Detective Scallion
A detective who escaped the kitchen to investigate the world.
Detective Scallion
Detective Scallion was not always a detective.
Once, he belonged to a kitchen — a place filled with noise, repetition, and quiet decay. One day, without announcement or farewell, he left.
Since then, he has wandered beyond cutting boards and boiling pots, investigating the strange habits of the world and the fragile logic of human lives.
He solves no ordinary crimes.
His cases are made of silences, misunderstandings, forgotten dreams, and truths people carefully avoid seeing.
Each episode follows a seemingly small mystery — yet beneath it lies a question:
what does it mean to live consciously in a world that rarely pauses to think?
New episodes arrive every Thursday.
Episode one
Sometimes stories don’t begin with heroes —
they begin with a quiet departure.
The story began on a damp, rain-soaked night.
He stood by the window; nothing could be seen outside. The glass reflected mostly his own image, and a vague unrest breathing somewhere behind him.
For the last time, he looked at the photograph in his hand.
A half-alive smile. A cold, trembling light. A hidden anxiety — and a shadow that did not belong there.
He drew deeply on the cigarette at the corner of his lips. Smoke rose, yet the burning in his eyes did not fade; some tears have nothing to do with smoke.
Slowly, he walked toward the candleholder and carefully surrendered the edge of the photograph to the flame, making sure the fire would burn only the picture and its memories, not him. The flame was small, but he knew well how small things could reduce entire worlds to ash.
He watched it burn for a while. No haste. No hesitation.
His gaze wandered across the room as he took a deep breath.
He was tired of this place.
Of the endless grumbling of the fat kettle that had done nothing but sit on the fire.
Of the refrigerator’s murmur — a lawless club hiding the last pleasures before consumption, wearing a false innocence whenever its light came on.
Of the green, sprouting potatoes driven nearly mad, shouting at dull knives.
Of the rotten leftovers — like the cheese that was never chosen, its smell still wandering through the air.
And of the newly arrived, celebrated knives that made everything destined to be eaten tremble.
Suddenly, the refrigerator light flicked on.
He looked away.
His hand moved instinctively to his pocket — where the photograph no longer existed.
He inhaled deeply. This was no longer just a kitchen. Something in the air had decayed — something beyond food.
He extinguished the cigarette.
He was not a young scallion anymore: tall and green, with eyes permanently moist — no one knew whether by nature or by memory. The sharpness of his being hid quietly behind smoke, as if he wished to be felt less himself.
A faint metallic sound echoed from afar — something dragging across a cold surface.
A pale smile appeared.
He had found the answer — and that was the most dangerous part.
He was no longer looking for justice here.
The scent of wet soil slipped in from beneath the door, a smell long absent from this kitchen.
He picked up his coat.
For the last time, he did not look back.
In a rough voice, like a late-night podcast, he murmured:
“Some truths cannot survive beneath the light of a kitchen lamp.
They need soil.”
He stepped toward the door.
Perhaps, from now on, he should be called Detective Scallion.
Silence Always Smells Like Wet Soil
Episode two
“No crimes are found in this kind of silence.”
He stepped into the garden and closed the door behind him. He walked a little farther, then stopped.
Dusk had only just fallen asleep, and the night had taken a deep breath.
A vast, living silence surrounded him; not the kind of silence that is empty — the kind that has ears and listens to the depths of your being.
The soil beneath his feet was damp. The scent of fresh rain rose patiently from the heart of the earth; a scent like the embrace of a mother who had once carried him within herself.
The burning in his eyes had softened a little. He dropped the cigarette and pressed it into the soil with the tip of his shoe.
He looked around. Perhaps someone in the garden was still awake.
A little farther away, the movement of a leaf caught his attention. He stepped forward quietly, moved the leaf aside with one hand, and lit a lighter with the other.
In the darkness around him, that small flame was enough to illuminate the path of his gaze.
A mushroom sat peacefully among the sleeping plants; a silence that, in all its simplicity, seemed to be hiding a storm.
Could decay also be found within such freshness of soil?
He stepped closer and stared at the mushroom for a while. Under his breath, he said:
— Do mushrooms need meditation too?
The mushroom stirred in the light, opened its eyes, and said:
— Detective… no crimes are found in this kind of silence.
