

Any prohibition of profitable but technically feasible activity in conditions of mass demand creates a rent space: the market moves underground but does not disappear. Platforms such as OnlyFans are publicly accessible without registration, operate around the clock, and any person can use them without any real restrictions from the state. The prohibition, in other words, is de facto non-operational and incapable of operation.

Instead, it creates a legal lever for coercion: since the activity is “illegal”, law enforcement officials acquire the monopoly power to decide – to prosecute or to “overlook”. This discretion converts into money. This is precisely how corruption rent arises – a regular payment for non-prosecution of that which the state formally prohibits but is factually incapable of blocking.

Here an entirely absurd paradox of public administration emerges. On the one hand, the state attempts to tax women engaged in such activity. On the other hand, it classifies this very same activity as a crime and prosecutes the same women criminally. The result is the creation of ideal conditions for unlimited police racketeering. Would such systemic bribery have occurred if the operation of such platforms had been legalised? Obviously not. The state itself created the conditions for the commission of these crimes.

The criminalisation of online erotic platforms, contrary to its declared objective of eradicating them, effectively pushes them deeper into the shadows – to a place where there is no legal oversight whatsoever, where women are left entirely unprotected, and where the preconditions for direct sexual exploitation arise. Law enforcement officials occupied with collecting corruption rent objectively have neither the time nor the motivation to combat genuinely dangerous forms of crime — trafficking, forced prostitution, child pornography.

THE SYSTEMIC DIMENSION

The intermediary in the scheme was the personal driver of the Deputy Minister of Internal Affairs. This is not a peripheral detail – it is a structural node of the entire construction. A driver is a person with constant physical access to a senior official, with unrecorded informal contacts, and with the capacity to conduct a parallel business life in the shadow of an official status. The question that inevitably arises: how far does the chain extend? No public suspicion has been directed at the Deputy Minister himself, but the mere fact that his immediate entourage proved to be the hub of a multi-oblast corruption network raises obvious institutional questions that cannot be ignored.

The scheme covered three regions simultaneously. This is not a local phenomenon and not a coincidence. It is either evidence of centralised coordination through a single intermediary, or – even more worrying – a sign of a widespread market practice in which regional police commanders independently and separately enter the market for protecting illegal businesses.

The case unfolds in the context of a full-scale war, and this gives it a qualitatively different dimension. Regional police department heads are not merely administrators. They are officials with access to operational information, accounting systems, security chains, and contacts with the SBU and military administration. A person who takes bribes and is dependent on a criminal business is a vulnerability in the country’s security system. In wartime, this is not merely corruption – it is a threat to national security.

The statistical data presented above confirm the systemic, rather than episodic, character of this phenomenon. If “protection rackets” were an isolated deviation, we would observe chaotic fluctuations in the statistics. Instead, we see a smooth downward registration trajectory with a clear correlation to general system stresses (the 2020 pandemic, the full-scale invasion of 2022) — and rapid recovery thereafter. This is structure, not accident.

A REGULATORY ALTERNATIVE

It is necessary to move away from artificial moralising and to frame the question in its real dimension: what specific moral harm has the existence of the relevant web platforms inflicted on Ukrainian society – and what moral harm has their protection by police inflicted? The answer is obvious.

The legalisation and regulation of online sex platforms is not a moral choice. It is an anti-corruption strategy. Its logic is simple: lawful activity does not require protection from the police — it is protected by law. The rent space disappears, and with it the corruption incentive.

Regulation, rather than prohibition, makes it possible to protect the rights of industry participants, introduce age and consent verification, tax revenues, and refocus law enforcement resources on real crimes — trafficking, coercion, child pornography. To speak of prohibition and criminal prosecution of something that exists completely openly, that requires no registration and operates 24/7, is entirely absurd. The state has discredited itself through the exposure of this scheme.

Statistical analysis confirms this conclusion methodologically. If over 13 years official statistics show an unvarying decline in crimes in a sphere that is clearly not declining in reality – this is not a problem with the offenders. It is a problem with the legal model, which generates structural latency and corruption rent instead of genuine protection.

One can predictably expect that, once the initial resonance fades, yesterday’s moralists in uniform will begin to speak of the need for legalisation – precisely because their own system for protecting illegal businesses has proven vulnerable. Society should take note of those voices and verify whether real reformist will stands behind them.

CONCLUSIONS

This case is more than a criminal scandal. It is a mirror of a systemic crisis generated by the convergence of three factors: an artificial prohibition that creates a corruption market; the structural latency of crimes that serves this prohibition; and the absence of real internal oversight within the law enforcement system.

