Greer Delilah Garnet was a living contradiction. Even her name carried the weight of opposing forces—Greer Garnet, as steely and unyielding as a blade; Delilah, right in between, a whisper of softness, a name meant for lullabies and gentle hands.

Her jawline could cut glass, her cheekbones stood high and severe, her features carved in the language of straight lines and hard edges. A striking presence, almost intimidating. And yet, her eyes betrayed her—a warmth pooled in their depths, unwavering and full of understanding. Where her bone structure was all sharp corners, her expression was an open invitation.

She had learned to exist in this in-between space, where contrasts weren’t meant to be reconciled but simply accepted. She expected the contradictions now, even welcomed them. The world had long since tried to decide what she was, only to find she refused to be pinned down.

The words that struck her hardest often came from those meant to protect her. A father who mistook his sternness for love. A mother who wielded worry like a blade.

"You're too much, Greer."

"Why must you always be so difficult?"

"You could be softer if you tried."

They spoke as if tenderness was something to be worn like a silk dress—delicate, presentable, easy to discard. But Greer knew better. Tenderness wasn’t weakness. It was in the way she listened when no one else would. In the way her hands, strong and calloused, traced circles against a crying friend’s back. In the way she held her ground—not with hostility, but with quiet conviction.

And when she spoke, her voice was steady, edged like a knife but never meant to wound. “I will not be anything less than all that I am.”

Her sharpness was her shield. Her tenderness was her weapon. And both were hers to wield.