The White Space. Chapter 5. Ministry of Spatial Balance
The night was long. He couldn’t sleep, tossing and turning, staring at the ceiling, recalling yesterday’s apartment — the warm wall, the lights of the biocamino, the deep color of the sofa — and thinking about tomorrow, doubting. He imagined redesigning his apartment: changing the floor in his mind, the lighting, the textures, moving furniture, adding warm tones, and then erasing it all again. He thought about the engineer. What was happening to him now? Where was he? Where do people even disappear to when the system “removes” them? No one knew, and that lack of knowledge was the most terrifying thing — not punishment, not pain, but the absence of information, emptiness, the inability to understand what to expect. And so he waited for tomorrow, not knowing how it would end.
Everything used to be predictable: he always knew what his day would look like. Life was stable, understandable, structured, and back then stability felt like something good. But one day changed everything, and now it felt not like protection, but like a cage. Thoughts kept crashing into each other: fear and curiosity, calculation and temptation, caution and calling. Only toward morning, when the light outside became softer, did he finally fall asleep, and for the first time in a long while it wasn’t completely white.
When he woke up, he lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling. Doubts didn’t disappear, they only became quieter, but the desire to create something new — truly new — slowly and firmly outweighed fear. He got up, showered, cold water quickly brought clarity, movements precise and practiced — everything as always. In front of the mirror he stopped: among the dark hair, a single gray strand had appeared. He leaned closer, and suddenly thought that even hair in this world was slowly losing color.
In the kitchen he pressed the dispenser button — a standard smoothie of neutral color poured into the bowl in a smooth silent line, without smell, without texture. He sat at the table, took a spoon, and thought: “The main thing is that there are no new tasks today,” he didn’t want distractions. He went to the coffee machine, pressed the button, the machine hummed quietly, and he suddenly caught himself thinking that no matter how the day began, without coffee it felt incomplete. After a sleepless night his body should have been exhausted, but because of those warm dreams he felt almost rested, as if a source of energy had appeared inside him that didn’t depend on sleep. He took the cup, steam rising upward, and suddenly thought that even if coffee were once standardized into a colorless drink, people would still remember its real taste. The taste of warmth is not so easy to erase.
He got ready, put on his glasses, took a deep breath, and stepped into the corridor, the apartment door closed behind him, the phone automatically activated the cleaning function, and the soft sound of the lock blended with the echo of silence in the stairwell. The same man as yesterday walked past him, a brief glance, a moment of mutual recognition — and each went their own way. He approached the elevator, metal walls reflecting the light coldly, and before this cold had seemed ideal — cleanliness, control, order — but now it suddenly came alive in memory with reflections of the biocamino, warm and alive, as if reminding him that something existed beyond the white order. The elevator hummed softly, and his thoughts drifted again to that secret apartment where the light was warm and the wood was alive; even here, among metal, he felt its echo.
He approached the car, opened the trunk, and took out the cartridge with used material, carefully placing it into a special case. He had already planned everything during breakfast: submit three used white cartridges and two from the shredder, take new ones, and discreetly add one colored cartridge in place of a white one, hiding it among the white ones, the main thing — that the weight wouldn’t differ, it mustn’t. Colored cartridges were often seen there, so he wasn’t too worried; if there were none today, he would try next time. Closing the trunk and taking a deep breath, he felt that the moment to execute the plan had come. On the way he again ran everything through his mind: no unnecessary movements, no emotions, only routine, one he had performed hundreds of times, knowing every route and every detail. There was no real control there, only at the entrance a controller checked weight and documents, after that everything was mechanics, a practiced motion. He repeated each step mentally so that no detail would look suspicious — only then could the plan work.
He didn’t even notice when he arrived. The car stopped softly and silently. In front of him rose a massive white building, cascading toward the center, rising into a taller central structure. On the facade, in clear emotionless letters, it read: “Ministry of Spatial Balance”. Earlier this name had sounded almost calming — balance, order, harmony. Now it had a different meaning.
Behind these words lay control. Control over space, form, color, and life.
The building pressed down with its mass. Its whiteness was not light — it was blinding, cold, merciless. No shadow, no hint of warmth. Next to it, a person felt tiny.
A small cog in a vast mechanism. A cog that could easily be replaced if it started turning the wrong way.
He turned off the engine and for a moment kept his gaze on the inscription. Today this mechanism had no idea that one of its cogs was about to disrupt the balance.
He calmly opened the trunk, took out the container with used material, and headed toward the entrance. His steps were even, measured — neither fast nor slow, as always.
The doors opened silently.
Inside, everything remained unchanged. A vast hall with an information desk in the center, so large that footsteps were lost in the space. Every line was straight, every joint flawless. The materials were joined with such precision that the entire interior looked carved from a single monolith.
It was an example of white minimalism. The interior practically screamed sterile purity.
On both sides of the information desk were waiting areas with massive sofas and chairs. Above them hung large flat light fixtures emitting perfectly even white light — sterile, shadowless. Even the light here did not allow warmth.
Behind the desk, two long corridors led to different departments. Everything was designed down to the smallest detail: no unnecessary elements, no hint of individuality.
He silently headed toward his department.
The woman at the information desk — all in white, completely emotionless — briefly raised her eyes. Her gaze was empty, yet recognizing. She gave a short nod and returned just as emotionlessly to her work, her fingers moving evenly across the keyboard.