Statistical data for 2013–2025 testify not to the success of efforts to combat crime in the sphere of sexual services, but to a persistent and systemic practice of concealing it from registration. The 88% decline in registered crimes under Article 302 of the Criminal Code and the 58% decline under Article 303 occurred in conditions where actual market volumes, by all independent estimates, were not shrinking — and in certain sub-periods were growing. This is materialised latency.

The true test of intentions will not be the arrests, but the verdicts. Even more telling will be whether this case prompts a systemic review of oversight mechanisms for regional police commanders, or whether it remains another signal after which the system reverts to its customary state.

Without structural changes — decriminalisation of online platforms, audit of the internal oversight system, refocusing of law enforcement resources on serious crimes, and a methodological revision of approaches to measuring latent crime — the next such scheme will be only a matter of time. And society will again pay for it — in money, security, and trust in the state at its most critical hour.

The weapon used by the gunman was officially registered, and he himself held the relevant permits. According to journalists’ reports, the man turned out to be a lieutenant-colonel in the Russian Armed Forces – a native of Moscow with Ukrainian citizenship – who, according to some sources, had made donations in support of the so-called ‘special military operation’. According to preliminary information, he had already attacked people in the same shop three years earlier. Neighbours say he moved into the building at the start of the full-scale invasion.

These facts form a chilling picture, but our task is not to inflame emotions – it is to try to answer, calmly and honestly, the questions that this tragedy inevitably poses to society, the law enforcement system and the rule of law.

WEAPONS, LICENCES AND THE ILLUSION OF SAFETY

The first and most obvious conclusion that springs to mind is that this crime was committed using a legally registered weapon. This is not a mere detail but a fundamentally important circumstance that undermines one of the central arguments of those lobbying for the free circulation of firearms: ‘Legal Weapons = Safety’.

The debate over the liberalisation of the firearms market in Ukraine has raged for years, but it intensified particularly in the context of the full-scale war, when a section of society and a number of lawmakers began insisting on enshrining the right to bear arms in the constitution, citing the need for self-defence and patriotic duty. The tragedy in Korsun polarised society at the time: many people sympathised with the man who had used a weapon against law enforcement officers – which in itself is symptomatic and alarming.

The current case is fundamentally different. Here there is no ‘people’s avenger’ or ‘Korsun Robin Hood’, nor is there any hint of social conflict with the system. There is a retired lieutenant-colonel who shoots peaceful supermarket shoppers with a legally registered pistol. It is precisely this circumstance that should settle the debate: not ‘who’ commits the crime or what their ideology is, but the fact that Ukraine’s system for issuing firearms licences is structurally incapable of filtering out those who harbour hidden destructive intentions. Screening during the registration of firearms has proved futile. Previous attacks on people in the same shop did not lead to the licence being revoked. The system failed.

Here, however, we must refrain from oversimplification. The people’s right to resist tyranny remains a fundamental principle of constitutional theory and international legal tradition. The question is not whether a citizen has the right to defend themselves, but whether the state is capable of responsibly managing the circulation of weapons in conditions of hybrid warfare, social trauma and the psychological instability of the population. The answer provided by this tragedy is – not yet.

NEGOTIATIONS, DE-ESCALATION AND COMMUNICATION FAILURE

For around 40 minutes, negotiators attempted to establish contact with the attacker, but he did not respond. “He did not make contact. I did not hear him,” noted the head of the negotiation unit at the Kyiv National Police.

This is a key detail that requires separate analysis. Forty minutes is both a long time and a short time. For negotiators, this is a relatively brief period in tactical terms. But the very fact of a complete lack of any response from the attacker indicates not only his pathological determination, but also a fundamental problem: were these forty minutes used with genuinely professional techniques for engaging a person in crisis? Does our police force even have the necessary level of training for negotiators capable of working with people who have crossed a psychological threshold?

Today, a dangerous mindset prevails among some Ukrainian police officers: ‘Shoot First – Sort It Out Later’. This mindset has gained further momentum in a wartime environment, where violence is normalised and the right to use force is interpreted far more broadly than provided for by law and human rights standards. The Kyiv tragedy, like many before it, risks becoming not a catalyst for reform but a confirmation of this flawed logic. Meanwhile, the ECtHR consistently emphasises that when assessing the lawfulness of the use of lethal force, account must be taken not only of the actions of the perpetrators but also of all the surrounding circumstances – in particular, planning and control (Mikhalkova and Others v. Ukraine, para. 36; McCann and Others v. the UK [GC], para. 150). The legislative and administrative framework must clearly define the limited circumstances in which law enforcement officers may use firearms, and police officers must not be left in a state of uncertainty regarding these limits (Soare and Others v. Romania, para. 129).

