The White Space. Chapter 7. Lucarne
The White Space. Chapter 7. Lucarne
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.