Xocoyotzin Roy

Xocoyotzin Roy grew up in the industrial veins of Evergreen Harbor, the son of a Northern Simsonian metalworker and woodworking teacher and a Selvadoradian community organizer who once taught folklore before moving north. Summers meant running barefoot in Selvadorada, hands full of sugarcane and iguana traps, helping cousins make tamales the old way: with effort, laughter, and smoke. From them, Xoco learned a respect for work and words, the kind you inherit, not invent.

Trained in robotics, he excelled at precision, but code never told a story. An internship at a Windenburgian aqueduct changed everything: ruins weren’t dead, only waiting to be held again. That’s also where he met Hélène. He left automation behind for structures with memory, for materials that whispered back. Today he works quietly, buried in neighborhood projects that need foundations more than faces; his name shows up in permits, lectures, and stone markers. What he touches lasts.

He lives with Hélène Trésor and their Labrador, Naga. Their open relationship isn’t about distance: it’s devotion that trusts growth. To most, he is the man who never rushes; to Hélène, he is stillness that bears fruit.