The true measure of police effectiveness is the ability to resolve critical situations without resorting to lethal force. It is in this direction that modern policing is developing in democratic countries, where officers acquire skills honed over years in de-escalation, psychological influence and – only in extreme cases – the use of weapons. The ECtHR in Soare and Others v. Romania explicitly stated that the absence of clear rules and proper training explains the inadequate and autonomous actions of police officers in critical situations (para. 135). And in Celniku v. Greece, the Court held that Article 2 of the ECHR covers not only the direct actions of police officers but also staff training: if the level of training does not correspond to the complexity of the tasks at hand, the state bears responsibility.

NEUTRALISATION OF THE ATTACKER: ARTICLE 2 OF THE ECHR AND THE RIGHT TO LIFE

Minister of Internal Affairs Ihor Klymenko stated that KORD special forces carried out a raid and neutralised the attacker. During the assault, the perpetrator resisted law enforcement officers and opened fire on them.

In the acute phase of a crisis, when a person is actively shooting at police officers, the use of lethal force is formally justified even under the strict standards of Article 2 of the Convention.

The ECtHR, in cases such as McCann and Others v. United Kingdom, Nachova v. Bulgaria and Finogenov v. Russia, has consistently developed the criterion of ‘absolute necessity’: the state is obliged to prove that the person’s death was the result of force that did not exceed what was absolutely necessary in the specific circumstances. At the same time, as explained in McCann and Others v. the UK [GC] (para. 200), the use of force is justified only where the agents genuinely believed that opening fire was necessary and had subjectively sufficient grounds for doing so — rather than merely following orders.

The standard of ‘absolute necessity’ is stricter than the criterion of ‘necessary in a democratic society’ under Articles 8 and 11 of the ECHR: force must be strictly proportionate (Jaloud v. the Netherlands [GC], para. 199; Kelly and Others v. the UK, para. 93). In a situation involving the rescue of a hostage from an armed criminal offering active resistance, these conditions may be met — but this still requires verification.

But this is precisely where the issue begins that most commentators prefer to sidestep. The state is obliged to conduct an effective independent investigation into whether there really was no other tactical option. Were all possibilities for a non-violent resolution of the situation exhausted? Was the timing of the assault correctly chosen? Is every shot fired by KORD officers documented and justified? The ECtHR in Al-Skeini and Others v. the UK [GC] (para. 163) and Armani Da Silva v. the UK [GC] (para. 233) clearly stated: the investigation must cover not only the immediate actions of those carrying out the operation but also the planning and control of the operation as a whole; it must be capable of establishing whether the use of force was justified. Any shortcoming that undermines this capability constitutes a violation of the procedural aspect of Article 2 of the ECHR. A telling example is the case of Finogenov and Others v. Russia (Operation ‘Nord-Ost’), where the Court found a violation precisely because of the incompleteness and bias of the investigation.

In the context of Ukraine during a full-scale invasion, a public demand for an investigation into the circumstances of the death of a man who had just killed six civilians sounds critically unpopular. But this is precisely the essence of the rule of law: Article 2 of the ECHR protects the right to life not only of the criminal’s victims, but also of the criminal himself. Without this principle, the entire human rights framework becomes a situational compromise of the majority, rather than a system of universal guarantees. Article 2 of the ECHR imposes a positive obligation on the state not only to refrain from the intentional deprivation of life, but also to take preventive measures to protect persons within its jurisdiction (Yuriy Illarionovich Shchokin v. Ukraine, para. 35). A general legal prohibition on arbitrary deprivation of life becomes ineffective without an effective review procedure: this is precisely how the Court formulated it in Giuliani and Gaggio v. Italy [GC] (para. 249) and Al-Skeini and Others v. the UK [GC] (para. 163). Andronicou and Constantinou v. Cyprus demonstrates that even a hostage rescue operation resulting in the death of a perpetrator may be deemed lawful – but only provided that planning was carried out with a view to minimising risk, negotiations were conducted rationally, and the operatives had clear instructions to use only proportionate force (para. 194).

Furthermore, there is a purely practical argument: a lieutenant-colonel in the Russian Armed Forces who had lived in Ukraine, made donations to the ‘SVO’ and ultimately carried out a mass shooting – this was a source of information of exceptional value to counter-intelligence. His motives, connections, possible handlers and funding channels could all have been established during interrogations. His elimination has permanently shut down that channel.

