oвvιoυѕly ♡

Nina Maxwell was born on December 19th, a Sagittarius with a restless mind and a sharp tongue, the kind of girl who asked too many questions as a kid and never really learned how to stop. At nineteen, she carried herself like someone older—not because she wanted to, but because life had pressed its weight into her early.


She was an only child. At sixteen, she lost her parents in a car accident that split her life cleanly down the middle: before and after. One day she had a house full of voices, routines, warmth. The next, she had silence and paperwork and a grief that didn’t announce itself loudly but sat heavy in her chest, refusing to move. Nina learned quickly that the world does not pause for mourning.


Now she worked nights at the local hospital in Englewood as an EMR, moving through fluorescent-lit hallways with practiced focus. Crime spiked after dark, and she knew better than to drift mentally. Every call, every patient, every siren reminded her how fragile life really was. She stayed alert, eyes sharp, emotions tucked neatly away until it was safe to let them breathe.


To strangers, Nina came off standoffish—arms crossed, brows knit, attitude loaded and ready. Her mouth was smart, reckless when pushed. Disrespect didn’t get warnings; it got blocks. She had learned boundaries the hard way, learned that being too accessible often meant being taken advantage of. Still, for all her caution, she had a weakness—hood bitches with soft smiles and dangerous charm. She trusted too easily once she let someone in, and more than once, that trust came back broken in her hands.


Heartbreak visited her in cycles. Each time, she picked herself up, a little quieter, a little wiser, promising herself she’d be smarter next time. Sometimes she was. Sometimes she wasn’t.


When she wasn’t working, Nina retreated into the things that made sense to her. Horror movies that mirrored the chaos she already understood. Video games where control was possible. Books that fed her hunger for knowledge and reminded her there was more to the world than loss. Nature was her sanctuary—trees that didn’t ask questions, trails that didn’t judge. Out there, she could breathe. Out there, she felt closest to the version of herself her parents used to know.


She was a homebody at heart, happiest curled up in her space, but every now and then she let herself go out, let the music and laughter pull her back into the world. She danced, drank, lived loudly for a night, then returned to her quiet, balanced between solitude and longing.


Nina Floretti didn’t trust easily, but when she did, she was loyal to a fault. She loved deeply, protected fiercely, and remembered everything. She had learned how fast life could change, how people could disappear, how strength often came from simply surviving the day.


And despite the grief, the sharp edges, the heartbreak—she was still here. Still curious. Still standing. Still moving forward, one night shift, one lesson, one heartbeat at a time.