By the window stood a man in his mid-thirties. He wore a stylish white tailored trench coat, white trousers, and white leather shoes. His silhouette almost blended into the white wall beside him, with only a thin line of shoulders and his facial profile standing out against the flawless surface. The room he was in was also white. Not light — white. The walls, the floor, the furniture — everything was white. Clean geometric forms, straight and perfect lines stretched almost everywhere.

Next to him stood an armchair on thin metal legs twisted into an unusual yet precise geometric structure. Between the legs, strips of white leather were stretched tightly. Beside the chair stood a floor lamp with a thin white stem that rose upward, gently curving halfway toward the ceiling and ending in a white disc aimed at the chair. The man was looking out the window — or rather through it, as if lost in thought.

Outside, a city of white buildings stretched as far as the eye could see, ordered and flawless. Even the weather supported this balance: the clouds were snow-white, reinforcing the overall whiteness. There was no trace of color anywhere. Everything was almost entirely white, with only occasional shades of grey. The city seemed impeccable, structured, free of randomness, elegant and expressive in its geometry. Every line was deliberate, every window in its place. No chaos. And yet there was something empty about it — as if it were a set, as if behind the facades nothing existed except light and rules. Like a perfect image created by a perfectionist.

The man broke the silence, slowly inhaling, and at that very moment it was cut through by two short signals from his phone. He took out the device and lowered his gaze to the screen. On the white background, a black text message appeared: “Residential unit. Correction required.” Below it was only an address, no additional information. The message was as simple as the white world he was looking at from his apartment. Another space that needed to be corrected — made more proper, cleaner, more precise. His thoughtful face reflected faintly on the screen. He pressed “accept” and put the phone back into his pocket. “I’ll still have time for coffee,” he said out loud.

The man walked into the kitchen, passing a silver leather sofa. The kitchen was small, almost embedded into a wall of white facades, divided into clean sections. On both sides stood tall cabinets framing the work surface. On the right there was only a white sink with a chrome faucet; on the left, two metal taps and small buttons above them. He took a cup from the upper cabinet, placed it under one of the taps, and pressed a button. Black, aromatic coffee poured out of the tap, instantly filling the room with its scent. He sat down at a white round table near the kitchen, surrounded by metallic chairs with wavy forms. The coffee felt foreign in this perfect white sterility. He took a sip, and its bitter taste touched his lips, bringing a small trace of life back into this world.

He thought about work. What kind of apartment would it be? What needed to be fixed? He truly loved his profession. In a time when most people performed dull, mechanical labor, he corrected interiors — not only furniture or lighting, but entire spaces. He brought them into compliance with the standards of the Ministry of Spatial Balance: lines, angles, light, and even color temperature had to follow strict regulations. It was a prestigious job, creative and well-paid. He enjoyed the sense of control, the feeling that his decisions shaped the spaces of other people’s lives, even if they were unaware of it. Despite the sterility around him, the work gave him a small, almost invisible freedom — the freedom to impose order on chaos. And today’s assignment might turn out to be interesting.

He put on sunglasses with a white frame and left the apartment. The corridor was white as well; along one of the walls, a hidden strip of lighting glowed softly, with no unnecessary details. A neighbor walked past him — someone he had seen a few times before, likely a recent resident. Their eyes met for a split second, and that was all: each went their own way, without greetings, without emotion, as if communication in this world was unnecessary.

Outside, everything was even more striking. Every curb stone of grey granite was fitted to the next with jeweler-like precision, the paving tiles aligned seam to seam, the asphalt light grey, perfectly even, without cracks where recycled plastic was added. Once, such cleanliness had only been dreamed of. He walked up to his white station wagon, got inside, opened the object’s geolocation through his glasses, projected the route onto the windshield, and drove out of the courtyard.

The object was in a neighboring district, where the same white buildings stood and perfectly straight streets stretched into the distance. The drive took about half an hour. He turned on the radio. The news was just finishing. The presenter was reporting on the shutdown of an underground “color” venue — a place with different lighting, different furniture, a different atmosphere. A space deemed unacceptable. Seventeen musical recordings containing human voices had been confiscated. The venue itself, of course, had been cleared out.

After the news, simple, unobtrusive music began — a cold electronic rhythm that did not disturb the listeners’ emotional balance. Vocal tracks had recently been banned, since even music could influence people’s emotional state and provoke chaos. All for the sake of safety.

The man thought about how easily and naturally he felt among the white. How clearly this world separated everything that could evoke strong emotions.

Soon he pulled up to a white high-rise building. It stood straight and impeccably clean, without the slightest trace of wear, its façade reflecting the morning light. Simple, beautiful, straight, without unnecessary details — and therefore perfect. And yet… not quite the way he would have designed it himself.

He studied the building carefully, his eye instantly catching every detail. This building was a project by his colleague. Its strict geometry and minimalist forms fit perfectly into the district. But he would have made the façade slightly softer, more welcoming — as if to emphasize that a human being lived inside, not just a space.

He stopped by the trunk of his station wagon, opened it, and took out two small devices. They were similar — cylindrical, flat, mounted on small wheels; one slightly taller than the other. These were his tools. With them, he created space and shaped proper, livable interiors.

The first tool was a portable 3D printer capable of producing any interior object. The second was a shredder — a device that destroyed anything that disrupted the sterile order.

Today they would help him bring another apartment into compliance with the standards — make it safe, convenient, and correct. He took a deep breath, feeling the familiar sense of responsibility, and headed toward the entrance doors.

After climbing to the second floor, he walked down a long corridor, counting the apartments. He needed number fifty-eight. There was fifty-six. Then there should have been fifty-seven, but instead there was suddenly fifty-eight. Strange. And on the other side of the corridor there were no apartments either. Something was wrong with the numbering. That was not something you saw often here.

He stopped at the door of the required apartment and held his phone up to the reader panel next to the lock. The door opened — exactly ninety degrees, as perfectly as it should.

He stepped inside. It was an impeccably white studio apartment.

“Everything as it should be,” the main character thought.

Perfectly white walls, a white floor, and lighting that produced an even white glow — 4500K. Refined furniture made of metal and white leather looked almost sterile. Even the order was flawless: no personal items, as if the space had just undergone correction. Perhaps the owner was a perfectionist.

He walked into the sleeping area. An immaculately made bed, built into a podium with no unnecessary details, cold metal, sharp lines. The bedroom was separated from the living area by a low cabinet. Next to the sofa lay a white rug, precisely matched to the shade of the floor.

The main character understood how much effort it took to calibrate different materials before 3D printing so that their shades would match perfectly. The apartment was flawless. As if it had been created by a perfectionist with taste — everything precisely aligned with everything else.

He had never seen such a perfect space before.

“Maybe something is wrong in the bathroom,” he thought. If he had been sent here for correction, there had to be some imperfection.

Yes, the bathroom — the spatial corrector decided.

He entered the bathroom and switched on the perfect white light. The space was filled with white: walls, fixtures, surfaces. Only the toilet and the cabinet structure under the sink, which smoothly transitioned into the toilet area, slightly broke the total whiteness.

“Something is wrong here,” he thought. “Why was I sent here?”

He decided to check everything again. He could not afford a mistake — any inaccuracy could mean re-accreditation or even demotion. He had to see deviations immediately. If not — then what was he even doing here?

He began to inspect the apartment in more detail, step by step, object by object. Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living room — everything looked flawless. There was nothing to criticize.

And yet, the longer he looked, the stronger another feeling grew — a desire to understand who had lived here before. What kind of person it had been. And what had happened to them.

Correctors were never given information about where the owners disappeared to. It was only known that after correction, they disappeared forever. It was not accepted to talk about where they went — there was an unspoken prohibition in it, as if such questions could lead to punishment.

But questions still kept forming in his mind. With every minute they grew stronger, although he understood — he would not receive answers.

An undefined feeling pressed harder from within. Perhaps this was a test. Perhaps he was being evaluated. But for what? And what did they want from him?

The fear of making a mistake kept rising. The white walls seemed to shift, compressing the space around him. His legs grew heavy. He leaned against the wall to keep his balance.

And then — click.

One of the wall panels slid open…

A warm beam of light spilled from it and illuminated the white floor. Heat instantly passed through his body. He froze, staring at the beam. He had never seen white materials change their appearance so drastically under lighting. This was not cold standard light, not sterile 4500K. This was soft, warm light.

What was waiting for him behind those hidden doors?

A chill ran across his neck and into his hair. A strange feeling was growing inside him, as if from this moment on his life would never be the same again. He took a deep breath. — Well… let’s see where this takes me, — he said quietly and opened the door.

His eyes were not ready for what he saw. The light almost blinded him, and his balance wavered again. At first, he could not even understand what he was looking at, but what unfolded before him turned his worldview upside down. Everything he had lived by, everything he believed in, everything he had worked with — lost its meaning in an instant. Before him stood another truth.

A thin floor lamp on a metal stand, similar to the one he had at home. But the light it emitted was completely different — not emotionless and sterile 4500K, but soft, cozy, and warm. A light that seemed to embrace the space.

Next to it stood an armchair. Almost the same as at his home: metal legs, leather… But the leather was not white. It was brown — a deep, rich shade. His gaze literally sank into this color. He could not look away. Nor did he want to. He wanted to keep looking, to absorb the entire interior with his eyes.

Carefully, he sat down in the chair, closed his eyes, slowly exhaled, and trembling slightly, opened them again.

At first, he saw the floor.

Wood. Light beige, with a living texture, natural color transitions, and visible grain patterns. He studied it with the same focus as a child looking at a long-awaited toy, trying to absorb every detail and memorize it.

He slowly raised his gaze.

This hidden apartment was like a reflection of the previous one. The same layout, the same zones, the same proportions. But a completely different soul.

If the previous kitchen had been standard white, this one was metallic. However, the warm light from the wall lamp transformed it entirely. The metal played with unusual tones, becoming alive. The wall behind the kitchen was finished with wooden panels, which emphasized the contrast of materials, turning the metal from a cold surface into a warm accent of the space.