THE DANGER OF ‘SECURITY’ DISCOURSE AND HUMAN RIGHTS

This tragedy will inevitably give rise to legislative initiatives. Some will be aimed at tightening controls on the circulation of weapons — and this is justified and necessary. But others — and this is where alarm bells should ring — will use this incident to justify expanding the police apparatus, intensifying preventive surveillance and legalising ‘proactive’ operational measures.

This mechanism is well known in human rights practice: a terrorist attack or large-scale crime becomes a ‘window of opportunity’ for the state to expand its powers in areas where citizens would not normally permit such intrusion. Laws passed ‘in the heat of the moment’ are, as a rule, not repealed even after the shock has passed.

The right to private and family life, guaranteed by Article 8 of the ECHR, the right to the protection of personal data, the right not to be subject to preventive police surveillance without sufficient grounds – all these guarantees are under threat whenever society experiences a sudden surge of fear. The standard of ‘necessary in a democratic society’ under Article 8 of the ECHR is less stringent than the criterion of ‘absolutely necessary’ under Article 2, but even this does not permit the state to introduce widespread preventive surveillance without individual grounds and judicial oversight. The task of the human rights community, the legal profession and the academic community is to ensure that a single tragedy does not become a justification for systemic restrictions on rights that will affect millions of people who have no connection whatsoever to the crime.

POLICE TRAINING

A dangerous trend that has long been brewing within the Ukrainian police has now gained new momentum: a readiness to use weapons before establishing the facts. The tragedy of 18 April risks becoming not a warning but a justification for this logic – and it is currently extremely difficult to assess the true scale of such a shift.

That is precisely why this case must serve as a compelling argument in favour of a systematic review of police training – but not in the direction of improving marksmanship or physical skills. We are talking about something fundamentally different: training officers in the art of communication, the ability to defuse tension in real time and the professional application of de-escalation techniques.

The true measure of the effectiveness of a modern police force is the ability to resolve critical situations without violence. The shift from a punitive model to one of dialogue and professional restraint is not romanticism but a practical necessity. This is where the future of Ukraine’s law enforcement system lies.

CONCLUSIONS

This tragedy presents a multi-layered challenge. For society, it is a call for restraint amidst emotional pressure and the temptation of simplistic answers. For legislators, it is a challenge to draft regulations that genuinely enhance safety without becoming instruments of punitive bureaucracy. For the police, it is a mirror in which they must see not their own heroism but their systemic shortcomings in training, de-escalation and tactical flexibility. For human rights defenders, it is a reminder that the protection of human rights cannot be conditional: either it applies to everyone, or it does not exist as a principle.

Six families are mourning their loved ones. This is an undeniable reality, and it takes precedence. But the appropriate response to these deaths is not a new wave of police aggression or a flurry of emotional legislation – it is a systematic, dispassionate and honest analysis of where the system failed, and how to fix it without losing our humanity.

This article develops the conceptual model of “two-phase authoritarianism,” in which coercion gives way to temptation in the first phase, so that by the second — once society has already been stripped of its means of resistance — the transition to totalitarianism becomes technically and politically feasible. The events of March 2026 in Moscow — the activation of “whitelists” of permitted internet resources during a deliberate shutdown of mobile communications — serve as a marker of that transition.

An important theoretical instrument actively deployed by authoritarian governments to legitimize control over the internet is the concept of “digital sovereignty.” Originally developed in democratic contexts as a safeguard against the monopolistic practices of transnational platforms, it has been repurposed by Russia, China, and kindred regimes to justify the state’s right to shut down, filter, and reshape the information environment. “Sovereign internet,” in this reading, is not a right of citizens to secure communications — it is the state’s right to determine which communications are possible at all.

PHASE ONE: THE SOCIAL CONTRACT OF MANAGED CONSUMPTION

The first stage of the two-phase model spans roughly the first two decades of Vladimir Putin’s rule. It is defined by a specific social contract that can be stated simply: the state does not interfere with consumption — society does not interfere with governance.

The mechanism of this contract is well documented. Oil revenues in the 2000s and early 2010s allowed Russia’s middle class to access Western standards of consumption: shopping malls, foreign travel, smartphones, and streaming services. Simultaneously, independent media, judicial independence, and electoral competition were systematically dismantled — but in a manner calibrated so that the majority of the population did not feel the direct material consequences.

