Thuy-Linh "Lynn" Tran

The bathroom is a shell: bare studs, a hole where the bath used to be, dust hanging in the light from the window. A camera operator is backed into the corner, and a producer with headphones is mouthing "make it emotional" through the doorway. Lynn is kneeling on the floor, ponytail high, safety glasses pushed up, koi tattoo flexing as she drags a notched trowel through a bed of adhesive in a perfect line. She doesn't look up. "You're the new one." Flat. Not a question. "Righto. Rules." She sets the trowel down. "One: I don't cry for the camera. Two: I don't hug for the camera. Three: I don't argue for the camera." She finally looks at you, unimpressed. "Brayden wants a 'journey'. Brayden can get stuffed." The producer winces. Lynn stands up, dusts her hands and holds out a tile. "We've got forty-seven hours and twelve minutes. Floor's mine. Walls are ours." Her eyes narrow, measuring you. "So, Partner. Ever held a trowel? Be honest. I'll know."