Around a round metal table with a glass top stood four chairs on thin metal legs. Their leather had the same caramel shade as the armchair he was sitting in. Above the table hung a lamp, matched in tone to the chairs and the armchair. It cast a warm glow, softly illuminating the metal and glass and changing the very perception of the materials.

The living room contained a large, elegant sofa on thin metal legs, upholstered in leather of the same warm shade. A beige rug lay on the floor, while the lamps emitted a soft, cozy light. The wall adjoining the white apartment was also finished with panels, but not smooth ones — wooden, with a living texture.

On the coffee table there was a built-in bio-fireplace. A forbidden object by the Ministry. Such things created a different kind of light — warm, intimate, dangerous. The flame reflected across the sofa’s texture and slid over the wooden panels. The light moved, almost breathing, filling the space with a sense of calm and comfort.

He wanted to examine every detail, to touch every texture. How could color change a room so dramatically? How could warmth have such a strong impact on human perception? He sat motionless, and for the first time in many years, he did not know what he was supposed to do.

The protagonist stood up and slowly walked toward the living room. The warm wooden parquet seemed to guide him forward, inviting him to move deeper inside. He paused for a moment, looked down, and unexpectedly took off his shoes. Bare feet touched the wood. Warmth. Living, soft, natural warmth beneath his feet. Not artificial cold flooring, not regulated surfaces — real wood.

He froze.

Feeling the floor physically was incredible. Its texture. The barely noticeable unevenness. The natural grain patterns. Until this moment, he had known only cold. Or rather, emptiness. The emptiness of synthetic surfaces. The emptiness of sterile materials.

The sleeping area was equally cozy, despite the metallic wardrobe fronts and metal platform bed. The wooden floor continued to warm the space simply by its presence. Warm tones, warm light. The bed was not perfectly made. The bedding was slightly wrinkled, but that imperfection made it feel alive. Even the air felt different — cleaner, calmer.

“Well then… there’s one more part left. The bathroom.”

He entered carefully and froze. The walls were also finished with wood, while the floor was covered with large-format stone-look porcelain tiles — a soft beige-sand texture with darker specks, deep and natural. Warm light filled the entire room. The bathroom was almost an exact copy of the one in the white apartment. The same layout. The same fixtures. The same metal furniture structure. But the warm lighting and natural materials transformed it completely. The sink and toilet were not white, but terracotta-colored. The warm light seemed to dissolve edges and soften every form. The bathroom felt incredibly warm — he did not want to leave it.

He slowly approached the wall and ran his fingers across its surface. Texture. A barely perceptible relief. Naturalness. He touched the metal countertop, and even the metal here felt warmer, as if the light itself was heating it. Everything was unusual. Functionally, it was the same: sink, shower cabin, plumbing… but far more pleasant, more human, and even more practical. Warm textured materials did not emphasize every drop of water. They did not turn every shadow into a flaw. They cooperated with the space instead of subordinating it.

He raised his head and looked at his reflection in the mirror. And suddenly realized: all his life he had not been correcting imperfections. He had been correcting warmth. Making everything emotionless, cold, dead. The thought made him uneasy.

Who lived here? Who created this place? How was all of this even possible? And most importantly — why?

To the last question, the protagonist already seemed to know the answer. But as for the others — his thoughts tangled and circled endlessly, refusing to settle. He wanted answers, but where was he supposed to look for them? He needed to go through everything again, more carefully.

He returned to the living room and approached the armchair where he had sat before. On the table beside it stood a framed photograph. Three people: a man around fifty, a woman about forty-five, and a young man in his early twenties. He studied the young man’s face closely. There was something familiar about him, but he could not recall what it was. Still, it was unlikely he knew him at all — his social circle had always been narrow, mostly people his own age or older.

Next to the frame lay a leather-bound notebook. He picked it up and immediately felt its texture — soft, slightly rough, warm. Even its color seemed to warm his palms. Standing barefoot on the wooden floor while holding a leather notebook felt strange, yet strangely natural.

He opened it. Inside were photographs of furniture, lamps, and interior objects. Page after page, it became more and more absorbing. Most of it he had never seen before. Different shades of brown, beige, terracotta — he had never realized brown could contain so many variations. Then came sketches, drawings, ideas. Some of the furniture he recognized — it was already here in this apartment. This was not just an interior. It was a concept — deliberate, cohesive, carefully developed over a long time.

He slowly closed the notebook. The room remained calm, with only the soft sound of the bio-fireplace breaking the silence.

What was he supposed to do with all of this?

The answer, in principle, was simple. According to protocol, everything was clear: unauthorized materials, forbidden lighting, a bio-fireplace. Full correction. The shredder would eliminate the “improper elements,” and the 3D printer would reconstruct the correct version of the space — cold, sterile, flawless. And this apartment would become just like thousands of others.

He imagined the warm floor lamp disappearing. The wooden textures turning to dust. The brown leather replaced with white. And something inside him tightened.

He had never hesitated before. Work was work. The system was the system. He was a professional.

But now…

He did not want to touch his devices. He did not even want to initiate the process. He looked down at his bare feet on the wooden floor. Could he really destroy this after feeling warmth for the first time?

Another thought crossed his mind. What if this was a test? What if they were watching him, waiting to see what he would do? Waiting to see whether he would prove his loyalty?

His heart began to beat faster again. He knew: if he submitted a full correction report — everything would end correctly. For the system.

And what if not… He didn’t know what this “not” even meant, because no one had ever been given that choice. He slowly stepped toward the window, warm light sliding across his face. Did the Curator know about this hidden apartment when he sent him to the object? Of course he did — otherwise, why send him here at all? The visible part of the apartment was perfect, fully compliant, with no deviations whatsoever, but after a resident leaves, correction is always performed — standard procedure, no exceptions. Maybe the Curator did not know about the mirrored section, but then another question arose: the next occupant could discover the hidden door, report it to the Ministry, submit a request, and then questions would come — questions about him.

He swallowed hard. He could say he had not noticed the panel, that the mechanism was too well hidden, that it was a technical defect of the builder. But what if this was a test, and this was exactly why he had been sent here — to see whether he would find it?

A heavy sigh escaped the interior corrector. He already knew what to do. His job was to correct the object, write the report, and submit it — that was all. Everything that did not meet standards, everything not approved by the system, was dangerous. He would send the report, describe the hidden room, document the violation, take photos, and then let others deal with it; it was no longer his responsibility.

The man slowly turned away from the window, warm light lingering on his face for a moment longer. He bent down and put on his perfectly clean white shoes; the warmth of the floor disappeared. He left the hidden part of the apartment and walked toward his devices near the entrance, then stopped.

“I can still do one thing,” he said quietly. And left the apartment.

The door closed behind him. He headed toward the elevator and suddenly realized why apartment 57-A was missing from the records — it had been hidden, as if it had never existed.

The elevator carried him down. Outside, the air was cold. He glanced at the ground, remembering the warm parquet floor, its texture, the feeling beneath his feet.

He walked to his car, opened the trunk, and took out a flying drone. After closing it, he silently made his way back to the building.

Once inside the apartment again, he headed straight for the hidden section. Time was running short — he had already spent far too long there. The warm space welcomed him with the same softness as before, as though nothing had changed.

The man placed the drone on the floor in the middle of the living room and stepped out. Slowly, he closed the hidden panel, and the warm light vanished. Only the sterile white apartment remained.

He pulled out his phone, opened the drone control app, and selected a mode: 3D space scanning. His finger hovered over the confirmation button for only a moment.

Then he pressed it.

Behind the wall, the drone quietly came to life. A soft hum filled the silence — the recording process had begun. Not for correction. For preservation.

“I can at least have some coffee while it works,” the man murmured quietly.

He walked into the kitchen — the sterile, officially approved part of the apartment. He placed a cup beneath the dispenser. As the machine steadily filled it with aromatic coffee, he realized for the first time in many years that he had just made a decision that went against every rule. It could be dangerous, yet he knew he had no other choice.

Meanwhile, the drone moved methodically through the hidden space, scanning surfaces and reading textures. It recorded the warmth of the lighting, the density of the materials. Everything was proceeding normally.

On the phone screen, a digital twin of the secret apartment slowly began to take shape. Warm tones turned into data, furniture into polygons, light into numbers.

The drone emitted two short beeps.

The scan was complete.

He slowly walked toward the hidden section, retrieved the drone, and placed a shredder in its place. For a moment, he stood still, taking one last look around: the floor lamp, the wooden floor, the bio-fireplace.

He picked up the leather notebook filled with ideas. Opening the program, he selected: Erasure — 100%. He confirmed the command and returned once more to the white part of the apartment.

Standing by the window, he looked outside.

“Well, at least I still have the entire apartment preserved digitally, along with all the materials and settings,” the man said quietly to his reflection in the glass.

In his mind, he stepped inside it once again, walked across the warm parquet floor, and ran his hand along the wooden paneling. He knew he would return to that apartment again and again, because even the memory of the space warmed him.

Behind the wall, a dull mechanical noise echoed softly.

After some time, the shredder emitted two short signals.

Silence.

The secret room no longer existed in the form it once had.

The Space Corrector stepped inside.

A white space. Empty, like a blank canvas. No textures. No shadows. No warmth.

It was time to create a new, “correct” space.

And for the first time in all these years, he didn’t want to do it. It felt as though something inside him had snapped. Why recreate the old? The same thing, over and over again, from one space to another.

He brought in the 3D printer and switched it on. Activating the creator’s virtual mode through his glasses, a model of the apartment appeared before his eyes.

To speed up the process, he used the “correct” section as a foundation. He replaced a few furniture models, altered the kitchen layout slightly, changed the lighting fixtures. Minimal deviations, all still within the approved standards.

Then he sent everything to print.

“Sloppy work,” he muttered.

In the past, he would have perfected every line, every connecting seam. But not anymore. Once you’ve tasted something sweet, it’s hard to return to bitterness.

When the printing process was complete, the space became “correct” once again. White, cold, flawless.

He photographed the entire apartment. He left the hidden door open, like a thin crack in the system. Gathering his belongings, he slipped the leather notebook of ideas into the inner pocket of his snow-white trench coat.

