The White Space. Chapter 4 — Point of No Return
An officer approached the driver’s window. A white jacket, white trousers, but a thin black piping ran through the entire uniform. On his head — a white peaked cap, and on his eyes — black aviators, a rare artifact from ancient times that the police had managed to preserve.
— Good afternoon, sir. Is everything alright? You’ve stopped in a no-parking zone, — the officer said.
— Yes, everything is fine, officer. The sun was blinding me, so I had to stop to put on my sunglasses, — the driver replied, adjusting them.
The officer nodded, glancing at the sun that was soon about to set. His face revealed no emotion.
— I understand. The sun can be quite blinding at this time of year. It’s good you stopped to put on your glasses. You may go. Have a good evening.
— Thank you, and have a good service, — the driver replied and drove on.
A thought flashed through his mind: if the Ministry had power over everything, they would even fix the sun in one position and set its temperature to 4500K.
He continued driving, feeling his thoughts intertwine like an endless network of light and shadow. It was a pity he would never be able to speak with the engineer. It would have been fascinating to learn where he got these ideas, what pushed him to go against the system, how the photographs in the leather notebook came to exist, the sketches, the warm colors, the textures.
The driver realized he would most likely never get answers. Yet, on the other hand, there was always a small trace of hope. Officially, there were no strict punishments for occasionally altering your home interior. There were even underground bars, rooms where people allowed themselves to deviate from the norms. But everyone who understood the rules knew: if you systematically ignore recommendations, you become dangerous to the world. And the system, like an invisible mechanism, always knew what to do with such cases.
He felt that weight. And although silence filled the car, thoughts of the engineer, the chair and warm light, the notebook and the hidden room would not leave him. The system was everywhere — in the light, in the white, in order. And any deviation, any warm beam, could become dangerous…
He arrived at his building, parked in his spot, and slowly walked toward the entrance.
When he entered the apartment, he was met with a familiar cold. A dull, flat, perfectly ordered atmosphere. He had once loved this space, considered it a model of perfection: clean lines, precise angles, perfect 4500K.
But today something had changed.
After that secret warm apartment, his own felt empty. And strangely — it was losing not only to that warm space, but even to the sterile white section.
He sat down in his white leather chair and felt a chill radiating from it.
Strange how color could be felt through the body.
He took off his trench coat, carefully pulled the leather notebook from the inner pocket, and began flipping through the pages.
Sketches.
Photos.
Material notes.
Lighting schemes.
Handwritten proportions of spaces where a person does not feel controlled.
Yes, this was definitely the work of that same engineer. The lines showed experience. Confidence. A person who had spent years designing correct spaces — and had suddenly begun designing living ones.
His gaze stopped on one photograph — a small kitchen with warm light, a wooden floor, textiles. Ordinary. But it radiated warmth.
“He was doing this for someone else as well,” the protagonist thought.
So many ideas are not created for a single apartment.
Which means there are others.
Maybe among his neighbors.
Maybe someone nearby lives in warmth.
Of course, the secret room is an extreme case — probably an exception. But creating a slightly warmer space? Without hidden panels. Without unnecessary noise.
The main thing — don’t show it to anyone, don’t draw attention.
He raised his eyes and slowly scanned his living room. The opposite wall, the lighting, the floor. Theoretically, the color temperature could be changed here. Or the floor material, or the wall texture. Just slightly.
His heart began to beat faster. This was no longer curiosity — it was temptation.
He always saw spaces as living structures. Even good ones — especially good ones — could be improved slightly: soften the light, shift the focus, add depth.
This was his strength. He saw potential where others saw completion.
But now everything was different.
His “standard” space suddenly stopped being a standard. He no longer wanted to adjust it. He didn’t want minor corrections. He didn’t want small improvements. He wanted to rebuild it completely.
From scratch.
Not refine it — but destroy it and create it again.
He stood up from the chair and slowly walked through the room. He ran his hand along the cold wall. The light was even, without shadows. The floor was perfect, but lifeless. For the first time, he didn’t see safety in it — he saw limitation.
He sat on the sofa, activated the virtual mode, and opened the last scanned apartment.
In a second, a wooden wall appeared in front of him with a built-in TV. Beneath it — a floating metal cabinet. Its surfaces reflected the warm glow of a bio-fireplace.
It was incredible.
Metal, which in his world was always cold and sterile, had changed here. It didn’t feel distant — it absorbed light, reflected the warmth of the apartment, and added depth. Metal became alive through its surroundings.
He slowly studied the textures. Wood with slight irregularities in its grain. Warm light with soft shadows. Fabrics that were not afraid of imperfection.
He wanted to touch it so badly.
He lowered his gaze to the virtual sofa — deep saturated color, textured leather, soft folds. He reached out his hand…
And felt cold.
Reality returned instantly.
He was sitting on his flawless silver sofa. Smooth. Perfect. Dead.
This is not for him, he realized. Not virtuality. Not observation.
He wanted to implement it. To create it. To feel the result not through glasses, but through skin, through the smell of wood, through the warmth of light.
The essence of his calling hadn’t changed — he was still a space corrector. But his understanding of comfort had changed.
He removed his glasses — the chill of the apartment hit his face.
He could print a chair or a lamp with warm light. At least one object. A small experiment.
But they were not issued colored filling materials.
Only white and black.
And in that moment, it struck him.
The shredder.
He had processed material left over. Standard procedure: after space cleaning, leftover materials must be delivered to the waste department. He had done it dozens of times. Routine. Normal.
And there, he had often seen confiscated cartridges with colored filling. They lay in separate containers labeled:
— Non-standard spectrum
— Temperature regulation violation
— Pigment confiscated
He had access. He always had access.
He only needed to bring processed waste, register the transfer, enter the pre-sorting section. There were no cameras there — only weight and time-of-stay scanners. The system recorded volume, but did not analyze every movement of the hands.
Theoretically, if the container weight stayed within the margin of error… if he didn’t stay longer than allowed… if he acted calmly… he could take one cartridge. A small one.
Though it was very risky.
But not meaningless.
He stood up. His heart was beating more steadily than expected. He had worked within the system his entire life. He knew its blind spots. He knew it controlled large deviations but ignored microscopic ones. The system was not afraid of small changes.
As long as they remained small.
Tomorrow he would go to the Ministry of Spatial Balance.
A normal day.
A normal disposal procedure.
A normal space corrector.
And only one small cartridge would change everything.