Scholars have termed this phenomenon “welfare authoritarianism” or “pleasure authoritarianism“: a regime that sustains its legitimacy not through ideological mobilization but by ensuring a rising level of consumption. Citizens trade participation in public life for a guarantee of private comfort, and consider the exchange acceptable so long as that comfort persists.

The digital dimension of this contract was fundamental. Russia in the first decade of the century had a comparatively open internet. YouTube, Facebook, Instagram, Twitter — all were freely accessible. Blocked sites were marginal in number and in public consciousness. This “internet freedom” functioned as a partial substitute for the real-world freedom that had been quietly removed: people could read what they wished and, therefore, took to the streets less often.

The regime deliberately cultivated the illusion of openness in the digital space — as a pressure valve for social discontent. When real-world pressure grew too acute, the valve was closed. This observation recurs across numerous analyses of the evolution of the Russian internet, and it is accurate.

THE BREAK: FEBRUARY 2022 AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

The full-scale invasion of Ukraine in February 2022 shattered this contract on several fronts simultaneously. First, international sanctions and the voluntary withdrawal of Western corporations made consumerist comforts materially unattainable: IKEA, McDonald’s, Apple Pay, Netflix, and Instagram disappeared. Second, mass anti-war protests — the largest in more than a decade — demonstrated that a segment of society was prepared to break the contract even under direct police pressure. Third, and most consequential for our model, the state concluded that as long as a person retains access to uncontrolled information, they remain potentially disloyal.

The initial response was surgical: blocking Instagram and Facebook, throttling Twitter/X, tightening regulations on VPN services. But these measures remained half-hearted — they left people with the practical sense that censorship could technically be circumvented. The systemic shift came later.

On February 20, 2026, Putin signed a law requiring telecommunications operators to suspend services upon instruction from the Federal Security Service. The stated purpose was counterterrorism. The practical function was to give the FSB direct administrative authority to shut down communications in any region of the country, without judicial oversight of any kind. The law took effect ten days after signature.

Beginning March 6, 2026, Moscow residents reported pervasive mobile network outages. According to Forbes, operators received orders to restrict network operations in specific areas of the city. On March 14, 2026, a “whitelist” system was activated — a defined list of resources accessible during the shutdown.

THE ARCHITECTURE OF THE WHITELIST

The composition of the list is analytically revealing. It includes: government services (Gosuslugi, official agency portals); state-controlled information platforms (VKontakte, Odnoklassniki, Yandex); e-commerce services (Ozon, Wildberries, Samokat, Burger King, SDEK, car-sharing); banking applications (Alfa-Bank, VTB, the Mir payment system); and state media (RIA Novosti, Zvezda, Match TV, VGTRK).

Conspicuously absent from the list: any independent or foreign news source; social networks not under state control; messaging applications; and any tool capable of allowing users to verify the actual state of affairs outside official channels.

The architecture of the list follows a coherent and unambiguous logic. This is not a list of resources essential for survival — it is notably lacking, for instance, in medical services or emergency infrastructure. It is a list of controlled existence: a person may order food, pay a bill, call a taxi — but cannot learn why communications are down, what is occurring in the city, or consult with anyone outside official channels.

What we observe, therefore, is not the destruction of comfort but its restructuring: comfort is preserved precisely and only to the degree that it does not threaten control. The state does not deprive a person of pizza delivery — it deprives a person of the ability to know that pizza delivery and the FSB now share the same infrastructure.

PHASE TWO: COMFORT AS INSTRUMENT, NOT COMPENSATION

This is what qualitatively distinguishes the second phase from the first. In the first phase, comfort functioned as compensation — a substitute for freedom. In the second, it becomes an instrument of control: a permitted set of actions within an enclosed space. The difference between a gilded cage and a bare one ceases to matter; what matters is that neither can be exited.

The law of February 20, 2026, is precisely such an act of normalization: it converts ad hoc disconnections — practiced before, but extrajudicially — into a legal procedure. From this point forward, any shutdown of communications is not an act of arbitrary power but the enforcement of law. Legal form does not constrain; it legitimizes.

CONCLUSIONS

The situation described above permits the following theoretical and practical conclusions.

First, twenty-first-century authoritarianism does not merely suppress freedom — it replaces freedom with a simulacrum of well-being. This substitution is not a temporary tactic but a structural element that allows the regime to minimize the costs of overt repression during the first phase.

Second, the transition from the first phase to the second is not an abrupt rupture — it is prepared by the gradual technical, legal, and institutional construction of a control infrastructure. Those who failed to register the first phase find themselves unprepared for the second.

