I crashed on Pamela's couch that night, ending up waking up to the sounds and smells of someone making breakfast. I let out a groan as I hauled myself up and settled into a sitting position as Pamela walked out of the kitchen, her skin not as green as it was yesterday, but still pale.

She walked out of the kitchen in a white button up and another set of skinny jeans whilst holding two cups of coffee. She hands me one and takes a seat on the couch beside me.

"Thank you, for coming back for me." She speaks, seeming back in a stable mood. "Things are still…hazy, but I'm functional."

I give her a small smile and take the offered drink.

"I wouldn't just leave you back there. You should know that by now." I replied whilst taking a sip. "You're one of the few people in this city I can call a friend, Doc."

"Friendly, sure, but a friend? I'm a pretty shitty friend if you've had to take on the Mob to help me out, Henry."

I let out a scoff at that, earning a raised eyebrow.

"Stocky Brown is an associate, but he doesn't have any influence in the Sionis crime family. If that little interaction causes me to be a blip on Black Mask's radar, we would've had visitors last night, Doc."

"Pamela, Henry. Call me Pamela, or Pam." Pamela cuts in with a sigh. "Speaking of last night, the paper came in this morning."

She stands up and throws that morning's paper onto the coffee table, and I was met with a front page photo of my standoff with Crane. It was taken from behind Crane, who was silhouetted, I was visible, partially covered by my car door, but the snarl on my face and the stitches on my forehead painted the picture of a hardened thug. I let out a heavy sigh.

"How bad?"

"They're being surprisingly straightforward, you tried to retreat, couldn't, drew your weapon, and kept Crane distracted until the Bat rearranged his face." Pamela relays to me with a smirk, settling back down on the couch and crossing her legs. The smirk slowly faded from her face before she continued.

"I still say you should've shot him, Henry."

I winced a bit, but hit it behind my coffee mug.

"I had hoped that was the chem cocktail talking." I muttered, "Believe me, I wanted to put a slug through his chest, but collateral damage helps no one, especially when we have someone who we know deserves a bullet in the leg."

That fire lights back up in Pamela's eyes as she leans back and seems to relax on the couch, her smirk seems sultry, but I can see that bit of bloodlust in it.

"Oh~? Indeed?" She purrs.

I've known about Pamela's vengeful side for a long time now, Woodrue wasn't our first project head, the first was a piece of shit by the name of Eddie Bowman.

Bowman was your typical trust fund glory hound, treated me like an idiot, treated Pamela like arm candy despite her having more degrees than him. But he had friends in high places that got him the position and the grants of being our project head. It took about a month before Pamela ruined him. Embarrassed him in front of the entire researcher's board and told his wife about how he was acting around her.

Back then, I saw her with that same sultry smirk, with victory in her eyes and a glass of champagne in hand. Now, I saw that smirk once more, and it promised pain.

"Woodrue's in desperate need of a beating." I spoke, to which Isley chuckled and nodded.

"Oh yes indeed, I'm assuming you have a plan if you're bringing this up?"

I set down the coffee and turned to face her properly.

"The school's not asking for us? Research board isn't demanding explanations?"

"The school is shut down while GCPD combs the campus for any more of Crane's Fear Toxin. I've already notified the research board of the expected delays and of the police report. So enough stalling and tell me what we're going to do, Henry!" She snaps, and I raise my hands in surrender.

"Easy, easy, Doc. Look, with what just happened, I doubt Woodrue's gotten out of the city yet. I know a few people that can help us find him."

"Weren't you telling me not to call your father?" Pamela asks and I felt a smirk of my own grow on my face.

"Yes, but I never said anything about my Uncle."

Doc Isley forced her way back into my car and to my house by way of a mixture of stern glares and pouts that I couldn't really fight against. I did notice something however, during the drive.

"I trusted him, Henry! Months of work, of fluttering my eyelashes and putting on a smile! Of ignoring mistakes and singing hollow praises for that bastard!" She ranted in my passenger seat, clenching her fists in her lap. I could see the veins under her shirt turning a bright green as they seemed to creep up her neck.

"I know, Doc. I was there. He's gonna get what's his, we're working on that right now." I replied, trying to calm her down. She did notice my gaze, however, and her smirk returned.

"I'm fine, Henry. I'm feeling so much better, better than I have in a long time. Things are so much clearer." As she calmed down, the veins receded back under her shirt, evidently, the chem cocktail granted her a newfound self-confidence, because she struck a pose in her seat that quickly had me focusing on the road.

"I'm just worried, Doc. We had some dangerous shit in the lab. Weren't some of those plants like deadly poisonous?"

"Yes, yes they were."

"Not helping my concern there, Doc."

"You're cute when you're worried, and seriously, call me Pamela."

The rest of the car ride continued this way, with Pamela continuing to wave off my concerns for her health and urge me to violence.

Twenty minutes later we're back at my house, and before I open the door I turn to Pamela.

"Last chance to back out of this, Pamela. We can get you home, let the cops handle it. What we're doing is technically illegal, it's vigilantism, and can land us in Blackgate with old man Thorne." I warned her, earning a flat look.

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that, Henry. Open the damn door."

"Yes, Ma'am!"

We get inside and I set Pamela down on my own couch as I head over to the fireplace and reach inside, fumbling around for a moment before I find what I'm looking for.

A Prepaid flip phone that I promptly flick open and call the only number saved on it.

The dial tone rings twice before it picks up.

"Been waiting for you to call, Son." Good old Uncle Oz. "Your old man gave me an earful about my caliber choice in my gift to you, but it was good to see you handle yourself properly."

".44 Is a little overkill, Uncle Oz." I replied, earning a bark of laughter,

"It sends a message, Boy! Now, whaddaya want, Kid? I know you're not calling to shoot the shit."

I hesitate for a moment before I let out a sigh.

"I hate to be this guy, Uncle Oz, but I need a favor."

"You know the rules on Favors, Son." Oz's amusement is gone, replaced with grave seriousness.

Favors in the underworld are often considered more valuable than currency. Considering some favors include but are not limited to: Taking the fall for a murder charge, actually acquiring a murder charge, calling in a fake tip to GCPD, buying drugs, selling drugs, punching a rival enforcer in the face, and lighting a building on fire, I can understand why.

"The guy I'm looking for drugged a woman I care about, and left her in a building to burn to death, Uncle." I growled out, and I can hear a sharp intake of breath on the other end.

"...I can take care of this for you, y'know. You don't have to get your hands dirty."

"Considering the woman he drugged was strangling the air the whole drive over, I don't think not getting my hands dirty would be an acceptable option."

"Let me guess, Redhead?"

"Aye"

"You got good taste, Son. What's this tosser's name?"

"Doctor Jason Woodrue. He called in Stocky Brown to torch my lab."

"Give me a few hours. I'll have an address for you. Keep hold of the phone…You owe me one, kid."

"I'll see you at Thanksgiving, Uncle."