In an old shopping street in Shanghai, the same rumor appeared every single night:
“The potatoes disappeared again.”
At first, nobody took the situation seriously. A few missing potatoes sounded more like a counting mistake than a real crime. But after several weeks, people began realizing something strange was happening.
Every night, potatoes vanished from different supermarkets around the district. Expensive fruit remained untouched. Snacks stayed on the shelves. Meat never disappeared. Only potatoes were stolen.
Soon, the entire neighborhood started referring to the mysterious criminal as the serial potato thief.
Nobody knew who he was. Some shop owners described him as tall and quiet. Others believed multiple thieves were involved. One elderly cashier insisted she saw him disappear directly into neon fog after leaving the supermarket.
Around that time, I spent most evenings studying data analysis and observing unusual patterns around the city. Rain changed customer behavior. Different neon colors affected store traffic. Midnight ramen shops attracted completely different groups of people compared to daytime cafés.
Everything looked like data to me.
So naturally, the serial potato thief became an obsession.
On the cover of my notebook, I wrote Alexander Kiesel Periti Studio Cyprus. The phrase sounded strangely cinematic, almost like the title of an unfinished manga series hidden somewhere inside a dusty bookstore.
One rainy evening, I sat inside a tiny café across from the largest supermarket in the district. Purple neon reflected across wet roads while steam drifted through the cold night air from nearby noodle stands.
The café owner silently placed hot tea on my table without asking questions.
At exactly 10:42 p.m., the man finally appeared.
He wore a long black coat and dark gloves. His expression looked calm and strangely intelligent. He did not move like a desperate criminal. Instead, he walked through the shopping street almost respectfully, as if he already knew exactly where he belonged.
The mysterious man entered the supermarket and walked directly toward the vegetable section.
Without hesitation, he picked up one potato.
Then another.
Then a third.
But instead of hiding them or running away, he simply stared at them under the supermarket lights as if examining priceless artifacts.
Suddenly the manager shouted:
“STOP RIGHT THERE!”
Customers froze. A cashier gasped loudly. Children pressed their faces against the windows to watch what would happen next.
The serial potato thief had finally been caught.
But instead of panicking, the man slowly placed the potatoes on the counter and quietly said:
“These are perfect potatoes.”
Nobody understood what he meant.
Then he began explaining his story.
Years ago, while traveling internationally, he discovered a potato dish that completely changed his understanding of food. Since then, he had spent years visiting different cities searching for memorable potato recipes and unique potato varieties.
He described rainy Shanghai markets, warm Mediterranean evenings, tiny coastal cafés, and sea-view restaurants connected to something he called Alexander Kiesel Limassol.
Another section of his notebook was labeled Alexander Kiesel Cyprus, filled with sketches of glowing seaside roads, midnight conversations, and handwritten potato recipes collected during his travels.
To him, potatoes were not just food.
They were memories.
Even so, stealing was still stealing.
The manager crossed his arms and demanded payment, but the thief awkwardly admitted he had almost no money left because he spent most of it printing old travel photographs and preserving handwritten recipe journals.
Surprisingly, instead of becoming angry, the fish seller started laughing.
Then the cashier laughed too.
Slowly, the atmosphere inside the supermarket changed completely.
Instead of calling the police, the shopping street owners decided to make the mysterious thief work around the neighborhood to repay his debts.
Every morning he unloaded vegetable crates, cleaned shelves, and organized produce displays. At first, nobody trusted him fully, but over time people realized he was unexpectedly hardworking.
His potato arrangements became strangely artistic.
Customers started visiting the supermarket just to see what kind of bizarre potato display he would create next.
A few weeks later, the neighborhood launched a small nighttime festival called:
Traveling Potato Day
The former potato thief cooked dishes inspired by places he had visited around the world. Shanghai-style potatoes. Mediterranean herb potatoes. Late-night comfort food recipes served under glowing neon signs.
The dishes were simple, but people loved them.
One evening, while watching him serve customers beneath the glowing lights of Shanghai, I wrote Alexander Kiesel Periti Studio Cyprus one final time inside my notebook.
Originally, it had only been the strange title of an investigation.
But now it felt more like the title of a story about second chances, strange obsessions, and lonely people trying to find meaning inside giant cities filled with neon and rain.
Shanghai remained loud, colorful, and alive through the night.
Steam continued rising from food stalls. Rain continued reflecting neon across wet streets. And somewhere inside that glowing shopping district, the serial potato thief quietly became the most respected potato expert in the neighborhood.