It paused for a moment, then continued:
— Though you are not quite as far from the modern world as you think. But don’t worry… perhaps you are safe here. Cold, sharpened metals have no place in the dampness of soil.
He was Detective Scallion, not some delusional scallion. The mushroom’s words did not surprise him. Perhaps the mushroom had guessed the story from his long coat or the sweat resting on his forehead.
He was a detective with a logic of his own.
Even so, a thought crossed his mind:
Was he considered a stranger to the garden?
Or had the garden been waiting for him all along?
The mushroom’s humble home, roofed only by the sky, contained nothing but a single couch. Its grass-like walls shifted even before the wind arrived — yet it was still a home, enough to shelter a weary detective.
Perhaps the detective no longer feared a hidden killer. Now he was searching for a meaning he had only recently discovered — perhaps freedom, or simply fresh air to breathe.
The mushroom had no intention of sleeping yet. A quiet anticipation rested deep within him, so he invited the detective to rest on his couch.
Minds crowded with unrest rarely find answers. More than anything, Detective Scallion wished, like the mushroom, to offer himself a moment of peace.
So he accepted the invitation.
As he approached the couch, a magazine lying upon it caught his attention.
With bitterness in his voice, he asked:
— I didn’t take you for someone interested in the world of fashion.
A gentle smile appeared on the mushroom’s face.
— It’s the only photograph I have of my beloved. The warmth of her kiss still lingers… though now she stands in someone else’s embrace.
Scallion looked at him in surprise.
— That woman? How long was she with you?
The mushroom answered softly:
— She held me close for a moment… no longer than a kiss — yet those few minutes were enough for me to memorize every line upon her body. Each of us carries lines of soil on our skin.
The detective took a deep breath, shook his head, and silently pitied the mushroom for his imagined love.
The mushroom said nothing more and retreated into his silence.
Earlier, the detective had thought of the mushroom as a creature of wisdom. But maybe awareness does not always come through perfection. Sometimes a wound born from foolishness becomes a lantern along the way.
With a bitter smile, he said quietly:
— Is there really any difference between thinkers?
Then he removed his coat and stretched out upon the couch.
What had happened in the kitchen to wound him this deeply?
Lost in those thoughts, his eyelids slowly grew heavy, and he drifted into sleep.
Silence became their host.
Silence always smells like wet soil…
A short while later, he awoke to the sound of a scream.
He rushed frantically toward the mushroom.
The mushroom’s lifeless body lay on the ground.
And the owner of that feminine scream was no longer there.
Only the trace of her perfume remained behind.
It did not take long for him to realize that the dampness of the garden no longer felt unfamiliar to him.
He lit a cigarette.
Truth Rarely Survives Desire.
A Cold Thought, Sipped Slowly from the Depths of Soil
Episode three
It did not take long for the homicide police to arrive, stealing the silence and darkness of the night like thieves.
Wasn’t the detective the only witness at the scene?
Who had informed them?
Perhaps, in the safety of the garden, crime is a silent scream that somehow reaches everyone.
The sound of sirens and the spinning red-and-blue lights painted the wet grass in unfamiliar colors.
With furrowed brows, the detective fixed his eyes on Doctor Asparagus — a figure whose calmness had quietly captured his attention.
Asparagus was thin yet tall, with a resolute face. Cold and detached, he seemed like one of those who had spent so long beside death that it no longer felt like an event.
He removed the mushroom from the crime scene with unsettling ease, as though his only concern was that the mushroom might suddenly wake up.
Within moments, he declared everything finished — an ending for the mushroom as effortless as switching off a bedside lamp.
Perhaps the embrace of soil is the final, unavoidable bed awaiting all who belong to the garden.
Scallion took a few steps toward Asparagus and said sharply:
— If you looked more carefully, perhaps you’d find a trace of the killer.
Only a few seconds of silence followed.
Asparagus could not conceal his irritation. He raised a clenched fist toward the detective and snapped:
— And who are you to tell me how to do my job?
He was right.
Who was he?
Detective Scallion was nothing more than a newcomer. He was not even wearing his coat.
Sometimes the clothes you wear buy you respect before anyone has the chance to judge you.
But how was he supposed to put on his coat quickly enough?
Perhaps a detective ought to sleep in it.
