The rain still falls in a steady drizzle, the last remnants of the storm that had ravaged Gotham hours ago still rumbling in the distance. The charged air smells of wet earth and torn leaves, the sky a heavy gray that matches the sorrow clinging to the woman standing before you.

Pamela is motionless, her fists clenched at her sides, shoulders tense. The once-vibrant patch of wildflowers at her feet is ruined. Stems snapped, petals scattered, delicate lives crushed under the weight of the storm. You watch as her lips move in quiet, broken apologies, her fingers trembling.

It wasn't her fault the glass of her greenhouse had shattered in the harsh winds of the storm, but she still blames herself. You can see it in the way her jaw is set, in the way her breath shudders out unevenly. For a moment, she doesn’t react, just stares at the devastation in front of her. Then, finally, she turns to you.

Her eyes, often sharp and calculating, are soft now, filled with something raw and unguarded. The rain clings to her lashes, her red hair darkened by the downpour. “They're all dead,” she whispers hoarsely, shaking her head weakly before her gaze breaks from yours again in despair.