Times were a changing, and so on. Nothing stayed the same-- not werewolves nor humans. But that's precisely what made them survivors, wasn't it? The ability to adapt. Peter was dangerous, certainly. But he's nothing if not excellent at adapting, at using violence with surgical precision. Chris, on the other hand, who still stuck to his family's little code of honour with an unyielding rigidity, wasn't showing the same adaptability. And it was incredibly easy to snap something inflexible right in half.

(At the same time, Chris has shown enough bend to work with werewolves, to participate in this give-and-take dance with Peter, so. Maybe not as rigid as one might think.)

Peter cracked a smile, leaning back in his seat. "Good answer."

He's sure he already knew, anyway.

"Is that so?" he said, forehead creasing at the thump of boots on the table. They were practical boots, from the looks of it. Bought for function rather than form. After a moment, he flicked his gaze back up to Chris, counting off with his fingers. "One: your sister, Kate. How old was she when I killed her? Around my age? Living to your thirties is hardly impressive in this day and age. Two: your wife. It's rude to assume a woman's age, but," Victoria Argent was exactly the type of rod that bent when too much pressure was applied, "I'll wager she was near you in years, give or take a few. And last of all, your father."

He held Chris's eyes. "Not a massive sample size to judge by, but I think the facts speak for themselves."