At that moment, Asparagus turned his head toward the couch — toward the coat hanging beside it. He drew a deep breath and slowly shook his head.
So clearly that even the detective could hear the sound of his thoughts.
A man whose only souvenir from the modern, corrupted world was disorder — or perhaps disorder was a creature that found its owner even in the middle of peace.
This time Asparagus spoke more calmly:
— Wouldn’t it be better to stop something before it happens? If you were in his place… would you care what happened after you were gone?
Even silence had no answer for that question.
So their brief conversation ended there.
The sounds faded.
The lights disappeared.
And another scene came to an end.
Once they had gone, the garden fell quiet again. The darkness of night became the detective’s host once more.
The detective was left with only a couch — a small inheritance from the garden’s generosity.
At least now he had somewhere to rest the weight of his exhaustion and his thoughts until morning.
Lying on the couch, he placed a cigarette between his lips. He closed his eyes and took a long drag.
Suddenly, he remembered the disappearance of the young carrot — right after entering that suspicious colander.
He sank deeper into the couch, almost as though it were a bathtub in which he wished to drown his head and cool the fever of his thoughts.
Truths that were never uncovered, hidden behind secret meetings between veteran parsleys and inexperienced tarragons in the darkness of the refrigerator.
Had those filthy conspiracies, lost beneath the glitter of the modern kitchen, somehow found their way into the garden?
By the time his thoughts came to an end, the night had ended too.
He rose to his feet.
This time, he needed to arrive at the scene before it was too late.
Daylight had given him a clearer view.
Not far away stood a house atop a hill — a house that surely knew something about last night’s commotion.
He made his way toward it.
The sound of the doorbell echoed through the quiet morning beneath the pressure of his finger.
Mr. Potato, the owner of the house, welcomed him without resistance and invited him into the sitting room — a room with large windows overlooking the events of the previous night, where perhaps the only obstacle to the truth had been the darkness itself.
Mr. Potato sat across from the detective on the couch.
At first glance he appeared indifferent, yet the heaviness of his body sinking deep into the cushions suggested something else entirely.
From his relaxed appearance, it seemed he had nothing to hide.
His thoughts, much like his body, sat naked before the detective, slipping slowly from his mouth one after another.
The narrow teacup looked far too delicate between his large, untrimmed fingers.
He lifted it with a grace that bore no resemblance to the roughness of his nature.
He tasted the tea not as a simple drink, but like an expensive wine — a noble attempt to conceal something coarse that still clung to him from the depths of the soil.
He took a sip and said:
— From the scent of her perfume, it was obvious she had come to see the mushroom… but why? Why the mushroom?
At those words, the detective remembered the fragrance once again.
It was true. The perfume had been strong and seductive enough to pull a man from his seat and lure him toward the window.
Mr. Potato’s gaze remained fixed on the glass. The teacup trembled faintly between his fingers.
Perhaps he was imagining the woman’s face somewhere deep inside the story.
He took another sip and said quietly:
— Perhaps every man would want to have her.
The scent of jealousy wandered through the room.
The garden was full of men who spoke heavily of reason and logic. Yet all it took was for a beautiful woman to enter the room for the jealous little boys hiding behind those grand words to awaken.
And finally, after the last sip of his tea, he let out the last fragments of his thoughts:
— Sometimes I almost feel sorry for him… Broccoli has been entering scenes quietly these days. Environmentally friendly vehicles… perhaps they don’t even leave wheel tracks behind in the soil.
A cold sweat gathered on the detective’s forehead.
Painfully, he swallowed the lump in his throat.
A mistaken judgment had blinded him to the truth.
To repeat the same mistake and arrive at the same ending once again — what punishment could there be besides pain?
His cigarette had burned to its end.
A small flame scorched the tips of his fingers, yet the burning in his eyes remained.
Perhaps careless judgments are an ordinary habit for ordinary people… but what about for someone who seeks the truth?
He needed fresh air.
He crushed the dead cigarette into the ashtray with more force than necessary.
Then he stood up.
Unlike Mr. Potato, who remained lost inside his own thoughts, the detective felt as though someone was waiting for him behind the wall.
Walls that possessed not only ears, but tongues made for building rumors.
Ignoring the potato, he stepped out of the room.
And there, standing before him, was a woman