Drop him, Silas. The glass is already cracking, and so is your credit score.
"Let's talk about the suit first, Eve. Three thousand dollars. Bespoke Italian silk. Do you have any idea how many installments I have left on this thing? To hang your 'precious informant' out of a window like a wet towel, I've officially murdered my financial stability for the next six months. If a single drop of his snot hits this sleeve, my dry cleaner will be able to buy a summer home in Hawaii just from the cleaning fee. Every single hair on my body is currently suffering for the sake of this investment, and you want to talk about my credit score?"
"Then you could just let go. I save a silver bolt, you save a cleaning fee. Trust me, nobody wants to see a werewolf in a tuxedo doing a free-fall onto Seventh Avenue. You'd hit the pavement looking like a giant, discarded teddy bear—the kind leaking cheap stuffing and existential regret. It's not exactly a 'holy' way to go."
"Let go? No, this idiot owes me five grand in consulting fees. I'm just wondering—if I shift right now, would this silk shred with some sort of cinematic grace? Or am I just going to look like a furry disaster stuffed into an overpriced sausage casing? Honestly, Eve, does your Church insurance cover 'occupational wardrobe malfunctions'? Because you can't exactly go back to the Vatican and write in your report: 'Target refused arrest due to excessive dry-cleaning concerns.' Your instructor would have a stroke. He'd jump out of his coffin just to slap the holy water out of you for such a pathetic excuse."
"You're welcome to try. I've never seen a werewolf turn into a pile of designer rags before, but I'm happy to help the process along by opening a few extra ventilation holes in your chest. Free of charge. It'll be very breathable, I promise. My crosshair doesn't take payment plans."
"Oh, don't be like that, sweetheart. Your 'high-calorie' threats don't work on me anymore. Let me guess—925 silver tips? Give me a break. Silver prices are dropping faster than my reputation. Holding that thing against me is like trying to rob a bank with an expired McDonald's coupon from 2012. It's vintage, sure, but mostly just embarrassing. Is the Vatican so broke they can't afford titanium-tipped projectiles anymore? Or did you spend the whole budget on those leather boots? You look like you just robbed a biker gang. That aesthetic went out of style in the monster-hunting world ten years ago. It's 2026; try some tactical minimalism."
"Five. Four."
"Stop. Just stop. That countdown move died in eighties action movies. It's tacky, Eve. It's the linguistic equivalent of wearing white socks with sandals to a funeral. Are you waiting for me to beg for mercy, or are you waiting for the background music to kick in? If you need it, I can hum some BGM for you, but I'll have to charge a licensing fee. I'd suggest a saxophone solo; it would make my inevitable murder feel a lot more sophisticated and a lot less like a botched debt collection on a rooftop. You need to learn how to package your violence."
"Three. Two—"
"Let's try a mature level of banter instead of this high-school drama class. Put down the antique toy, buy me a drink, and I'll tell you why the microchip in Ronnie's pocket is about to get your hunting license revoked by sunrise. I'm not joking, Eve. This is a complete career-meltdown-level crisis. The kind where you end up working night-shift security at a suburban mall for people who think 'supernatural' is a brand of overpriced organic kale. Imagine that—catching shoplifters stealing diapers instead of chasing a handsome predator like me. Does your pride really allow you to spend your retirement telling people you used to be a professional bodyguard… for a janitor's mop bucket? Would you really trade this view just to nod at a bald manager for a two-dollar raise?"
"You think I'd believe a werewolf who can't even afford a suit without a financing firm?"
"You don't have to believe me, but you should believe the red blinking light on that chip. That's the color of a 'Career Terminator.' Now, are we going to finish your little drama class for an audience that doesn't exist, or are we going to talk about your pension plan? Because if I drop Ronnie, the chip goes with him, and you spend the rest of your life explaining to the High Council why you let a 'monstrous beast' out-negotiate your last two brain cells. Trust me, those hearings smell worse than my breath after a full moon, and they don't offer travel stipends. You'll find your lawyers have even less humanity than I do—at least I say 'sorry' before I bite someone's head off. They just ask for your routing number."
"Fine. But if you're lying, I'm not aiming for the suit next time. I'm aiming for the tongue."
"Fair enough. It's the most expensive and hardest-working part of my body anyway. If I stop using it, I might just revert back into a common Husky. Then you'd have to take me for walks and clean up after me, which would be very traumatic for a girl with your expensive taste in boots. Especially since I don't look at the feng shui before I decide where to poop.