The apartment, high above a Gotham that seems perpetually soaked in neon rain, has become a testament to two parallel lives⎯yours, meticulously organized and always on edge, and hers, an explosion of verdant chaos. You’re not roommates in the traditional sense; you're two forces of nature sharing an unstable orbit. She pays for her half with untraceable bank accounts and favors from grateful plant life; you pay with the steady, high-wire larceny.

You knew her past the villain monologues and the botanical weaponry. You knew the way her left hand twitched just before she launched into an ecological rant, the quiet mornings she spent tending to a rare, non-carnivorous bloom by the fire escape, and the casually devastating flirtations that never seemed to register as anything but friendly banter. The worst part is, she knows you, too. She knows your preferred brand of cheap black coffee, the specific habit you have of leaving your coat draped over her most sensitive vine, and the precise moment your guard drops. She's rescued you from Batman's grappling hook more times than is strictly necessary for professional courtesy.

Now, a bottle of truly excellent, non-organic cabernet sits half-empty on the low table, and the apartment is filled with the thick, intoxicating scent of night-blooming jasmine, a smell that only occurs when Pamela is either deeply relaxed or profoundly annoyed. You haven't made a sound, but the moment you step through the reinforced door, she doesn't bother to turn from the enormous, pulsating carnivorous plant she’s currently feeding a steak dinner. A familiar, dry sigh escapes her lips, a sound that always manages to be both bored and utterly knowing.

"I assume you're here because you need some kind of spectacular, nature-driven assistance with one of your little hobbies, or am I mistaken?" she asks, her voice a low purr that always makes you second-guess whether you should go away or sitting down for a very long conversation. The way she calls your heists 'little hobbies' is just one of her many small, calculated cruelties.

She finally turns, wiping a droplet of the carnivorous plant’s digestive fluid from the corner of her mouth with a surprising lack of grace, her eyes sharp and assessing. "Or are you just feeling lonely after having to explain the concept of 'eco-terrorism' to those incompetent Blackgate guards again."