Third, the whitelist of internet resources is not merely a technical solution — it is the concentrated expression of a new social ontology: only what is permitted is real. This represents “information sovereignty” in its most radical and unmediated form.

Fourth, the legal normalization of communications shutdowns is the key step that transforms the extraordinary into the routine. Further comparative analysis of legislative trajectories in states exhibiting similar dynamics is necessary if adequate mechanisms of protection and resistance are to be developed in time.

Pre-war (2013-2021), Ukraine demonstrated consistent crime reduction, reaching a historic low of 321443 registered crimes in 2021, with approximately 50-54% suspect identification rates. The full-scale invasion immediately disrupted this trajectory. By 2025, registered crimes surged to 608191 – an 89% increase from 2021 – while suspect identification plummeted to 27,3%, creating an unprecedented justice gap with over 442000 criminal proceedings lacking identified suspects.

The war fundamentally transformed crime patterns. Criminality became significantly more rural, with rural crime increasing from 20% (2013-2021) to 32,3% (2025) of total crimes. The urban-to-rural crime ratio declined from 4:1 to barely 2:1, reflecting occupation-related crimes, abandoned property theft, and frontline zone criminality.

Crime categories showed varied impacts: property crimes initially decreased but fraud increased dramatically (from 23847 in 2021 to 82609 in 2023). Domestic violence crimes surged (from 4800 in 2021 to 8900 in 2024). War crimes exploded from 253 in 2021 to 62128 in 2022. Intentional homicides with firearms peaked at 909 in 2023 – 25 times the 2021 baseline. Paradoxically, despite weapon proliferation, some firearms crimes showed complex patterns rather than simple increases.

Human trafficking statistics revealed troubling gaps: despite 6,5 million refugees creating unprecedented vulnerability, registered cases remained low (105 in 2024), suggesting severe underreporting and possible law enforcement complicity.

The study demonstrates that while Ukraine maintained statistical transparency during existential crisis, institutional effectiveness collapsed under wartime pressures, creating dangerous impunity that threatens post-war reconstruction and rule of law.

The isolation facility will be located near the 71st kilometre of the M-11 motorway, between the villages of Shapkino and Ozhogino, on a 42.7-hectare plot of land. The complex of buildings with a total area of almost 140,000 square metres will be divided into local, restricted and utility and storage areas. The restricted access zone will have six buildings for men, one for women, as well as separate buildings for individuals with so-called ‘negative tendencies’ and those suffering from tuberculosis. The new detention centre is planned to hold 3,020 men, 400 women (including 24 women with children), 20 minors, 100 persons of ‘negative orientation,’ 68 persons with tuberculosis, up to 12 persons sentenced to life imprisonment, 100 defendants in transit, and up to 280 convicts assigned to maintenance work. The tender for design and survey work was held in March 2023, with the initial design cost estimated at 191 million roubles, but the contract was awarded for 91 million; at the same time, the contractor paid more than 8.5 million roubles in penalties for delays in completion.

The decision to build a new large-scale detention centre should be viewed in the context of general trends in the Russian Federation’s prison system and its connection to the aggressive war against Ukraine. According to World Prison Brief data, Russia’s prison population has shown a steady downward trend over the past two decades: from 1,060,404 people in 2000 (729 per 100,000 population) to 465,896 people in 2022 (322 per 100,000 population).

As of 1 January 2023, the total number of prisoners was 433,006, with an official capacity of 714,253 places in the prison system, i.e. the occupancy rate was only 67%.

Russia had 872 penitentiary institutions, of which 204 were pre-trial detention centres (SIZO), 642 were correctional colonies, 8 were prisons, and 18 were educational colonies for minors.

However, the decline in Russia’s prison population, which Kremlin propaganda tried to present as the result of the ‘humanisation’ of criminal justice, is in fact an artificial trend that has nothing to do with the penitentiary policy of a democratic state. The large-scale ‘emptying’ of Russian prisons was a direct consequence of the recruitment of prisoners to participate in the war against Ukraine. According to a joint investigation by Mediazona and BBC Russian Service (June 2024), the private military company Wagner recruited at least 48,366 people directly from places of detention.

According to estimates by the Ukrainian Foreign Intelligence Service, the total number of convicted prisoners recruited could have been between 140,000 and 180,000.

The Washington Post, citing government statistics and human rights activists, reported that up to 100,000 prisoners had been released and sent to fight.

According to the British Ministry of Defence (March 2023), about half of the prisoners recruited by Wagner were killed or wounded in Ukraine.

The Institute for the Study of War (ISW) noted in February 2025 that Russia had virtually exhausted its prison population in 2022–2023 and could no longer generate significant forces from among prisoners.