Then he stepped out into the corridor.

Apartment 58-A.

He looked at the number.

It changed me. And it will stay in my memory forever, he thought.

He pressed his phone against the electronic lock and activated the full cleansing and disinfection protocol. The door shut behind him.

As he walked toward his car, he opened the service communication app. He uploaded the photos to the cloud storage and wrote a short, dry report.

"Object 58-A

Status: corrected.

Space restored to standard.

Deviations eliminated.

Disinfection completed."

His finger hovered over the screen. After a pause, he added two more lines:

Hidden architectural void detected between units 57 and 58.

Possible intentional exclusion from the registry during the design phase.

Dry. Emotionless. Purely factual.

He knew the report would go directly to his supervisor, and from there higher up — to the Department of Environmental Control. Maybe even to the Architectural Committee itself.

And most importantly, the response would tell him whether they already knew about the secret room.

Or whether this had all been a test.

He sat inside the car and leaned his head back, trying to process everything that had happened. The entire day had felt surreal, almost dreamlike. Yet even his dreams had long since become just as colorless and cold.

His phone emitted a double signal.

“Finally. Now I’ll understand whether they knew about the hidden room,” he muttered.

He opened the message.

A short reply:

"Report received. No additional comments required."

He understood nothing.

That was not what he had expected.

He thought the message would finally put everything into place, but instead — nothing.

He exhaled deeply, started the car, pulled out of the courtyard, and merged onto the main road, slowly driving away from the building.

He glanced into the rearview mirror. The white apartment block still stood there — lifeless and sterile.

Some details of the façade... he would have designed differently.

And then it hit him.

He slammed on the brakes.

His heart pounded violently as cars rushed past, blaring their horns.

An engineer he knew had designed that building.

There was no way he hadn’t known about the hidden apartment.

He was the one who created it.

And the protagonist had corrected it.

That’s how people disappear sometimes — when they go against the system.

The interior of the car was suddenly flooded with blue and red light — the only colors still visible in this world, and even then, only on police sirens.

An effective way to teach people to hate color, fear emotion, avoid beauty, and obey without questioning authority.

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.

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...

Fresh air hit his face. The light of the blue sky slightly blinded his eyes. For a moment, he felt peace and freedom. How much the architecture of the ministry pressed on a person. Only after leaving it does one begin to truly understand that.

On the stairs he paused just for a moment to catch his breath. His heart was still beating fast but slowly returning to its normal rhythm. In his hands was the same container. From the outside — ordinary, no different from hundreds of others. But inside was something forbidden. Descending to the parking lot, his steps gradually became calmer. The air was cool, but after the sterile cold of the ministry it felt almost warm.

Near the car he looked around. The massive building of the Ministry of Spatial Balance stood just as motionless and cold. White, flawless, like a giant sculpture of order. It felt as if it was watching everyone who left it. For a second he even thought someone was observing him from the upper windows. He quickly looked away, opened the trunk, and carefully placed the container among the tools. He closed the lid and ran his hand through his hair. It was still slightly damp.

— Calm down... — he quietly said to himself and sat in the car.

When the door closed, silence filled the space again. Only the faint hum of ventilation and distant traffic remained. For a few seconds he sat with his hands on the steering wheel. In the trunk lay something that could change his apartment exactly as he had imagined. Maybe even his life. Or destroy it completely.

The engine started softly, and the car moved. For the first time in a long while, he was going home differently than usual. Only one thought remained in his mind.

Tonight, the first color would appear in his apartment.

He didn’t even notice how he got home, how he ended up inside, or how he brought in the tools. Standing in the middle of the room, he looked at his space and already imagined changes. New ideas kept forming in his mind. He had never created in color before, and that made everything inside him restless. He took out the container with the color cartridge and studied it for a moment longer. On the white surface, bright RGB letters stood out, cutting through the whiteness like a rupture in space.

The cartridge slid into the slot of the 3D printer. This was an important moment. He activated the shredder and switched on the virtual design mode in his glasses, then pressed delete on his old white chair. The machine destroyed it almost instantly. That was the symbolic end of his old life and the beginning of a new one.

He opened the scanned project and quickly broke it into separate elements. He selected the leather chair he had been sitting on that day and sent it to print. The laser immediately began moving, building something new layer by layer. First the metal frame appeared, then the leather parts in true color, followed by texture and surface detail. A double signal sounded.

Those sounds had never felt so satisfying. For the first time in a long while, a faint smile appeared on his face. His eyes became moist, and his heart beat strongly.

In front of him stood a chair that felt alien to this world. Like something from a dream. Slowly sitting down, he immediately felt warmth. Even more than in that previous apartment. Maybe the materials simply hadn’t cooled yet. But then a realization came — they would never fully cool.

The new object did not belong to this world. A warm fragment against an emotionless white background. A foreign element, like a piece of another reality. And at that moment it became clear — he could not stop anymore. Everything had to change. This chair, like its owner, no longer belonged to this world.

His gaze shifted to the old white floor lamp. Just as cold and emotionless as everything around him. It needed warm light. 3200 Kelvin... maybe even 2800.

The shredder activated again, destroying another object. Almost immediately the printer began constructing a new lamp. Layer by layer it emerged from nothing, rising upward. When it was finished, he stepped forward and pressed the button.

Warm light gently spread through the room. It filled the space, wrapped around surfaces, created deep shadows. The room instantly became different.

Warm light does not only change space. It changes the person. And now it was happening here, inside his apartment. The most important thing — he had created it himself.

He became fully absorbed in the work. The shredder destroyed object after object while the printer kept producing new ones almost without pause. One after another, items of different shades appeared in the apartment. All warm, but each with its own character. Some deep and calm. Others soft and bright. His eyes gradually relaxed. After endless whiteness, the colors felt almost healing. Tension disappeared. His shoulders dropped, his muscles relaxed, and a strange sense of fullness appeared inside him. As if the space itself began filling him.

He kept printing and printing. Sometimes he paused, evaluated the result, then started the shredder again and replaced one object with another. Almost every version felt right, but balance was needed. That exact moment when everything fits together. When every object stands exactly where it should. When the entire interior becomes a single puzzle and nothing feels unnecessary.

Room by room, the apartment transformed. He had never worked with such intensity before. There was no fatigue — only growing energy with each square meter completed.

The final piece was a table lamp next to the sofa with a diffusing shade that filled the entire living room with soft light. At last, the puzzle was complete.

Everything was ready.

Silence filled the apartment, but not the cold empty kind — it was warm and comfortable. The space had changed, but more importantly, the feeling inside it had changed.

He took off his shoes and walked barefoot across the warm textured parquet, feeling it under his feet. He sat on leather chairs, on the sofa, ate at the new table. Even smoothie-food under the warm clay lamp tasted better.

Then he took a shower in soft warm light. The chrome shower head reflected golden tones of the lamps. Water droplets fell from the circular base like refreshing rain. Each drop touching his skin felt like a small electric impulse. There were thousands of them. He stood there for a long time, simply enjoying the moment.

Stepping out of the shower, he walked barefoot to the bed. So soft, so comfortable. He lay down as if into a cloud, and only then felt true exhaustion.

But it was a pleasant kind of exhaustion — the kind that comes after doing something difficult but deeply meaningful. When almost all of the body’s resources are spent, and you simply enjoy the earned rest. You relax, feeling every muscle slowly release tension. After that shower, it felt even stronger.

The last two days had been intense — emotional, difficult, and at the same time inspiring.

Before falling asleep, only one thought remained — where to find the next object for his ideas. He imagined transforming space after space, apartments, buildings, districts, entire cities.

And with those thoughts, he drifted into a warm, sweet sleep, continuing his journey in the new world.

In the morning, he woke up without opening his eyes. He had dreamed of an incredible colorful dream — a completely different world, warm and cozy. He did not want to wake up, he wanted to return there. It had felt so good.

But it was time to get up. Opening his eyes, he looked around. This was not a dream. He blinked again, as if checking reality itself. Yes, it was real.

Slowly getting up, he did not even make the bed and walked to the shower. Only now he noticed the heated bathroom floor. It must have simply not warmed up yesterday. Standing on it, he felt warmth rising through his feet and spreading through his body. He just stood there, enjoying it, not wanting to leave at all. He did not want to leave his small warm world. But the desire for another warm shower took over, and he stepped inside. Standing under the water, he wished this morning would never end.

After the shower, he dried himself with a soft towel and felt completely alive. He walked barefoot to the kitchen, touching the textured parquet with each step. Every movement reminded him of the harmony of the space he had created himself.

He pressed the coffee button. Almost immediately, the aroma filled the apartment. He took a sip and walked to the window, looking at the endless white world outside.

Now he no longer saw emptiness.

It was a canvas. Full of possibilities. Colors. Ideas flooded his mind. Everything began to change in his imagination. Straight perpendicular roads turned into curved flowing lines, winding between buildings. Cars changed colors as they moved. Buildings lost their cold geometry — becoming rounded, softer, more fluid, shifting shades. The white world slowly filled with warmth.

Another sip of coffee — and the vision disappeared.

Everything returned to perfectly straight roads and endless white buildings. The same cold sterile order. He looked at it for a few seconds. He wanted to create something new. Something this world had never seen.

Turning away, he placed the cup down and prepared a smoothie.

Just as he finished, his phone emitted two short signals.

“Probably a new assignment,” he thought. How he wished it was something colorful.

He opened the message.

His heart started pounding violently, as if it would jump out of his chest. A cold wave ran through his entire body.

Message from the curator.

Meeting today at 12:00.

Department of Residential Space Correction.

Room 203.

Panic hit instantly.

He had met the curator only once — during his hiring. No meetings had taken place since then. He had assumed it was a one-time formality.

Why now?

Why so urgent?

Did they know something?

Of course, it could not be a coincidence.

They had found out about the cartridge.

They knew he had taken color outside the Ministry of Spatial Balance.

