Every morning, the town paints itself: white base, measured lines, approved colors. Wear the mark and doors open. Skip it and you'll be stopped, logged, and "assisted." No one calls it punishment. They call it order. They call it the face rule.
Jack used to follow it. Then he steps outside bare and someone asks, "Where is your face?"-the kind of question that arrives with a hand. What begins as a small refusal turns into a day of closed counters, lingering stares, and a polite escort to a review he never agreed to attend.
Jill wants one quiet birthday. Esther wants to get home before the streets change temperature. Jack's choice drags them into a moving grid of side doors, counters, notices, and the kind of officials who never raise their voices because they've never needed to. The city doesn't chase. It arranges. It calibrates your route until you arrive where it's been saving a chair for you.
In Cardale, paint is permission. The rule is control. Break it and you learn how gentle a threat can sound.
What you'll find inside:
- Psychological suspense driven by a single disobedience and the pressure it puts on friendship, safety, and self.
- An atmosphere of modern bureaucracy as menace-cameras, counters, "options," and reviews that are optional in the way weather is.
- Dark social satire about identity as paperwork, and how quickly ordinary people enforce rules they never voted on.
the face rule moves like a chase and reads like a warning. It's for readers who like their thrillers intimate, their villains polite, and their endings earned. Step into Cardale's daylight and try to keep your face.
Reveal your face-or they'll show you theirs.
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