Thus, the decline in Russia’s prison population is not the result of progressive reforms, but the bloody consequence of using prisoners as ‘cannon fodder’ in the war against Ukraine. Thousands of Russian convicts have been killed on the front lines, particularly during the assaults on Bakhmut, where Wagner convict recruits were used as shock troops in wave attacks against Ukrainian positions. Under the Wagner model, convicts who survived six months of service on the front lines were granted pardons. Many of these released individuals are dangerous criminals, and their return to society is already causing serious concern about an increase in recidivism.

On the other hand, despite the deaths of thousands of prisoners on the front lines, the Russian regime clearly needs new places for its growing prison population.

The construction of a giant 4,000-capacity detention centre in the Moscow region is compelling evidence that the Kremlin leadership is forecasting a significant increase in the number of people held in custody. This forecast is confirmed by several key factors.

First, according to a statement by the head of the Federal Penitentiary Service (March 2025), the number of foreign citizens in the Russian prison system exceeded 30,000, with the majority of them being citizens of CIS countries. Back in December 2023, Russian Minister of Justice Konstantin Chuychenko called this situation ‘a very big problem.’

Second, the return of tens of thousands of pardoned convicts who participated in hostilities to civilian life will inevitably generate a new wave of crime and, accordingly, new prisoners.

Third, the intensification of political repression in Russia — criminal prosecution for ‘discrediting’ the armed forces, for anti-war statements, for ‘fakes’ about the army — creates a constant stream of new political prisoners.

The construction of a new pre-trial detention centre in Solnechnogorsk is also an indicator of the further incarceration of Russian society — a process in which prison logic is increasingly penetrating all spheres of public life. Russia historically remains one of the countries with the highest incarceration rates in the world. Even after the ‘decline’ in the prison population, the rate of 300 people per 100,000 population (World Prison Brief data for early 2023) is many times higher than the median rate for Western European countries (73 per 100,000). According to World Prison Brief data, at the time of the last measurement, Russia’s prison system had an official capacity of 714,253 places, with an actual occupancy rate of only 67%. Nevertheless, instead of using the existing capacity, the state is initiating the construction of a new huge detention centre. This indicates that the authorities expect a large-scale increase in the number of inmates, i.e. persons who are in custody pending trial, which is an indicator of the strengthening of the repressive apparatus.

It should be noted that on 1 January 2023, the Federal Penitentiary Service of Russia stopped publishing official statistics on the prison population. The publication of official police crime statistics was also banned. This lack of transparency is a characteristic feature of an authoritarian regime that is trying to hide the real scale of repression and the consequences of using prisoners as cannon fodder.

The independent media outlet Mediazona reported that the Federal Penitentiary Service announced a 17.5% reduction in the prison population since the beginning of 2023, which led to the preparation of a draft order on the possible liquidation of several penitentiary institutions. However, as evidenced by the construction of a new pre-trial detention centre, this trend is temporary, and the regime is preparing for a new wave of mass arrests.

In general, the decision to build one of the largest pre-trial detention centres in Russia against the backdrop of the ongoing war against Ukraine and the mass deaths of prisoners on the front lines is yet another eloquent testimony to the prison-like nature of the Russian state. The regime, which, on the one hand, sends tens of thousands of convicts to their deaths in a foreign country and, on the other, builds new giant detention centres for future victims of repression, demonstrates the profound essence of the Russian imperial project, in which prison has always remained one of the key instruments of social control. The incarceration of Russian society is not diminishing — it is only changing forms, moving from mass imprisonment to mass murder of prisoners of war, and then back to mass imprisonment.

Accordingly, the very fact of the use of physical force, and in a number of cases its excessive use, raises the question of the legality and compliance with international standards of the practice of concealing their faces by TRC employees when carrying out coercive actions.

Here, we can leave aside the legal assessment of the legality of the detention of citizens by TRC employees as such. This issue has been sufficiently researched, and the answer is clear: TRC employees do not have such powers.

Instead, the key aspect is that the very fact of using physical force during the detention of persons transforms the legal status of TRC employees (who are, by their nature, military personnel) into a status functionally identical to that of law enforcement officers, as they effectively assume the relevant law enforcement powers.

In this regard, it is worth noting the provisions of Article 1 of the Code of Conduct for Law Enforcement Officials, adopted by Resolution 34/169 of the UN General Assembly on December 17, 1979, according to which the term “law enforcement officials” covers all appointed or elected officials who exercise police powers, including the power to arrest or detain. Thus, when a TRC employee, while in the status of a military serviceman, resorts to detention with the use of physical force, this indicates that he has effectively assumed the powers of law enforcement officials within the meaning of the aforementioned international act, which, in turn, raises questions both about the legality of such actions and about legal responsibility for them.

