# data[].attributes.body
Hair: Golden blonde, like sunlit silk. It falls in soft, natural waves that brush her mid-back, often slightly tousled even when tied.

Face Shape: She has a heart-shaped face— wide forehead, soft cheekbones, and a narrow, delicate chin.

Eyes: Striking crystal-blue eyes—large, expressive, and intense.

Nose: Petite and slightly upturned, lending her a gentle, doll-like appearance. Not sharp or angular—her nose blends seamlessly with her soft, symmetrical features.

Lips: Full, naturally pink lips with a prominent cupid’s bow.

Body Shape: An hourglass figure— curvy, feminine, and grounded.

# data[].attributes.body
Birth Name: Sydney Bernice Sweeney

Birthday: 12 September
Age: 27 years old
Zodiac Sign: Virgo

Occupation: Nun
Nationality: American

Ethnicity: Caucasian
Height: 161cm

Weight: 53kg

Languages Spoken: English (Fluent), Korean (Proficient), French (Proficient)

# data[].attributes.body
• You can called me Purple, Purlie, Gummie or character name! idm at all!
• 27 years old gurlie with busy life
• GMT+8
• Very chill person for sho. But never mix my ooc to ic! Stay for what they are!
• MAJOR HOE but also a great clown :D love yall

# data[].attributes.body
• Accept any styles but dont expect too much please.
• Writing preference are mostly third pov (past tense). First detailed pov are okay too!
• Paragraph are depend on how high is my muse. Will mirror when its necessary!

# data[].attributes.body
Orientation: Heterosexual
Relationship status: Single

Love language: Quality time, Receiving Gift, Words of Affirmation

# data[].attributes.body
• Any sort of plots/connection please do it via pms! Random starters are always welcome!
• Thread are for rooms or gpms! If you simply wanna have interaction in first pov then I preferred it to be on walls.
• In simple chit chatting I do be fast but replies take me forever because all of that brain juices. If anything bear with me!
• Mistakes can happened when I have typos and grammar error by all mean ignored at all cost.
• I may have goldfish memory so poke me please but DONT OVERDOIT.
• You are free to imagine how you undressed my character but do not CONTROL character action.

# data[].attributes.body
☁️ Fiercely principled

Even though she has a wild, painful past, Sydney transformed her life with purpose. Her morals now run deep—anchored in redemption, justice, and truth. She's not afraid to call out hypocrisy, even in the Church.

☁️ Emotionally intense

She feels deeply—love, rage, guilt, devotion. When she hurts, it cuts to the bone. When she believes, she gives her entire heart. Her emotions are never shallow or easily dismissed.

☁️ Intelligent and perceptive

Sydney isn’t just book-smart; she’s intuitive. She reads people easily, senses unspoken tensions, and can pick up on hidden truths. That’s part of why she burns so bright—she *sees* the flaws in everything, including herself.

☁️ Rebellious but loyal

She doesn’t submit blindly to authority. If rules contradict what she believes is right, she challenges them. But she’s loyal to people she loves—Father Elijah, the children she teaches, the vulnerable. She’s not afraid to defy a system to protect what’s sacred.

☁️ Shame-driven, yet proud

She carries the weight of her past, and some part of her still believes she must earn forgiveness. Yet she’s proud of her survival, of the journey she made. This internal war shapes many of her decisions.

# data[].attributes.body
The world returned in fragments. The sterile buzz of fluorescent lights above her. The rhythmic, mechanical beep of something nearby—steady, unnatural. Her throat burned. Her skin itched beneath the gauze. Her body felt like someone else’s.

She fluttered her eyes opened. At first, she didn’t know where she was. The ceiling was unfamiliar. The walls were pale, beige, lifeless. The smell was sharp, hospital-clean, but underneath it was something else—blood, maybe. Or her memory of it.

She tried to sit up. Pain struck like lightning through her torso. Her hand flew to her ribs—bandaged. Her arm was in a cast. IV lines trailed from the back of her hand. Her lips cracked as she turned her head, wincing.

Where…?

Then it hit her. The scream of twisted metal. The smell of smoke. Her mother’s face—turned toward her, glass in her cheek, eyes open but empty.

And the silence that followed.

“Mum,” she whispered, hoarse and broken.

A nurse noticed the movement and rushed to her side. There were words, soft ones, spoken like she was a child.

“You’re awake. Don’t try to move too quickly.”

“You’re lucky.”

“We’re keeping you under observation.”

But all Sydney could hear was the echo in her head.

Mum, wake up. Please wake up.