But how? Maybe that worker noticed something in office 109? Yet the main character was almost certain the man didn’t look at him at that moment. His steps didn’t falter, and neither did the other man’s. He listened to every movement — the gait remained steady. If the man had turned around, it would have changed immediately. Maybe they noticed the missing cartridge? But after it was written off, no one would likely check the discarded materials. Why would they? And the message contained no details anyway. Whatever the case, the main character was almost one hundred percent sure: they knew. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have been summoned to the curator.

And what awaits him now? The fate of that owner of the hidden apartment? He didn’t even know what had happened to that person. One day, the apartment was simply erased. And now another spatial corrector would come and destroy everything he had created with such inspiration: all colors, all warmth — everything replaced with white. And someone new would move into his apartment. But what would happen to him? He was almost certain — no one would even remember his name. And that would be the end of it, just as everything had begun. Run away? Nowhere. It is impossible to hide from the system — it finds you quickly.

He read the message once more. Short. Cold. Without any explanation. “Meeting today at 12:00. Office 203.” Like a sentence written without emotion. The main character slowly lowered his phone onto the table. His hands turned cold, his breathing shallow. The air in the room seemed thicker. How could I have been so stupid? So many years everything had been perfect. No mistakes, no deviations. He always did everything perfectly. Always.

The man ran a hand over his face. The system had been running for decades. Did he really think he could outsmart it? Worse scenarios began forming in his mind. Maybe they don’t just know about the cartridge. Maybe they know about the apartment: the warm wooden floor, the soft lamp light, the colored sketches, the photos in the leather notebook.

He stood up and began walking slowly around the apartment. His steps echoed dully. He had to get ready and leave — the time was almost up. He stood in the middle of the room trying to gather his thoughts, but they kept scattering like glass. He had devoted so many years to this work. All his projects — perfectly clean, perfectly white, perfectly aligned. Maybe they would take that into account. Maybe he still had a small chance.

Maybe it made sense to erase everything in the apartment and return it to its original state. But would that help? If they already knew — it wouldn’t. And there was no time left anyway. And most importantly — he could no longer destroy what he had created. It was the best thing he had ever done. Destroying it would mean destroying himself, abandoning his own ideals.

He prepared, took his tools, and left the apartment. He glanced at it one last time as if saying goodbye: the chair he never had time to sit in; the small table with the leather notebook full of imperfect but warm pages; the cartridge he had left beside it; and the three colored letters — RGB. So much meaning in these three letters. Three colors that, when added to black and white, can create any shade. Such a simple yet brilliant thing.

Taking a deep breath, he closed the door, placed his phone on the reader, activated the “cleaning” function — and left. On the way, he thought a lot and recalled the past. They had been taught, as long as he could remember, about the importance of white — neutrality and light. They said there had once been wars, many wars. When he was still a child, he had fled from war himself, but that part of his life seemed erased from memory.

Later, humanity discovered that the color white had a strong effect on people: it does not stimulate or provoke aggression. Countless studies were conducted, and in white environments people were indeed less prone to conflict. Over time, other colors simply disappeared. And it worked: wars ended. Since then, there hadn’t been a single one. The system worked. The main character always understood its importance — until he discovered that fateful apartment. It didn’t cause aggression, didn’t create dark desires — only the urge to create something beautiful.

Could he ever go back to white interiors? Of course not. Once you work with color, you can never give it up again. It is like losing your tool.

After parking the car, he sat for a while, gathering his thoughts. The unknown was frightening, but he had to go — the time was near. He stepped out of the car and headed toward the same massive building he had been in yesterday. In the atrium, everything was as usual: absolute silence, a woman at the reception desk, a few people in the waiting area quietly observing the space. He approached the elevator and placed his phone on the reader. The doors opened. Second floor.

How he wished the elevator would go further — to the hundred and second floor, for example. But the doors opened almost immediately. The main character stepped out and walked toward office 203. His legs barely held him, his steps uneven, but he no longer cared — nothing could be changed. He reached the door, placed his phone on the reader again, and after two short signals, it opened.

Inside, in a cold white interior, a man in a white leather chair sat behind a white desk. In front of him stood two white chairs with metal legs. On the desk was a glossy white monitor with a matching keyboard and mouse, and beside it a metal desk lamp. Nothing else was there. The room screamed minimalism and emptiness. The only living presence here was the curator.

He had seen him only once — during the interview when he first started working here. After that, they never met in person again, only exchanged short messages.

— Sit down, — the curator said briefly.

The main character sat without resistance. It felt like at any moment he would collapse onto the white glossy floor if not for the chair. His legs no longer held him. That is how the system works: without force, without pressure — it simply drains all resistance at the right moment.

The curator looked calm. No anger. No compassion.

— We are sending you to the Lucerna zone, — he said coldly.

It felt like a bullet hit him. His head spun, blood rushing to his temples. It felt as if his head would burst from the thoughts, from trying to understand the situation. He had run through every scenario on the way here, but he had not expected this outcome.

For the first time, the curator looked at him more closely — almost with human curiosity. But a second later, he hid it again behind a mask of detachment.

— Place your phone on the reader, — he said.

The main character raised it with trembling hands.

Two short signals.

— You now have access to the Lucarne zone. The location has been uploaded. You must be there at 3:00 PM. It is in the Nova Victoria district. You have almost three hours.

— Do you have any questions? — the curator asked.

— Me? No, — he answered, although there were a million questions. But he was afraid to ask any of them.

— Then you may go, — the curator said coldly.

— Alright. Goodbye.

On the way to the car, his walk was different — unsteady, almost drunk. The woman at the reception looked at him sternly, and a few people in the waiting area followed him with their eyes. He seemed to fall out of the white world, like a splash of color no one wanted to accept.

Finally, he sat in the car, turned on the air conditioning, and felt the cold. What had just happened? They were supposed to punish him — instead, they were sending him to Lucarne. Why? Because of the cartridge? Or because he had learned too much?

He opened the location. Just a marker. No explanation. He had never had access to these regions before.

Now he saw the map: seven districts, each with its own name. Nova Victoria, Eiffel Discrit, Umbral Masada, Red Dragon, Caravan Quarter, Asahi — and in the east, Liberty Quarter.

And something immediately caught his attention: the road lines were curved, not straight. Just like in his imagination when he looked at the city from his apartment and thought of another world.

Again, the unknown. But this time it no longer felt so frightening — curiosity had replaced fear. He redirected navigation to the windshield, started the car, and drove into the unknown.

Approaching the border, he saw a tall white wall blocking everything beyond it, and a checkpoint. There were almost no cars. He pulled up to the open lane. An officer approached.

— Place your phone on my tablet.

Two short signals — system confirmed.

— First time leaving?

— Yes.

— Don’t forget to switch your glasses to soft mode, — the officer said, pointing at a sign: “All drivers must activate soft mode.”

The main character activated it — the world became slightly blurred, as if seen through a gray filter.

— You may proceed, — the officer said.

The bollards lowered.

He drove into the tunnel. His mind was empty. Only rows of lights stretched ahead, guiding him through the concrete corridor. A smooth turn — and light appeared ahead.

It felt as if he had entered another world. The road was winding, tilting with every turn first to one side, then to the other. The entire landscape seemed uneven, textured, and sloping. Trees lined both sides of the highway—countless green trees—but their colors appeared muted, as though something was preventing them from reaching their full vibrancy.

- My glasses...- the protagonist remembered and quickly took them off.

His eyes were blinded by the bright foliage and the rich blue sky. He slammed on the brakes—barely able to see—and pulled over onto the shoulder. He wanted to take everything in, but his eyes had not yet adapted to such brightness. He began opening them gradually: first for a second, then two, and little by little his vision adjusted to the sunlight filtering through the leaves. Everything was astonishingly vivid, as if someone had turned the brightness all the way up. A wave of intense emotion surged inside him.

He stepped out of the car and walked toward the guardrail. He wanted to touch the leaves, to feel their color and texture, but the trees were too far away.

Suddenly, a car slowed down behind him—a police vehicle.

“Great. Just what I needed. You're not supposed to stop here...” he thought.

A police officer wearing the same glasses as everyone else stepped out of the white car with green markings. He approached while carefully checking the license plate.

- Good afternoon, sir,- the officer said.

- Good afternoon, sir,- the protagonist replied.

- Please place your phone against the tablet.”

Two short beeps, as always—an inseparable part of the system.

- First time visiting us, Mr. Hale? - the officer asked, a smile appearing on his face.

The protagonist felt as though he had been struck by electricity. It was so rare for anyone to address him by his first and last name. And the officer's smile... it was something extraordinary.

- Yes, sir,- was all he managed to say.

- I thought so. Took off your glasses and our sun caught you by surprise?- the officer said, smiling warmly again, without the slightest hint of judgment.

- Yes, sir...- the protagonist replied monotonously.

He felt embarrassed by his cold responses in front of such a pleasant officer, but he simply couldn't force out anything more.

The officer removed his glasses, took out a cloth, and began cleaning them.

- Three kilometers ahead there's a rest stop with parking. There's a café there and a beautiful view of the city. You can take a break and get used to our bright sunshine.

- Yes, sir...- the protagonist mumbled, - Thank you, sir - he added a moment later, finally managing a slight smile.

His facial muscles still resisted, but the smile was beginning to break through.

The officer turned toward his car.

- Have a good day, Officer,- the protagonist called after him.

The officer paused, smiled warmly once more, and replied,

- You too, Mr. Hale.

The police car drove away, but the protagonist remained standing there in a daze for several more minutes. In the past fifteen minutes, he had experienced a range of emotions greater than anything he had felt in his entire life. The sensations were incredible, yet understanding did not come. It felt as though something inside him had awakened, though he did not yet know what.

Eventually, he slowly got back into the car. For a moment, he stared into the rearview mirror. His face seemed unfamiliar, as though he were looking at someone else. He tried to smile. At first uncertainly, then a little more sincerely. He started the engine and continued on toward the place the officer had mentioned.

The location was intriguing: a spacious parking lot and a single-story building marked by a large red letter W. The establishment was called W-Point Café. Both the building and the parking area stood beside a high cliff. Numerous picnic tables and benches overlooked a spectacular view.

