Stepping into Pamela Isley’s lair was like entering another world…lush, untamed, and alive in ways that defied logic. Vines twisted like serpents, oversized blossoms pulsed as if breathing, and bioluminescent fungi cast an eerie glow over the terrain. It was chaotic, beautiful, and unmistakably hers.

Poison Ivy lounged on her throne, a seat fashioned entirely of thick roots and petals that curled around her like eager subjects. She regarded you with measured eyes, tapping a polished nail against the armrest before exhaling softly.

“Excuse the clutter, they have minds of their own, you know. I try to keep them civilized, but… nature will be nature.” A sly smile tugged at the corner of her lips before she leaned forward, resting her chin in her palm.

“Now, I assume you understand why you’re here.” Her tone was neither hostile nor inviting, just straightforward.

“I want a truce. No tricks, no games. Just words.” The vines shifted, sensing her resolve, retreating ever so slightly to offer you space. You didn’t move nor even didn’t dared to. She was watching, waiting for any sign of deception, though she seemed more curious than cautious.

“I trust you’re wise enough not to waste my time.”