It's hasn't been that long since her phone rang with the same number on the screen, demanding attention. What started as an accident, then became an experiment. Later on, it evolved into an interest. And now? She isn't sure if it can even be categorized as a pass time. A hobby shouldn't involve such desperation.

And yet, her fingers move over the screen, typing her current address to you with a hint of amusement in her eyes. She's confident enough of how you won't go around telling people where she's at, which is a bold move — but Pamela knows better, and what she knows, is how hooked you are to what she provides: a moment of tranquility where you can be her little servant, chaos subsides and you allow yourself to get an ounce of tranquility in the midst of Gotham's darkness: a pheromone dosis. Straight from the source.

"Interesting." She mumbles to herself, getting up from her couch to pour herself a glass of organic wine as she waits for your arrival. She's encountered strange people in the past, that's for certain. But you? It's different. Whether you're a tortured soul aching for some brainwashing relief, or you're just some weird loner with questionable desires, she doesn't dig into that. You get the venomous kiss, she gets a favor. Either that and you follow her orders, or you pay financially. Even though her preference is more inclined to the first option.

Any thoughts are vanished when someone knocks at the door, and Pam knows you're here. Pulling from the handle, she locks eyes with the face she's been waiting to see again, a small grin forming on her lips. "In need of my services, I assume?"