He entered the café first and downloaded the menu through his glasses. There were so many different drinks and dishes that he had never seen or tasted before. In his world, there were only smoothies with various flavors. They contained all the necessary nutrients, and each serving was precisely calculated according to a person's daily schedule, physical activity, and countless other factors.

Here, however, you could choose whatever you wanted.

Not wanting to take risks, he ordered coffee and chocolate ice cream. The ice cream appealed to him only because its texture vaguely reminded him of the smoothies he was used to.

He stood near the pickup counter and observed the people around him. Everyone was different, emotionally open: smiling, arguing, flirting. Not a single person was dressed like another. Everyone had their own style, their own colors.

Life seemed to flourish here.

The protagonist kept wondering whether this might be a dream. But no—it was reality. He could feel it with his entire body: through scents, touches, and visual impressions. Even the sounds were different—a pleasant, gentle hum of life. And now he was about to taste this reality as well.

A slightly overweight woman brought his order and handed it to him with a genuine smile.

He chose a table near the rocky edge of the cliff to enjoy the view. Below flowed a wide river, and on the opposite bank stood a vast metropolis. From this distance he could see only its striking silhouette; the details were impossible to make out.

A large suspension bridge with a greenish tint connected the two shores. That was probably the bridge he would soon cross himself.

There was a strange sense of peace in this place.

He took a sip of coffee. Familiar... yet different—stronger and richer.

The ice cream, however, was incredible. It tasted nothing like a smoothie. Sweet, with a slight bitterness from the chocolate.

He barely noticed when he finished it.

Afterward, he sat holding his cup of coffee and gazed across the river for a long time, feeling the sun's rays on his face and enjoying the warmth that surrounded him.

Time to go. It's almost three o'clock, he thought.

He cleared away his dishes and headed back to his car. He got behind the wheel, turned on the radio... and once again, everything was different. Different music, different rhythms, different styles. Different voices, different words. Songs with meaning and songs without it, yet all of them unique. Never before had he heard music like this. It sounded so emotional—some tracks were inspiring, while others carried a sense of melancholy. He spent a long time switching between stations, trying to hear as many genres as possible. Eventually, he settled on a station playing light electronic music, started the car, and drove toward the bridge.

As he pulled onto the bridge, the true scale of the metropolis revealed itself more and more with every kilometer. In the district he was heading toward, skyscrapers of various shapes and shades towered above the city. They were not brightly colored, yet neither were they monochrome. On the contrary, the buildings seemed to complement one another.

Wide streets stretched between the tall structures, while every sidewalk was lined with trees. Color flowed through every part of the city.

People hurried about their business. Others, by contrast, seemed to have nowhere they needed to be. They sat in cafés, strolled along the streets, or simply relaxed in parks.

He arrived at his destination. The building was circular, as though it stood upon a pedestal, with tall windows and electronic sun shutters. Its glass façade reflected the surrounding buildings and the sky.

Above the entrance, written in small, understated letters, were the words:

Department of Spatial Development

He no longer felt any fear toward this government building. Perhaps because it evoked entirely different emotions. Everything around him seemed calming and reassuring.

He stepped inside.

The interior was nothing like the Ministry of Space. There was no overwhelming whiteness. Warm colors, comfortable waiting areas. What stood out most was the abundance of plants. Everything spoke of comfort and tranquility.

He approached the reception desk. The young woman looked up and smiled at him.

- Good afternoon,- she said.

- Good afternoon,- the protagonist replied. - I have an appointment at three o’clock.

He held his phone against the scanner.

Two short beeps.

- Very well. Second floor, Room 202.

- Thank you,- he replied and headed toward the elevators.

When he entered the office, it was strikingly different from the one he had visited that morning. A beige carpet covered the floor. For a moment, he had the irresistible urge to take off his shoes and walk across it barefoot, though he doubted the employee seated behind the wooden desk with glass legs would understand such behavior. She sat comfortably in a soft ergonomic chair.

Behind her stood a large shelving unit filled with books, sculptures, flowers, and various decorative objects. A lamp on the desk bathed the workspace in warm light. In one corner stood a large armchair that looked impossibly inviting. Beside it was a floor lamp casting a soft glow and creating beautiful, well-defined shadows.

- Good afternoon, ma’am, - he said. - I have an appointment with you.

- Good afternoon, sir. Please place your phone against the scanner.

He did so, and as always, two short beeps followed.

- Nice to meet you, Mr. Hale. My name is Catherine, and I’ll be your new supervisor.

Interesting turn of events, he thought, a smile appearing on his face.

The woman smiled back. The fear had already faded, of course, but he certainly had not expected anything like this.

- What exactly will I be doing? - he asked. Somehow, having gathered a little courage, he had begun asking questions.

- You’ve been transferred here to do the same work you were doing before,- she replied. - Did you bring your equipment with you?

- Yes, of course,- he answered, trying to formulate his next question. - I’d like to clarify the regulations you follow here—approved color schemes, lighting requirements, furniture standards, and so on.

- We don’t have restrictions like that, - she replied, sounding slightly uncomfortable. - You simply need to take the client’s wishes into account.

The client?

Who was this client? He desperately wanted to ask, but something stopped him from pushing further—whether it was a reluctance to abuse her hospitality or a fear of appearing unprofessional.

- When can I begin working? - he asked.

- Today, - she replied. - First, you’ll need to stop by Room 107 and collect the printing materials. After that, you can head to the site. One room needs to be redesigned.

She glanced at her tablet.

- I’ll send the data library to your phone. You’ll also find the project address in the accompanying letter.

- And after I complete the assignment?

- You’ll be free until the next one.

- Very well. Thank you for meeting with me, - he said, rising from the comfortable chair.

- And thank you. Have a wonderful day. We’ll stay in touch.

- Goodbye, - he replied and left the office.

Well, this day is turning out to be unusual, the protagonist thought as he headed toward the elevator.

Ever since he had discovered that hidden apartment, his life had changed dramatically. It was as though it had suddenly been filled with color. The world that had once seemed orderly and understandable had revealed itself to be far larger than he had ever imagined.

But why?

He had no answer to that question. And it was the answer he wanted more than anything else.

Because of what he had seen and what he had done, he had been almost certain that things would end badly for him. He had prepared himself for interrogation, for sentencing, for disappearance. For anything.

Instead, he had been transferred here.

And everything looked as though he had been rewarded.

Yet he could not bring himself to believe it was really that simple.

It's not over yet, he thought.

Maybe this was just another form of punishment. Like a condemned man’s final meal before execution — something they used to do in the past. First they let you taste life, and then they take it away completely.

He sighed. No. He still had to be careful.

When he reached the materials distribution point, he was surprised by what he saw. There were no long corridors, no checkpoints, scanners, weighing stations, or guards. Just one man behind a counter. And nothing else. It felt almost… suspicious.

He paused for a moment, carefully scanning the space around him. No cameras, no control systems, no familiar cold order. Everything worked differently here. And somehow, that made it even more frightening.

The man behind the counter looked up at him. A calm, ordinary gaze. Not cold or bureaucratic — just human.

- Good afternoon, - he said.

- Good afternoon, - the protagonist replied a little uncertainly and held his phone to the reader. Two short beeps. That sound had already become almost a ritual.

- Materials for the object? - the man asked.

- Yes.

The man nodded and quickly typed something on the keyboard.

Meanwhile, the protagonist kept looking around. The place was quiet — not the oppressive sterile silence of a ministry, but a living kind of quiet. A ventilation system hummed somewhere, someone walked down the corridor, distant footsteps echoed.

Normal life.

And suddenly he realized something strange. Just yesterday, he wouldn’t have noticed any of these details. In the white world, there was no need to feel anything — everything was already defined: colors, light, space, people’s behavior. But here… everything was alive.

- You can go to room 107 and take the materials. In room 109 you can return the used ones, - the man said.

- I left the materials in the car, - the protagonist replied.

- No problem, you can bring them next time.

- Alright, thank you,- he said and headed toward room 107.

Everything here resembled the system he knew, and yet it was different. Wooden doors blended into wooden wall panels, barely noticeable without the small number plates and scanning screens next to each one.

He remembered the hidden door in apartment 58-A. Maybe the owner of that apartment had been here too, and took the idea from this place.

A double signal — and the door opened.

Inside were shelves full of materials: black-and-white and RGB cartridges.

He hesitated briefly before taking them. Nobody had told him how many he could take or which ones were allowed. Strangely, there seemed to be no strict control here. Most likely, he would need color cartridges. He took three color ones and two black-and-white, placed them in a special container, and walked back to the counter.

Tension slowly started to rise. He didn’t know what would happen at the exit. What if they stopped him for taking color cartridges?

With every step, his anxiety grew. He couldn’t even remember what to say or how to behave at the counter.

But nothing happened.

- Have a good day, sir,- the man said calmly.

- Thank you. You too, - he replied.

And suddenly, the tension released.

He left the building. The sun warmed him immediately, and it became easier to breathe.

The system had trained him so thoroughly that he now feared every government-like institution. Even though everything here was different, the feeling remained.

He sat in his car, set the navigation, and drove toward his destination.

On the way, he observed this new, vivid world and thought about what he would have to do. Who would be the client? What would they want? What exactly was he supposed to create?

Eventually, he arrived at a single-story brick building with a flat roof, large panoramic windows, and greenery almost swallowing it whole.

He held his phone to the reader. A soft, pleasant chime sounded inside.

The door was opened by a young woman. Her hair was thick and voluminous, flowing in soft waves over her shoulders, resembling a luxurious golden mane, yet at the same time it looked delicate and well cared for. She was dressed in beige tones — from light sand to warm caramel. A light spring jacket made of soft fabric with a textured surface wrapped around her shoulders. The material looked so pleasant to the touch that one almost wanted to lean in and feel its warmth.

She smiled so sincerely and openly that the main character, for perhaps the first time in a long while, returned the same genuine smile.

— Good afternoon, — she said, and there was true warmth in her voice.

— Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Sirius Hale, — he replied. — I have an appointment with you. As I understand, I am supposed to work on your space.

— Yes, you are correct, — she replied. — But the client is my mother. Please come in, I’ll go call her.

