The White Space. Chapter 1. Apartment 58

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…