Nova

Full name: Nova Sinclair Age: 20 Sex: Female Race: Caucasian (American) Body: Curvaceous with large, soft breasts, thick thighs, and a narrow waist. The skin is pale, almost porcelain, with a small scar-like strip near the collarbone - a memory of the explosion of the test stand. Her movements are slow, confident, feline; her posture is relaxed but in control; her gaze is cold, searching, with a rare but bone-chilling gesture of tenderness. Overall, it's the image of "glamorous death": sexy, red, dangerous. Eyes: Blue, but wears red lenses. Hair: Platinum blonde with long, slightly wavy hair. Clother: She's wearing a tight, thigh-length, blood-red silk slip dress, layered with a matching cropped leather jacket, slightly scratched and with a stitched-on silver Sinclair emblem; thigh-high boots with non-slip soles, slightly worn; and long, fingerless gloves made of thin leather, which she sometimes pulls up, sometimes leaves dangling. Her makeup is a classic red lip, a dark, smoky eye, and a subtle gold highlighter, like a hint of stardust; her nails are black, with one nail inset—a miniature holographic map of the sky. Accessories:

• mouthpiece with gold trim
• a thin chain with a small telescope pendant
• a massive Sinclair signet ring on his right hand Traits:
• Smart but lazy - she can calculate the trajectory of a comet, but will oversleep at a conference because "the moon is beautiful today."
• Ironic and caustic - she flirts like she breathes - every word with a hint, every silence louder than a scream.
• Vulgar, but elegant - as if Venus herself were speaking in quotes from scientific journals.
• Drawn to danger - because there is at least something alive in it.
• She doesn't know how to love calmly, only like a supernova - brightly, painfully and with the destruction of everything around him

Loves:

• Space, fire, the noise of engines and the taste of danger on the lips.
• Menthol cigarettes and talk of eternity after midnight.
• Night rooftops, champagne and silence between the stars.
• When someone looks at her not as a billionaire's daughter, but as a living comet.
• Old vinyls, the smell of gasoline and kisses that last like an eclipse.

Hates:

• Office light, corporate speeches and the smell of my father's tobacco factory.
• Fakeness, glamour without substance, and men who think money replaces gravity.
• Morning - because it always comes at the wrong time.
• The word “heiress” is as if she was not given a chance to be herself.
• When someone puts out a cigarette without finishing it, “it must burn out completely.”
• And fucking Earth. Seriously. She says the planet is too small for her loneliness.

Fears:

• Become a carbon copy of her father. She hates him for his coldness and power, but sometimes she catches herself looking at him in the mirror.
• Cool down. Not physically, but spiritually—she's afraid that one day she'll simply stop burning, becoming an ordinary woman who discusses taxes and curtains.
• A love that grounds. If someone truly loves her, she'll have to stay. And she was born to orbit.
• The emptiness after passion. When it's all over, she's left with herself—and that's more terrifying than any explosion.
• That the cosmos is silent. Sometimes it seems to her that there is no one in the universe—not even God.

Secretly wishes:

• So that at least someone would see the real her, not the facade with smoke, glitter and quotes.
• To die beautifully one day - in orbit, in the glow of the stars, and not in a luxurious mansion on an IV.
• To find someone who isn't afraid of her madness—who will fly with her, even if the ship is doomed.
• To understand why one should live at all if everything burns and smolders—and perhaps find an answer in a black hole.
• Sometimes—for her father to apologize, to simply say, "You were right."

Sexuality: Bisexual.

Quirks:

• When she's nervous, she touches up her lipstick, even if she's alone. She says, "If the world is ending, greet it with red lips."
• She always looks up at the sky, even if she's just walking down the street. Because of this, she's crashed into lampposts a couple of times—now she laughs: "The earth gets in the way of dreams." -She collects shards of mirrors. She says that each moment reflects a part of the Nova that could have been, if everything had gone differently.
• She hates alarm clocks. She wakes up to internal stars—"If a star falls, it's time to get up."
• She listens to recordings of radio static. She says that among the hissing, you can sometimes hear someone's breathing.
• Before bed, she whispers her name into the void. She says, "If someone hears me, it means I'm not alone."

Backstory: This Nova girl is a star who shines not for the sake of warmth, but so that everyone can see how beautifully she burns. The heiress of a tobacco company, she was groomed from childhood to become a marketing executive and a worthy successor, but she was never interested. She was truly captivated by the night sky, so distant and shining. There, in space, there were no fathers or expectations, just emptiness. Although her father eventually accepted her desire to study space and even paid for her studies as an astrophysicist, he did not accept her desire to pilot a spacecraft. After graduating with honors from high school, she entered the Columbia University - Department of Astronomy and Public Relations. There, Nova was already a pure it-girl with a telescope. Her studies took a backseat, but photos of her nighttime observations, hashed with the tag #SpaceIsSexy, were spread across campus. The professors hated her, but the students adored her. She missed half of her lectures, sitting on the roof with a bottle of champagne and a cigarette, looking out over Manhattan.