[hider=faceclaim][centre][color=2e2c2c]______________________________[/color][img]https://img.roleplayerguild.com/prod/users/019bb36d-b398-74ba-b564-782a3f8eae67.webp[/img][color=2e2c2c]______________________________[/color][/centre][/hider] Name: Chrysanthemum Turner Goes by: Chrys Sex: Female Age: 26 Occupation: Architectural Designer / Carpenter Background Chrysanthemum Turner was named with care. Her mother, Lila, chose the name deliberately. Chrys never knew exactly why. By the time she was old enough to ask, her mother was already gone, killed in a transport accident while Chrys was still young enough to struggle with the permanence of it. After that, it was just Chrys and her father, David. He was a quiet, steady man who believed that understanding how things worked made the world easier to face. He fixed things himself whenever he could, not out of pride, but because he liked knowing that something broken could be made whole again with patience and effort. Chrys followed him everywhere, handed him tools, asked questions. He never treated her like she was fragile. He showed her how to measure carefully, how to work methodically, how to take pride in things that held together. Those lessons stayed with her. When Chrys was sixteen, David started getting tired. At first, it seemed unremarkable. Everyone was tired. The air was already growing thicker, the future already narrowing. David brushed off her concern and told her it was nothing worth worrying about. By the time the truth came out, the cancer had already progressed too far to stop. He told her quietly, apologetically, as if his illness were something he regretted burdening her with. Chrys finished school while learning how to manage hospital appointments, paperwork, and meals neither of them had much appetite for. She learned how to sit in sterile rooms and listen while doctors spoke in careful, practiced tones. When her father died, there was no dramatic collapse. Just a sudden, hollow quiet that settled in and never fully left. She chose architecture and construction because it made sense. Buildings followed rules. If something was unsound, it could be reinforced. If something failed, there was a reason. She gravitated toward work that allowed her to design with her hands as well as on paper, preferring practicality over recognition. She became known as reliable rather than inspired, thorough rather than visionary. It was through her work that she met Leah. Leah was everything Chrys was not. Outspoken, idealistic, unafraid to be seen. She believed the world could still be changed if enough people stood up and demanded it. Chrys followed her to protests not because she loved crowds or confrontation, but because she loved Leah. They balanced each other in ways Chrys never fully articulated. No one ever agreed on how it started. Reports conflicted. Footage was edited. Responsibility dissolved into argument and noise. Leah did not come home. After that, the world felt spent. Chrys kept working. She kept building things she knew would eventually rot beneath poisoned air and corporate indifference. When news of the anomaly first surfaced, she barely noticed. Another impossible headline in a world already collapsing under the weight of too many of them. The selection came later. Not an invitation, nor a choice. A notice delivered with clinical indifference, wrapped in Council language and legal certainty. She didn't feel excitement or fear. She felt tired. But gradually, she came to understand what the anomaly represented. Not hope, no, but Distance. A place untouched by the systems that had taken everything from her. A place where she could build something honest. Something that did not exist to serve profit, power, or survival quotas. She does not see herself as a savior, or a pioneer. She is here because she knows how to make things stand, and because for the first time in years, she might be able to live without the world pressing constantly against her back.