No questions. No suspicion.
Everything was as usual.
The corridor was long. Indecently long.
Whiteness here did not merely exist — it pressed. It felt as if the space was shrinking with every step.
And suddenly he understood why it was designed this way.
These corridors were a test.
While a person walks, the system reads them: walking pace, breathing rhythm, shoulder position. The slightest deviation — and tension becomes visible. And tension means deviation. And deviation here is forbidden.
He walked steadily. Calmly. Neither faster nor slower.
And eventually reached his department — the control desk.
— Good day. I came to submit used material and receive three new cartridges. Also to replace two shredder cartridges.
The controller did not look up immediately.
— Your identification code, please.
He placed his phone against the scanner. Two faint signals cut through the silence.
The controller looked at the screen. His brows slightly narrowed.
— But you already submitted used material this week.
Something tightened in his chest, but his face remained calm.
— Yes. But yesterday there was a large amount of work for disposal. I sent a report regarding the object. The cartridges with used material are almost full.
Pause.
The controller’s eyes moved across the data.
— Yes, I see, — he said dryly. — Indeed a large workload.
His gaze lifted.
— And did you bring the used white cartridges?
— Only three. In two there is still some material left. I think together it will be enough for another small object.
The controller stared a few seconds longer than necessary.
Only the steady hum of ventilation could be heard in the silence.
The corridor behind him again felt endless.
— Good. Don’t forget to bring the used cartridges next time. Place your basket on the scales.
He carefully placed the container on the metal platform. The system activated quietly. A short scan. Two dry signals. A pause that lasted slightly longer than desired.
— Rooms 107 and 109. Access granted, — the controller said in a flat voice. No intonation. No doubt.
Something heavy slowly loosened in his chest.
He passed through the metal frame. A barely noticeable scan glided over his body. He took the container from the other side and headed toward room 109.
Again, a corridor — but different: narrower, quieter. On both sides stretched metal doors with numbers, no handles or unnecessary details, only flat surfaces and small screens beside them.
He stopped at the correct door. The display showed: “Storage of material for disposal.” His phone touched the scanner, two short signals — and the door opened silently.
Inside stood rows of shelves: tall, precisely aligned, with dozens and hundreds of containers of different markings and codes. The door behind him closed just as silently, and the silence became dense, almost physical.
He placed the used cartridges in the designated spot, as protocol required, and began searching for the colored one. Row after row, his gaze moved across markings — white, gray, standard. There were many containers he had never even seen before. There had been no time to study all the codes. He had to find it quickly. If he lingered too long, it would be noticed.
Another row. Not it. Another. And suddenly — near the door, two short signals sounded.
His heart instantly sped up. In the dead silence of the storage room, each beat echoed between the metal shelves. Thoughts flared one after another: detected? inspection? But the next moment the door opened, and a man appeared at the entrance.
His gaze slid to the container in the man’s hands. He could exhale — the man was only here for disposal. But staying would look suspicious, so it was better to leave quickly and return another time. They passed each other, a brief nod — and each went their separate way.
And in that exact moment, a few steps ahead, he saw it — a small label: RGB.
Only seconds remained.
Inside, a cold calculation activated instantly. Speed could not change. He could not look around. He could not show hesitation. Only steady movement. Only precision.
He aligned himself with the shelf. His hand slid to the side. One exact motion — no stopping, no change in rhythm. The cartridge ended up in the basket. His step did not break even for a moment.
He walked a few more meters and listened. Behind him — even, calm footsteps. The man did not stop. Did not turn.
So it was fine.
He exited, feeling that beneath the outer calm his heart was still far from normal. The door closed quietly behind him.
The first part of the plan had succeeded.
Inside the container was the colored cartridge. Real. Now only two white ones and two for the shredder remained — and then simply to leave. Simple.
He turned slightly back and approached door 107. He placed his phone against the scanner. Two short signals. The door opened.
Inside, it was empty. Only rows of shelves, identical containers, and cold white light. He had to act quickly. He approached the nearest shelf, took two white cartridges and the cartridges for the shredder, and carefully placed them on top of the colored one. Now everything looked perfect — nothing suspicious, nothing extra. The container was indistinguishable from hundreds of others that left this room every day.
Only the hardest part remained — getting out of here.
He took a few steps toward the door. The corridor was silent. Too silent. He walked slowly, at the same pace he had entered. One step. Another. Each one pressed heavily against his eardrums, as if striking them directly. The sensation was unpleasant, but he forced himself to keep the rhythm. Ahead appeared the turn toward the control desk.
That was where the controller sat. That was where the scales were. And that was where everything could end.
He took a slow breath and approached the turnstile. The controller was looking at the monitor, not even raising his eyes when the basket was placed on the scales. One second stretched, then another felt endless, and finally two short signals sounded. He passed through the frame, tapped his phone on the electronic reader to confirm the record, gave a slight nod to the controller, and continued down the long corridor.
A drop of sweat ran down his temple. His hair was damp. He ran a hand over his face and through his hair, trying to steady himself. His thoughts were too loud, emotions pressing from within, but he forced them into silence. The vast hall remained unchanged — cold, emotionless, indifferent to everything happening inside it.
He passed the information desk. The woman didn’t even look up. He didn’t stop. A few more steps to the exit. Ten. Nine. Eight. The air felt thicker with each step. Five. Four. Three. Two. One...