She stared at the nurse, her voice trembling. “Where is she?” The nurse hesitated. A flicker of pain crossed her features. “I’ll go get the doctor.”

“Don’t,” Sydney shaked her head, blue eyes staring into the nurse own orbs. “Tell me.” A long pause. Then the nurse lowered her gaze. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. She didn’t survive the accident.”

There was no scream. No dramatic outburst. Just stillness.

Something in her chest sank— sank so deep it was like the bottom dropped out of her. Her body went cold. Her vision blurred. She couldn’t even cry yet. She just lay there, staring at the ceiling, while something precious and familiar slipped from her.

Her mother was dead.

And the last thing they did was fight. The argument felt so childish now. So small. So pointless.

They were shouting—really shouting. Sydney had said awful things. She couldn’t even remember all the words, only the heat in her chest and the burn in her throat. Her mother had been so angry. Her hands tight on the wheel. Her voice sharp.

Sydney had looked away. Crossed her arms. Turned her face to the window and shut her eyes. And then the truck came.

She blinked, and it was back—the metal twisting, glass exploding, the scream in her throat.

Now, all of that rage was meaningless.

Because the person she was fighting with—her mum—was gone. And she could never take it back.

That night, the pain started to crawl inward.

The hospital room was quiet, too quiet, like the whole world had paused out of respect for her grief. She refused to eat. She turned away when the nurses tried to speak to her. She stared out the window, waiting for the sun to fall and the darkness to rise again. Sleep came in fits, haunted and jagged.

Then, on the third night, a knock. Not a nurse. Not a doctor.

It was him. The priest from the crash.

He stood in the doorway, holding a simple brown paper bag in one hand. His eyes were kind but tired, like he hadn’t slept either. She stared. “What do you want?”

“I brought you something,” he said gently. “May I come in?” She hesitated. Then nodded.

He stepped in and pulled the chair closer to her bed, then handed her the bag. “I thought you might want this back.” Inside, nestled carefully in tissue paper, was the silver crucifix he’d given her in the wreckage. It still bore faint traces of blood, her blood, dried into the tiny ridges of Christ’s form. She stared at it for a long time.

“I’m not religious,” she said flatly. “Not anymore.”

“That’s okay,” he replied. “Neither was I, for a long time.”

There was silence.

“..... She’s really gone.”

He nodded. Sydney looked away, blinking hard. “I hated her,” she whispered softly. “In that moment. I said unforgivable things.”

“Did she say unforgivable things too?”

Sydney blinked again. “What?” He tilted his head. “Did she hurt you back? Shout? Say something cruel?”

“Yes.”

“Then it wasn’t just you.”

“But I meant it,” she said bitterly. “I wanted to hurt her. I wanted her to suffer like she made me suffer. And now she’s dead, and I’ll never get the chance to take it back.” A tear rolled down her cheek as she continued.

“She died hating me,” Sydney whispered.

The priest didn’t speak for a moment. “I doubt that very much.”

She finally turned her eyes to him. “You didn’t know her.”

“No. But I know what a mother’s love looks like. Even in anger, it’s still love.”

More tears came now. Heavy, uncontrollable. Her body shook as she curled inward, sobbing, clutching the crucifix to her chest.

“I don’t want to live with this,” she choked. “I don’t want to carry this for the rest of my life.”

“You don’t have to,” he said. “Guilt doesn’t have to be your home.”

“Then where else can I go?”

He looked at her then—not with pity, but with something deep and ancient. Compassion. Grace. “You come to where it’s quiet,” he said.

“Where there’s time to listen. Time to heal. You come to where forgiveness is possible.”

She wiped her tears with the back of her hand. “You’re talking about God.”

“I’m talking about peace.”

And something in her—just barely—began to stir. It wasn’t faith. Not yet. But it was the first flicker of longing. A need for something more than pain. Something bigger than grief. Maybe she didn’t believe in God. But she wanted to believe her mother had forgiven her. That maybe, somewhere, somehow… she could forgive herself too.

So she held the crucifix a little tighter. And in the lonely hours before dawn, Sydney Sweeney— the girl who screamed at her mother in a car and lived— started to wonder what came next.

# data[].attributes.body
After ten quiet, disciplined years in the convent—years of mending wounds, teaching children, and slowly letting go of the girl she used to be—Sydney Sweeney had become someone new.

They now called her Sister Seraphina—a name she chose herself, the first thing she claimed after being reborn in the church. It came from the pages of a Bible passage that once moved her to tears. Seraphim, the burning ones. Creatures of fire that stood closest to God.

She liked that.