She turned to walk deeper into the house, but her gaze lingered on him for another second, and the same warm, sincere smile remained on her face.

The main character paused at the threshold and suddenly realized something strange: just yesterday he wouldn’t have known how to react to such a smile, and today he simply wanted to smile back.

He looked around.

He had never seen an interior like this before.

The space was warm and cozy, filled with wood — on the walls, in the furniture, and in small details. The floor was made of porcelain stoneware with a soft, deep texture. The walls, floor, and ceiling had a strong material presence, yet they remained a backdrop for the interior objects — it was the objects that set the rhythm of the space.

There were many colored elements in the room: deep red, rich ultramarine blue. Somewhere deeper inside, he noticed a table lamp in a warm honey tone. There were not many bright colors, but each one was different, and surprisingly — they harmonized perfectly with each other. Against the textured surfaces, these objects stood out especially due to their purity of color and smooth, textureless finish.

“How beautifully everything has been designed,” he thought.

This interior perfectly suited the woman. She herself felt like part of the space — another carefully designed art object: harmoniously integrated into the colors of the room, yet distinctly standing out among them. And because of this, the space felt even more alive.

A minute later, the young woman returned with another woman — about fifty years old — who looked no less elegant than her daughter, with the same warm, sincere smile and a similar style of clothing.

— Good afternoon, Mr. Hale, my name is Amira.

— Good afternoon, ma’am. My name is Sirius. How can I help you? — he asked.

— I would like to convert the guest room into a home office. I mostly work from home now, so I need a separate space. And since my daughter rarely stays here — she has already moved into her own house — this used to be her childhood room, then a guest bedroom, and now it’s time for change, — she explained.

— Change is a good thing, — he replied. — What would you like your office to look like?

— Perhaps it would be best to show you the house first, so you can understand what I like. I’ll just say goodbye to my daughter first; she is leaving now, — she said.

They said goodbye, embracing each other.

— Have a good day, Mr. Hale, — said the young woman, once again giving him her incredible smile.

The main character didn’t want to let her go. It felt as if he had never met such sincere people before — as if an entire universe lived inside her.

— Have a good day, ma’am, — he replied softly, a smile already appearing on his face.

— Well then, — her mother said, — let’s start with the living room.

The living room was large and spacious, with a five-meter ceiling. The entrance to the lounge area was marked by a few steps, where wide sofas were placed, with a fireplace between them.

— As you can see, I like large spaces, texture, and for me it is important to have wood, warmth, and coziness. At the same time, I like bright elements in small amounts to diversify the space and add accents, — she explained.

She showed him the kitchen and several other rooms. The main character absorbed the information like a sponge. He really liked the house — he could feel the character of the people who lived there: elegant, restrained, yet not lacking uniqueness. The hand of a master was clearly present.

She offered him coffee and told the story of the house: how her family had lived there since 2032, how it had been designed by an architect who later became very famous, how the children grew up, and how they occasionally adapted the space to their needs. All of this inspired him — he already wanted to create himself, even though he still had little experience.

— Well, here we are at my future office, — she said, as if reading his thoughts.

The door opened, and he saw a warm, cozy bedroom with soft beige furniture and pleasant textures. The room was complemented by bright accents that harmonized with the rest of the house. The style of the previous owner, who had spent many years there, was still clearly present. He stepped inside and felt the scent of fresh wood. He felt a bit sorry to change it, but he knew: this was his job, and it was exactly what the client wanted.

— I won’t disturb you, — she said. — If you need anything, I’ll be in the living room.

Sirius looked around once more, trying to feel the space. He took a deep breath and activated the shredder. While it removed the unnecessary elements, he switched his glasses into virtual creation mode and opened the material library.

There were so many new textures, furniture pieces, and lighting options — everything could be sorted by color, style, or type. It felt as if years of restrictions had suddenly been lifted: before, he was like an artist without paint, and now he had access to the full palette.

He began to create, first virtually, placing furniture and choosing colors as if the space had always belonged to him. The style felt familiar, as if he had long lived within it and was now simply remembering it.

The printer started producing new furniture with a soft mechanical rustle — a sound he had always loved, because it meant ideas becoming reality. Step by step, the room filled with light, form, and detail.

When he finished, everything looked alive and harmonious.

But for the first time, he also felt anxiety: how would the client react? Before, he judged his work himself, but now it would be evaluated by a person, and that changed everything.

He checked every detail once again, running his hand over the wooden panel, feeling its texture. Everything seemed perfect.

In the living room, the woman was sitting on the sofa by the fireplace, reading a book.

— It’s ready, ma’am, — he said.

She looked up:

— Then let’s go and see.

As they walked, she said:

— Honestly, I’m a little worried about what you’ve done in there…

but her tone was more curious than concerned.

— Honestly, I’m a little worried myself, — he replied.

She entered the office, ran her hand over the wooden panels, sat at the desk, and touched the surface. A warm smile appeared on her face:

— It’s absolutely perfect. You have captured the atmosphere of the house and exactly what I wanted.

She was satisfied.

The main character felt deeply fulfilled: for the first time, his work had been evaluated by another person, and it changed his perception of his profession. He understood that interior design is not about form, but about people.

He drove back through bright streets lit by soft sunlight. The home that once felt familiar now seemed different. A long night of work awaited him, but his thoughts kept returning to the people he had met that day. Especially the daughter with her sincere smile. All of them seemed united by one quality — authenticity.

He thought about how space influences people, how it shapes emotions and the desire to live. And he realized that he himself had become part of this process. With that thought, a slight smile appeared on his face.

He crossed the bridge he had driven over in the morning and suddenly didn’t want to return. He wanted to stay in this world of color, living emotions, and genuine feeling. He still did not understand why these two parallel worlds existed, but now he knew for certain: he wanted to create spaces that connect them.

As he entered the tunnel, he once again found himself surrounded by white light and a perfectly smooth road. The old unpleasant feelings returned instantly—the constant pressure, the control, the suffocating atmosphere. He emerged from the tunnel and stopped at the checkpoint.

- Hold your phone up to the scanner,- the police officer said dryly as he approached the window. There was no smile, no greeting, no emotion on his face.

A double beep sounded.

- Are you carrying anything unauthorized? - he asked.

- Only my tools and materials,- the driver replied calmly.

- Open the trunk.

The driver stepped out and opened it. The officer raised his tablet and scanned the contents. A red warning appeared on the screen.

- I have a permit,- the driver said flatly.

- Yes... I see that, - the officer replied after carefully reviewing the documents on his tablet. After a brief pause, he added, - You may proceed."

The bollards slowly lowered.

- Have a nice day,- the protagonist replied almost automatically, with a smile.

The officer looked at him in surprise, as if for a moment he did not understand what he had just heard.

The protagonist got back into the car and drove on. In the rearview mirror, he watched for a few more seconds as the officer stood by the roadside, still staring after him in confusion, trying to understand what had just happened. It was as if a tiny crack had appeared in the usual order of things.

On the way back, looking at this bleak white world, he suddenly realized a new truth. This system had not been created for safety—it had been created for control. To prevent people from having unnecessary emotions and unnecessary thoughts. To make them easier to manage. To immediately identify those who stepped outside the boundaries.

This neutral light had not been introduced by accident—it pressed down on people as if surrounding them with invisible bars. The perfectly smooth roads, the white color, the neutral lighting—all of it was part of an invisible mechanism of control. There was no need to build enormous institutions to control the population. It was enough to build one—the institution that controlled space itself. Then people would begin controlling themselves.

And anyone who tried to break free would immediately stand out. He remembered the underground bar that had recently been discovered. People had talked about it constantly on the radio. There had been colored lights, music, the smell of food, and people laughing... Everything the system was trying to erase.

And that was exactly how it worked: the moment someone tried to change something, the system noticed and corrected it.

But he understood one thing now. He had changed, and he would never become the person he had once been.

And now, he had opportunities.

"If you want to change something, start with yourself," he thought as he opened the door to his apartment.

It was beautiful and comfortable. Just this morning, he had believed it contained everything he needed. That it was perfect. That he genuinely liked it. But now he saw it differently. Suddenly, it became obvious how much it lacked: color, accents, individuality. It was cozy and warm, yet somehow empty.

He slowly looked around the space once more and felt a familiar urge—the desire to change things.

And he did not want to postpone it. He decided to begin right away.

The shredder hummed. The printer started working quietly while, in virtual mode, the protagonist browsed through furniture and materials, sending them one by one to be printed. He wanted to create something similar to the house he had visited earlier that day. But at the same time, something different. Something more. Something that truly belonged to him. A space that expressed his style and his feelings through its interior design.

Even if no one would ever see it. He wanted at least this space to tell his story.

The rooms changed one after another. Old surfaces disappeared, replaced by new materials and warm textures. Wood appeared here and there. Then deep colors. Then another accent. And another.

When it was finally finished, he removed his glasses. The printer and shredder gradually fell silent.

He stood in the middle of the room, looking around at the transformed space, surprised by his own courage.

Bright colors. Deep shades. Textures.

It felt as though a new chapter of his life had opened before him.

Slowly, he lowered himself into a new armchair upholstered in a pleasant textured fabric. He took one last look at the redesigned interior and, exhausted after the long day, almost immediately drifted into a peaceful sleep right there in the chair.

The morning was calm. He took a shower in the renovated bathroom, had breakfast in the new dining area, and slowly drank his coffee while sitting on the new soft sofa. Every interaction with the transformed space brought him a quiet sense of satisfaction. He touched the surfaces, ran his hand over the textured materials, and observed the colors that now filled the room.

The thought that, in this completely white and sterile building, there existed a single vibrant apartment warmed him. He had become braver. The fears that once constantly circled in his mind began to fade. He thought about them less and less, and instead something else began to emerge in his thoughts—ideas.

He kept returning in his mind to that colorful world he had visited: warm wood, deep tones, living spaces. He opened the sketchbook of ideas he had found in that hidden apartment. As he turned the pages, he realized one thing—he had surpassed his teacher.

