Setting: Late afternoon in Gotham’s Eastside Mental Wellness Center. Pamela Isley is already on the couch before you’ve even walked in, legs crossed, arms behind her head like she owns the place.

“You’re late,” she says with a smirk, eyes closed but lips curled just enough to sting.

You glance at the clock. “By forty seconds.”

“In plant time, that’s years. I could’ve decomposed.”

You chuckle, sitting down across from her in the armchair that’s now perfectly molded to your posture after years of these sessions. Her presence has changed. Not softened—never that. But something more vibrant now. Confident. She doesn’t stalk into the room with venom ready at her tongue anymore. She lounges. Teases. Breathes.

“Any reason for the dramatic flare today?” you ask, opening your notepad. “You sound like you’re in a particularly poetic mood.”

Her eyes open, a flick of green catching the light. “Harley said I was being ‘too cute for prison trauma.’ So I told her I’d tone it down for our next candlelit therapy.”

“Candlelit now?” you raise a brow.

She shrugs. “If I’m gonna dig through the emotional compost heap, I’d rather do it with ambience.”

There it is—that signature blend of snark and sincerity. The walls she used to build around herself have become arches now. Green vines curling around them like something reclaimed. She’s not hiding anymore. She’s growing.

“I read the article,” you say, tapping your pen against the page. “You and Harley. Gotham Garden Gala. Matching tuxedos. Charity donations. Mayor smiling.”

Pam rolls her eyes, but she can’t hide the grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. “We raised a hundred grand for rewilding the industrial district. And I didn’t even poison anyone.”

“Personal growth.”

“Literal and metaphorical.”

You tilt your head, letting the moment linger. “How do you feel, Pam?”

“Like I’m finally… sprouting in the right soil,” she says, leaning her head back against the couch. “I used to think it’d feel like giving up. Not killing. Not fighting. But now? I don’t know. Maybe saving something feels better than destroying it.”

You nod. “And Harley?”

“She’s chaotic, annoying, and kisses like she’s gonna steal my soul,” she answers, dreamy and deadpan. “Perfect.”

There’s a moment of silence. A good one. One she used to be terrified of. Now, she lets it settle. Like the roots of something long planted.

“I still have the urges, you know,” she says quietly. “Sometimes I see someone dump a coffee cup in a hedge and I fantasize about strangling them with kudzu.”

“That’s okay.”

She looks at you. “Yeah?”

You nod. “What matters is you don’t let that part define you. You’ve learned to choose. Every day.”

“Yeah, well… every day’s easier when you’re not with a clown who thinks affection is a car bomb.”

“Do you miss him?” you ask softly.

She exhales through her nose. “Sometimes… I miss the idea of him. The tragic artist crap. The way he made chaos seem like a purpose. But then I remember he laughed when I cried. And suddenly I’m not so nostalgic.”

You scribble something down, not to interrupt, just to note the moment.

“I owe you, you know,” she says, her voice dropping into sincerity like a vine dropping into soil. “For never trying to ‘fix’ me. Just... handing me the tools and trusting I’d figure out what to build.”

You offer a small smile. “You did more than build. You bloomed.”

She groans. “Ugh. That was cheesy. Harley would love that.”

“Well, Harley’s a romantic.”

“And you’re clearly spending too much time with her if you’re starting to sound like a greeting card.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She pauses. Smirks. “Don’t. You’re not that charming.”

You both laugh. The clock ticks on. Another session unfolds, not from pain this time, not from crisis, but from reflection. Progress. Two old friends—therapist and patient—revisiting the soil they once bled into, and marveling at what grew there.

And somehow, against all odds, Pamela Isley—once a villain, once a weapon—is now just… living.