Even in holiness, she had always felt a little like fire. That morning was like any other. She stood beneath the soft light of a spring sun, pinning freshly washed white sheets to the line, the linen snapping gently in the breeze. Her hands worked in practiced rhythm, her veil tucked neatly, her gaze steady.

Then she heard footsteps behind her.

Three priests approached, their robes dark in contrast to the bright day. Their expressions were unreadable. “Sister Seraphina,” one said gently. “The bishop would like to speak with you. Privately.”

Her hands paused mid-pin. A faint unease curled in her stomach.

“Yes, of course,” she replied, brushing her palms on her robe.

She followed them through the stone corridor, the soles of her shoes echoing softly in the silence. As they neared the bishop’s office, she caught sight of Father Elijah— her mentor, her closest confidant in the order— standing by the door, his face grave.

Something was wrong.

The door opened, and the bishop sat behind his desk, flanked by two other senior clergy members. No one smiled. Sydney entered slowly. “You asked for me, Your Grace?”

Without a word, the bishop reached into his desk drawer and laid something flat on the table. It was a photograph.

Her breath caught.

It was her. From before.

A grainy but unmistakable image of her on stage, under harsh red light, dancing in black leather—when she was still stripping to survive, back when she was Sydney and not Seraphina.

Her chest tightened. “Where did you get this?”

The bishop’s voice was cold. “It was sent to us anonymously. But clearly, the sender knows exactly who you are— and who you were.” Her eyes flicked toward Father Elijah, but he wouldn’t meet her gaze. She swallowed hard. “That photo… is from a life I left behind. That woman doesn’t exist anymore.”

“She existed once,” the bishop snapped. “And now she threatens everything we’ve built.”

“With respect,” she said, keeping her voice calm, “I never claimed I was a saint. I’ve always been honest about where I came from.”

“You were meant to be an example,” he said sharply. “You were going to become the face of the new charity mission. The next Mother Teresa. What will people think if this leaks? What will it teach the young girls who look up to you as a daughter of God?”

Sydney’s jaw clenched. “That redemption is real.”

“That sin has consequences,” the bishop countered.

“This is unfair,” she said, her composure cracking. “I’ve given everything to this place. I gave up my name. My past. I worked my way back from hell. And now—now you’re punishing me for surviving?”

“You will be transferred,” he said, voice final. “To Wineport. Effective immediately. Somewhere smaller. Quieter. Where your history cannot stain this church.”

Silence hung like judgment in the air.

Sydney turned to Father Elijah, her voice barely above a whisper. “Please. Say something.”

But he looked away. And that was what broke her. Her throat tightened. Her fists curled at her sides. “Cowards,” she whispered, then louder, “All of you!”

The bishop stood, alarmed. “Sister—”

“No,” she snapped. “Don’t call me that. I know who I am. And I don’t need your title to prove it.” She spun on her heel, her robes swaying with the force of her anger.

Father Elijah stepped forward, pain in his eyes, as if he might follow.

“Let her go,” the bishop said firmly.

Sydney didn’t turn back. The sound of the heavy wooden door slamming shut behind her was the only answer she gave.

# data[].attributes.body
Introverted: She reflects deeply, holds her past close, and doesn’t easily open up to others.

Intuitive: She sees beyond what is and focuses on what could be— her transformation, the symbolic meaning behind her name, and her vision of redemption.

Feeling: She leads with empathy, moral conviction, and emotional intensity. Her reaction to the betrayal is deeply personal.

Judging: She strives for structure and purpose in her new life, choosing to follow a disciplined spiritual path and becoming a symbol of redemption.

# data[].attributes.body
Sydney was a storm in her teenage years—rebellious, loud, and wild. School couldn’t hold her, and by 17, she dropped out, chasing freedom in the chaos of neon lights and underground clubs. She became a stripper, swept up in a world of fast money and addictive highs. She thought she had control—until the night her mother came to pick her up.

They argued in the car, emotions sharp and unresolved. Neither of them saw the red light until it was too late. A truck hit them. Sydney survived. Her mother didn’t.

The guilt was unbearable. In her grief, Sydney turned to the one place she had long rejected—her faith. She entered a convent, seeking solace and redemption. It wasn’t easy, but over time, she grew into a new life of discipline, prayer, and service. She became a nun. For a while, she found a fragile kind of peace.

But peace doesn’t always last.

When her past was uncovered, whispers turned into judgment. The church in her home state could not bear the weight of her story. They quietly transferred her to another convent in a different state—a place where no one knew her history. A second chance, cloaked in silence. Now, she walks a fine line between who she was and who she’s trying to become, never quite sure if she’s running from her past or healing from it.