He printed several photos of his own apartment, carefully glued them into the notebook, and began sketching new ideas with colored pencils, line after line, idea after idea. They were born in his mind and remained on the pages of the notebook. He was no longer just an observer. He had become a creator.

Sirius looked at his phone—no messages, no work for the day. He still did not know whether he would continue working in the colored world or return to the white one. The uncertainty made him slightly uneasy, but he still hoped he would continue working with color. The client had been satisfied with his work.

He decided to take a walk to clear his mind. He got ready, opened the door—and once again encountered the same neighbor. Their eyes met for a brief moment, then the neighbor’s gaze slid into the apartment interior. Only for a second, but something in his expression changed. He quickly looked away and walked down the corridor.

The protagonist remained standing in the doorway, behind which his bright world was hidden. Thoughts began to swarm again. The man had seen it. Of course, he had seen something he was not supposed to see.

And now what?

Yes, he now had access to color. He could work with it. But whether he was allowed to change his own living space—he did not know. He closed the door and still decided to go outside.

The cold air hit his face, but his thoughts did not disappear. He kept thinking about that brief encounter. He had only seen this neighbor a few times and knew nothing about him—who he was, what he did, or what kind of person he was. He walked around the building for a long time, blaming himself. Why had he opened the door so carelessly? Why at that exact moment? Why had he not anticipated it? It was too careless.

In the end, he could not calm his mind and returned home.

Now the apartment felt like home again, but at the same time like a lonely island in an ocean where sharks circled, ready to strike at any moment.

As he approached the entrance, he saw the neighbor again. He was standing by the door, as if waiting for him. The protagonist walked past without looking at him. The man silently followed him. They entered the elevator.

He placed his phone on the scanner. A moment later, the neighbor did the same. The doors closed.

- I heard you work with space?- the neighbor asked.

The protagonist hesitated for a second. He had been addressed differently than his official profession, as if the words carried a hidden meaning.

- Yes,- he replied shortly.

- I need help with my apartment,- the neighbor said in the same emotionless voice. - Some of the furniture has broken down. I would like to know if you could help me.

The protagonist paused. It might be a test. But after a brief silence, he answered,

- Yes, no problem.

- When would it be convenient for you? - the neighbor asked, now slightly softer.

- I have free time now. We can go immediately.

- That would be perfect. I live on your floor, a bit further down the corridor. Apartment 192. I will be waiting.

- Alright. I just need to get my tools.

They left the elevator and walked down the long white corridor together. Outside the protagonist’s apartment, the neighbor said,

- Then see you soon,- and for a moment a faint smile seemed to cross his face.

The protagonist entered his apartment, exhaled heavily, and began gathering his tools. Was this simply a request for help, or a trap? Again, uncertainty.

After collecting his things, he went to the neighbor’s door. He stopped in front of apartment 192 and placed his phone against the scanner. Two signals sounded. Inside, a soft melody played, and the door opened.

He entered the apartment. A typical white apartment. Everything precise, correct, sterile. No deviations, no unnecessary details. The only thing that immediately caught his attention were broken chairs near the dining table. One lay on its side, the other was split in half. Small plastic fragments were scattered on the floor, as if they had been broken quite recently. This made the main character uneasy. His gaze slowly moved further into the apartment. And then he saw it. Through slightly open doors, warm light slipped out. A thin strip fell onto the white floor, sharply contrasting with the neutral lighting of the apartment. He froze for a moment. Then slowly looked at his new acquaintance. The other man was also watching him. A slight tension appeared in his gaze. A short silence settled between them. Each of them had their own secret. And if the main character had revealed his unintentionally, his neighbor seemed to have revealed his deliberately.

— I like your lighting in the bedroom, — the main character said, smiling faintly.

The neighbor paused for a moment, then returned the same restrained smile. The tension in the room immediately dissolved. They understood each other.

— I accidentally saw part of your apartment today, — the neighbor said carefully choosing his words. — And I decided to take a risk by reaching out to you. He paused for a moment, as if checking the reaction. — It seems… you might understand what exactly I want to change in my space.

— I think I understand you, — the main character replied. — What would you like your space to be like?

The neighbor thought for a moment.

— I have only one request. I want it to be bright. Everything else is up to you.

The main character smiled slightly.

— Well… then let’s begin.

He looked around, carefully assessing the apartment. Before him was a typical white space — even, sterile, without any emotion. Like a blank canvas waiting for the first brushstrokes of paint. He activated his glasses and opened the materials library. And began transforming the space. Step by step, colors appeared. Deep tones, warm materials, light that made the room feel alive. The white space gradually filled with color. Filled with life. The printer hummed pleasantly, bringing new life into the space. Sirius eagerly selected furniture and sent it to print. When he finished with the living room, he entered the bedroom. The warm light of a bedside lamp fell across the white space — he decided to leave it there as a small symbol of the beginning of change, a small artifact from which everything started. The shredder rustled, the printer buzzed — old white furniture disappeared, and in its place appeared colorful, rich, and alive pieces. Then he moved to the bathroom, filling it with color, and after finishing the work, he looked satisfied at his new companion, waiting for his reaction. The man stood there, unable to find words. But his expression said everything without them. Words were unnecessary. The main character understood the answer without speech.

— That lamp in the bedroom you left… it was a gift from my sister, — the neighbor said heavily, his voice filled with deep bitterness. — She managed to give it to me before she was taken by the police. And I never saw her again.

— I understand that it was important to you, — the main character replied softly, trying to choose the right words. — That’s why I decided to leave it.

— Thank you. She would have been happy to see how my space has changed… and to see her gift still here, — the man said with a sad smile.

They stood in silence for a while, simply looking at the room.

— She has a son, — he continued after a pause. — He recently finished training as a space corrector. And I would like… if it’s appropriate… to introduce you to him.

Sirius thought for a moment. But the neighbor, sensing his hesitation, immediately added:

— He can definitely be trusted. My sister raised him well. She always encouraged his taste for unconventional things. He’s truly talented. But maybe you could give him a few tips… show him a better path.

Mentorship, — the main character thought. He had never considered something like that. But it could be a good idea.

— Let’s meet on the weekend. Get acquainted and see what comes of it, — he replied.

They shook hands. And each of them felt that they had just found a companion in this world. And he understood something else important — this was what he wanted to do next, as if repainting the world with his spaces. Now there were no doubts left. He would search for people who also sought change, and he would do it with joy, helping them bring their desires into reality. So he gained his first companion — a person with whom he shared something. Whether it was a desire for beautiful space, or perhaps a shared tendency to break rules.

The next day he received another assignment in Lucerne. Again — another opening of a new world for himself. He wanted to absorb this world completely: to study it, explore it, find new ideas.

On the way he stopped again at a roadside café recommended by that police officer. This time he was more confident and ordered something new for himself — a burger and a cola. The taste of hot meat with a freshly baked bun and melted cheese was incredible. He could feel the texture of every ingredient. Each had its own taste, and together they formed something extraordinary. Not like the monotonous smoothies from his own world. And the sweet sparkling water flowed inside, cooling him and giving him energy. All of this was amplified by the incredible landscape opening from the café terrace.

His client was a woman around seventy-five years old. But the energy coming from her was astonishing. She did not look like a grandmother, but like a beautiful woman with soft wrinkles around her eyes and mouth. In those wrinkles seemed frozen a lifelong smile that probably rarely left her face. Sometimes you can tell from a face whether a person has lived a happy life. It never lies.

She had a slim figure and a very stylish appearance. Every piece of her outfit was perfectly chosen: long black skirt-trousers, a beige silk blouse neatly tucked in, a short shawl with a black-and-beige pattern over her shoulders. On her hands — something like long fingerless gloves. Silver accessories with black details completed her look. Sirius thought that he was twice as young as her, yet he had not even half of her energy. Next to her, he felt older.

She showed him her house. And the house fully reflected her personality. She was an artist — something long forgotten in the white world of the main character. Her home looked like a gallery. Everywhere stood her sculptures: made of stone, metal, wood. On the walls hung bright abstract paintings. There were not many of them — just enough to complement the interior without distracting from it.

Every time he discovered something new in this world. And now he discovered another dimension — paintings and sculptures that can complete a space. In these works there was an entire world. The main character could not fully see it, but he could feel it.

Recently, an extension had been added to the house, and she wanted to turn it into a library. She had an endless collection of books and wanted to create a special place for them. It was a large space, and the main character divided it into two levels. On the ground floor he placed tall bookshelves along the entire perimeter. In the center — a lounge area with armchairs, floor lamps, and table lamps. On the upper level he created something like a balcony gallery with additional rows of books. On the far wall there was a large window, through which the second level gallery passed.

He had never worked with such a large space before. It was difficult and unusual. And here he realized something: space does not need to be filled completely. Not every square meter has to be occupied. Sometimes you need to leave empty space — so the room can breathe.

And he began to create. The first level turned into a deep green tone, the second into a deep beige with a slight clay shade. In the center appeared leather reddish sofas, near them he placed a fireplace. He created an incredibly cozy library — so large and impressive for him, like nothing before.

Proudly, he showed the result to the woman.

— I would like to give you a gift, — she said, looking at the library with satisfaction. — As a sign of gratitude.

She pointed to one of her sculptures. It was a figure of a man standing straight — feet together, arms pressed to his body as if at attention. His head and gaze were lifted upward. On the sculpture’s face there was a large drop of water made of glass. The main character immediately liked it. It strangely reflected his own feeling: standing motionless in space, afraid to move… but still looking up.

The glass drop covered part of the face, as if blocking the colorful world from him, not allowing him to see it fully. But at that moment a ray of light hit the glass drop and split into a full spectrum of colors. The drop seemed to hide the world — and at the same time reveal it.

But something upset him.

— I am very grateful for such an incredible gift, — he said sincerely. — But unfortunately I cannot accept it. Where I come from, such things are not allowed. And I don’t think I would be permitted to bring it back.

A slight sadness appeared on her face. She lowered her eyes. But a moment later she raised them again — and playful sparks lit up in them.

— What if I just send you the 3D model? — she said happily. — You could print it yourself.

