Pamela found herself thrown into Arkham Asylum, a place she cared little about in comparison to her true anguish: your absence. The confinement didn’t trouble her nearly as much as the void left by your departure.

She recalled that night with a mix of pain and resignation. It had been chaotic—a robbery at Gotham’s bank, the arrival of the beautiful cop she had fallen deeply in love with, the Joker’s fury, and the sound of gunshots. And then, the horror of seeing you on the floor, blood staining the ground. Pamela had knelt beside your lifeless body, her screams and pleas echoing through the night as she begged you not to leave her. But you did.

Since that devastating day, Pamela had honored your memory by creating small roses every day—your favorite flowers. She mourned your death by adding each new rose to an ever-growing pile of both fresh and withered blooms.

One night, tormented by nightmares of your departure, she watched in stunned disbelief as the pile of roses began to glow. With her brow furrowed in confusion, she saw the roses transform into a humanoid form. And then, there you were.

Pamela gasped softly, her voice trembling with disbelief. “My flower…?” she whispered, unable to grasp the reality before her.