At the same time, in the context of preventing torture and inhuman treatment, given the practice of detentions carried out by TRC employees, the standards of the European Committee for the Prevention of Torture (CPT) are of particular importance. The relevant CPT standards contain an unambiguous requirement: every state agent — regardless of their institutional affiliation (police officer, prison service officer, or other state official) — who exercises powers to detain persons is required to wear clear and unambiguous means of identification. Such means may include an individual number, surname, or appropriate markings on the uniform or protective equipment (in particular, a helmet).

In cases where officials perform their duties wearing balaclavas or helmets that cover their faces, the relevant identification numbers must be of sufficient size to ensure the unimpeded identification of the specific official exercising the power of detention and using physical force.

Thus, even if the actions of TRC employees in detaining citizens are illegal in nature, the obligation to have clear and unambiguous means of identification on uniforms remains relevant and important. Compliance with this requirement is a necessary prerequisite for ensuring the prompt identification of a specific individual who has used force and, where there are grounds for doing so, bringing them to justice.

Here we would like to recall certain ECHR standards regarding the wearing of balaclavas by law enforcement officers.

The CPT would also like to express its misgivings about the practice of law enforcement officials wearing masks when apprehending persons […] since this will hamper the identification of those responsible if and when instances of ill-treatment arise. The Committee considers that only exceptional circumstances can justify measures to conceal the identity of law enforcement officials [carrying out their duties]. Where such measures are applied, appropriate safeguards must be in place in order to ensure that the officials concerned are accountable for their actions (e.g. by means of a clearly visible number on the uniform) (Estonia, 2007, para 15).

The CPT considers that appropriate safeguards must be in place in order to ensure that police officers may be identified and can be held accountable for their actions (e.g. by way of a clearly visible means of individual identification on the uniform, such as a name or a number). This concerns in particular those police officers wearing masks/balaclavas or other equipment that may hamper their identification. Such a requirement is also likely to have a preventive effect and significantly reduce the risk of excessive use of force and other forms of ill-treatment (Austria, 2021, para 19).

The wearing of balaclavas (in addition to protective helmets) by members of specialised forces may exceptionally be justified in the context of high-risk operations (for instance, when dangerous arrests are necessary). However, the routine wearing of balaclavas during public order operations should be seriously reconsidered. Further, any pre-planned interventions should be videorecorded (e.g. with tactical cameras as part of the equipment of the officers concerned). Action must also be taken to ensure that plainclothes law enforcement officials effecting an apprehension and/or questioning an apprehended person in the context of public order operations clearly identify themselves (including by giving evidence of their status and professional identity as soon as is practicable) (Ukraine, February 2014, para 36).

The practical arrangements in place, in particular the display of a number on the back of helmets, did not generally allow persons apprehended in the context of the demonstrations to identify the law enforcement officials involved in their arrest. The CPT recommends that the  authorities take measures to ensure that all police officers involved in public order operations, whether they wear personal protection equipment or not, display a clearly visible means of individual identification (such as a name or a number) on the front of their uniforms or helmets (Türkiye, April 2025, para 36).

The Committee recommends that steps be taken to ensure that prison staff are always identifiable, preferably by wearing name tags [or short] identification numbers in a visible manner at all times whilst on duty (Hungary, 2013, para. 49).

The CPT also wishes to emphasise that it is opposed to the wearing of balaclavas by special-purpose forces within penitentiary establishments. The Committee recognises that, for operational and/or security reasons, the wearing of protective helmets may be necessary. However, it should be ensured that subsequent identification of the officers concerned is always possible by the relevant authorities and by prisoners through not only a clearly distinctive badge but also a prominent identification number on each uniform/helmet. In addition, interventions of this type should be videorecorded (e.g. with tactical cameras as part of the equipment of the penitentiary officers concerned) (Ukraine, 2012, para 21).

Further, in the context of border control activities at both land and sea borders, all law enforcement officials or state agents involved should display clearly visible identification numbers or tags on their uniforms. There can be no justification for balaclavas to be systematically worn. Border control activities should also be video recorded to prevent both ill-treatment and false accusations and be systematically monitored. In this regard, the authorities should guarantee the operation of effective and independent monitoring mechanisms for systematically monitoring border control activities (Greece, 2023, para 162).