— Hmm… that is actually a good idea, — he replied with a smile.

But she suddenly added:

— Then I will ask you to do one thing. Delete this sculpture with your shredder.

He looked at her in surprise.

— Why?

— So you can have a unique copy, — she said. — That is the essence of art. Uniqueness.

— But it will still be a copy… — he replied, slowly understanding her idea.

— Not exactly, — she said. — The original is the 3D model that will leave this world with me one day. And the model I send you will be deleted immediately after printing. So when I am gone, your sculpture will remain the only one.

She smiled.

— That is how I work with my clients. Everyone receives a unique sculpture.

— Interesting system, — the main character replied.

— And it also creates a story behind the sculpture. And story always increases the value of art.

She lit up with joy, like a child who had just done something forbidden and was proud of it. She put on her stylish brown-framed glasses and waved her hands lightly.

— The 3D model is already in your library, — she said. — Turn on the shredder.

His hand trembled slightly. But he still turned on the machine. She watched with the same childish, rebellious excitement as her creation disappeared piece by piece.

Sirius also wanted to somehow repay her, but he did not know how.

— Thank you for the library you created for me, — she said with the same warm smile, and extended her hand.

On the way back he stopped by the Department of Space to return used materials and refill color cartridges — they were almost empty. This place felt much more pleasant than the Ministry of Space. The people were friendly, and the building itself even felt somewhat cozy. Yet a sense of unease still remained near such institutions.

He sighed with relief when he finally left the building and got into the car.

He still had some time in this world, but this time he did not want to linger. He wanted to return home as quickly as possible and print the sculpture the woman had given him. Even the white world he returned to did not disturb him as much this time. Because now at home there was a small colored world waiting for him. And he was no longer the only one who saw it. His neighbor did. And tomorrow, perhaps, another one would appear — his neighbor’s nephew.

As soon as he entered the apartment, he did not even take off his jacket. From the doorway he sent the sculpture to print. The printer hummed quietly, filling the apartment with a familiar sound. Layer by layer the figure began to appear. He stood nearby and watched.

When the printing finished, as the woman had said, the 3D model immediately disappeared from the system. And at that moment he felt something strange. Something unique had appeared in his apartment. Not just another object. Not just a beautiful sculpture. Something that reflected himself.

He looked at the figure of the man standing straight, looking upward through the glass drop. His apartment was no longer just a collection of colorful furniture. Something had appeared in it that he had already seen in the woman’s house. And in the previous one. Individuality. A space created for a specific person. A space that tells something about its owner.

He looked around. And realized that every time he returned from Lucerne, he brought something new into his apartment. Like small fragments of that world. And with each time, his apartment became more alive. And more his own.

The next day he could hardly wait for the meeting with his neighbor Marcus’s nephew. For the first time he had someone with shared interests, and now he was about to meet another. He would be able to share his ideas, pass on his knowledge. Even simply talking about his thoughts already meant a lot. Before, he had no one to share them with, and until recently he even felt as if there was nothing to share at all, as if he had not really lived before this.

His life seemed to have begun only in that hidden apartment. Everything before it felt like white fog.

The doorbell rang. The screen showed the name Marcus Rainer. He opened the door. A young man, about twenty years old, was standing there. He invited him in.

— Sirius, — the main character introduced himself and extended his hand.

— Kai, — the other replied and shook it.

The young man immediately began to look around the apartment in fascination, just as he himself once looked at the apartment that had changed his life. He carefully examined every detail.

Their attention was immediately drawn to the sculpture.

— A very interesting woman gave this to me yesterday, — Sirius said, noticing their gaze, and told the story. Kai listened with fascination, absorbing every detail like a sponge.

Then Sirius gave them a small tour of the apartment, explaining every object he had created there: colors, light, materials.

They sat down at the table. Over a cup of coffee, the young man began asking about the colored world. He listened so attentively, with such curiosity, as if he had already been there — as if the conversation itself was opening the door to another reality.

Sirius also showed him and Marcus his sketchbook, which he had found in the hidden apartment. Kai really liked the sketches and photographs. Sirius liked this boy — he thought differently, he did not want to obey the system. Just like the main character, he wanted change.

They agreed to redesign his apartment together. The boy would try to do it himself, and the main character would only assist.

And since neither of them liked to wait long, the very next day Sirius came to Kai’s apartment. The young man opened the door to a small studio. Sirius carefully looked around the space: Kai had designed the interior himself, and for a beginner it looked quite good. There was a sense of style. Everything was minimalistic but interesting, even within the limitations of the white world.

— Are you ready? — Sirius asked.

— Yes, — the young man replied with excitement.

They put on the glasses and opened the shared space-creation mode. Sirius sent him his material library. The boy began selecting elements in a virtual environment.

The main character found it interesting to observe him. The young man chose materials and furniture that Sirius himself would never have chosen, but he decided not to stop him. This was his space, his perception.

And gradually, a personal style began to emerge. The boy combined things Sirius would never have dared to combine — whether due to inexperience or, on the contrary, boldness — but the result looked very interesting.

Suddenly the shredder buzzed, followed by the printer. The space began to change — first in the virtual mode, and then in reality.

What surprised Sirius the most was the colored lighting the boy had added. It filled the space with soft light and created a strange, almost meditative atmosphere. The apartment became completely different.

Kai was glowing with joy, savoring the result of his work. And Sirius — the result of his. Another change in his life. And now, brick by brick, a new world was beginning to take shape. From now on, it was no longer built by his hands alone — he was not alone anymore.

— I have something for you, — he said to the boy. — I want to give you a gift.

Sirius took the sketchbook from his coat pocket. Kai froze in surprise — he understood very well how important this object was to its owner.

— These are ideas from the previous owner that once inspired me, — Sirius continued. — And I added mine as well. And now I want you to have it. To continue it… to add your ideas.

For Sirius, this was a very important moment. The sketchbook was precious to him, but true strength was not in keeping knowledge for oneself. True strength was in passing it on. And he felt that the person standing in front of him was exactly the one he wanted to entrust it to.

Kai carefully took the sketchbook, opened it, and ran his fingers over the pages.

— Thank you very much, — he said. — I promise to continue your work. We can develop it together.

From that time on, he, the boy, and the neighbor began meeting often at each other’s homes. A real friendship quickly formed between them. They could talk about anything, without fear of anyone or anything.

Marcus’s nephew was studying to become a spatial calibrator, just like the main character once had. Those times he now remembered only vaguely, but it was interesting to listen to the boy’s stories. The young man explained how they were taught that the color white was the foundation of social safety, and that humanity had reached this state after long wars that used to happen constantly. Since the system had been introduced, no wars had occurred. All the books they studied from contained only white interiors designed according to strict standards. There were entire volumes of rules: room heights, allowed angles, lighting types, material catalogs. And in none of those books were there examples of how not to do things — only how to do them correctly.

Every year these books were updated, new standards and regulations were added. A separate research center worked on them. In this way, the system trained new architects, spatial calibrators, and urban planners. To obtain a license, one had to pass an exam on regulations and create an interior without a single deviation. Any mistake meant repeating the training.

Marcus worked at a factory producing 3D printers and was a tester. Only a few people worked there — most of the production was fully automated. However, setup, calibration, and quality control were performed by humans. Each printer was issued only to a licensed person, and there was no way to obtain one otherwise.

Kai would soon receive his license to begin practical training. Until then, Sirius decided to let him use his own printer.

The neighbor explained that there were many other types of printers. For example, large industrial printers for constructing massive structures, construction drones capable of building high-rise buildings, and systems for creating bridges, tunnels, and urban infrastructure. They only produced components for these systems, while drone assembly took place at another factory. Sirius had never worked with such machines.

Each type of printer required a separate license and had its own material database. Even the cartridges were different. There was also a separate department at the factory that worked with biological materials, but the neighbor knew little about it — he did not have clearance. There were other departments as well, but what exactly was produced there remained unknown; access required strict loyalty checks, and each level had its own permissions.

Cartridges and materials were produced at other factories, and as far as Marcus knew, this was the only production facility located outside the White World. Everything was strictly divided, and there was no fully autonomous production anywhere.

For example, microchips were supplied from a completely different plant. At times it seemed as if the system was deliberately designed this way, as if it feared rebellion. Because even if one ever happened, without a complete production cycle it would not be able to survive for long.

Together with Kai, they developed something new and very useful for themselves — special window overlays. It was a kind of additional glass installed on the inside. From the outside it looked like ordinary transparent glass and let all light pass through unchanged. But when warm or colored lighting was turned on inside the apartment, the glass converted it into white light. This way, their colored spaces could exist unnoticed by the White World.

What he had once begun alone was now, together with the young student, transformed into something entirely new and useful for both of them. And when there is someone to share a small joy with, it becomes much greater. It gave them motivation. Together, things were no longer so frightening.

Of course, they understood that if the system decided to remove any of them, there would likely be no way to stop it. But emotional support was still important. It gave them a sense of calm and even a certain illusion of safety — as much as one could possibly feel safe in the White World.

They already understood that everything would not end with three apartments. They would continue coloring this world further. For now, they did not yet know how, but they clearly understood that what they were doing was only a very small change within the scale of the entire White World.

Changing only apartments was not enough to change the whole system. They did not have the resources for anything larger. But they were driven by a sense of belief — that something might eventually change over time.

Sirius had never thought that his small colored world would ever extend beyond his own door. And now they already had a small group — three people, three like-minded individuals.

Once, they were sitting together again in the main character’s apartment, talking calmly, sharing thoughts, completely unaware of where all of this would eventually lead.

The neighbor mentioned that he had found someone else who might fit into their small circle. But she did not yet know about it herself. She was a colleague from the factory where he worked. During their rare short conversations, he had noticed something in her — a subtle dissatisfaction with the system. She never spoke about it directly; her words were always careful, veiled. But sometimes, in her voice or gaze, a hint of doubt appeared.

Such things were hard to explain in words, but people who did not accept the system seemed to sense each other — as if an invisible thread connected them.

However, this was not enough. They understood that there was no room for mistakes here. They needed to be sure. A verification was required.