Month: April 2025 Page 1 of 2

Backstage meeting room, fifteen minutes post-furniture destruction

The makeshift band meeting had commandeered the dim, echoing room adjacent to the green room. A half-eaten veggie platter sat lonely on the table. Thane had managed to unfold a chair without breaking it this time. Mark stood beside him like an unyielding slab of granite. Gabriel was perched backward on a stool, coffee in hand like a referee ready to call a foul.

Maya leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, fiery eyes locked on Thane. Rico and Jonah slouched nearby, trying their best to look small and un-injurable.

“Alright,” Thane muttered. “Let’s hear it.”

Jonah was the first to brave it. “Look, man… we didn’t know cosplay fan art would set you off that hard.”

“It’s not the art,” Thane growled. “It’s being turned into… merch. I’m not a plush toy. I’m me.”

Rico raised a hand slowly, like a kid in class worried about asking the wrong question. “What if… and just hear me out… you are you. But now, people are seeing that. You made an impact. They’re just… processing it through glitter and chaos.”

“Badly,” Maya added flatly. “Very badly. But they are trying.”

Thane rubbed the bridge of his snout, sighing. “It’s just… hard. We’re not celebrities. We’re a crew. A family. This wasn’t supposed to be about becoming somebody’s furry fanfiction inspiration.”

Gabriel sipped his coffee. “Yeah, but now we are. The weird thing is… that’s kind of beautiful.”

Mark grunted. “It’s still stupid.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Gabriel shot back with a grin.

At that moment, the door creaked open.

A tech assistant sheepishly peeked in. “Uh… sorry to interrupt. Fanmail dump just got delivered. Apparently it’s been piling up since Dallas and no one told you guys.”

He wheeled in two bins overflowing with envelopes, doodles, signed photos, even a stuffed wolf plush in a Feral Eclipse shirt.

“Oh, great,” Mark muttered. “Our legacy in crayon.”

Rico wandered over, lifting a letter with doodles of the band in wolf and human forms playing onstage. “This one’s got, like, actual shading. Damn.”

Gabriel grabbed a postcard and burst out laughing. “This one says, ‘Dear Gabriel, if you ever get tired of Thane, I’m 5’10”, make a mean grilled cheese, and love wolves.’”

Thane side-eyed him. “You gonna answer that one?”

“Depends. Do you make a mean grilled cheese?”

Before Thane could answer, another knock echoed at the door.

It opened a crack.

A hotel security guard stood there awkwardly. “Sorry. We tried to stop her. She, uh, slipped through a service hallway. She said she just needed a second.”

From behind him, a teenage girl stepped forward. Nervous. Hands clasped around a carefully folded drawing.

Thane’s ears twitched. His eyes softened just a hair.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… I really needed to say thank you. I’ve been… having a really hard time. Like, really hard. And your music? Your existence? It made me feel like I wasn’t weird. Like maybe… maybe being different doesn’t mean being broken.”

She held out the drawing. It was him—Thane—standing in a spotlight, cable in one clawed hand, face fierce but proud. The text under it read: “Real. Raw. Relentless.”

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he knelt down slowly and took the drawing with a clawed hand that trembled just slightly.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly.

“Emma.”

He nodded. “Emma, I’m proud of you. For being different. And for being here.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m proud of you too.”

Gabriel grinned and whispered behind him, “Say it. You’re feeling feelings.”

Thane didn’t look back. “Shut up.”

Mark muttered under his breath, “If we adopt a fan, I swear to god…”

Maya leaned against the wall, smirking. “Too late. Thane has an emotional support Emma now.”

Thane rose, still holding the drawing. He looked around at the ridiculous, chaotic, loving mess that was his band.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go play a show.”

Backstage, five minutes after the cosplay catastrophe

Thane kicked the door open so hard the hinges protested in fluent French. The green room fell into silence as he stormed in, claws flexing, teeth bared, eyes blazing like twin ice storms ready to swallow a city.

Mark trailed a safe distance behind, wordlessly shutting the door. He gave a quiet nod to the others in the room that clearly said: “Get out. Now.”

Maya raised both brows, grabbed Rico and Jonah by their shirts, and hauled them into the hallway. She knew that look. The “casual homicide pending” look.

Alone now, Thane launched into a tirade like the air itself had insulted him.

“Cosplay? Furry OC dragon-wolf sparkle disasters?!”

He flung a folding chair halfway across the room. It exploded against the wall like a paperclip in a jet turbine.

“They made me into a goddamn cartoon mascot! What the fuck is wrong with people?! I am not some soft, plushie-friendly… fanfiction fuel!”

He picked up a plastic water bottle and crushed it in one clawed fist. “They wore fake claws, Gabriel. FAKE. CLAWS.”

Gabriel, who’d followed him in mid-sip of his eleventh post-show coffee, blinked.

Thane was just getting warmed up. He turned, jaw clenched, fur bristling.

“I have bled for this band. I’ve soldered busted cables with my fangs in the freezing rain. I’ve fixed trusses with a broken wrist. I’ve held this chaotic hell-train together with my goddamn claws and sweat. And now? Now? Some TikTok disaster in glitter ears wants to be me? ‘Team Feral Thane’? ‘Smells like burnt marshmallows and leadership’?! WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”

He flipped a table.

Gabriel set down his cup, walked straight up to Thane, and put both hands on his shoulders with firm pressure.

“Thane.”

“What?!”

“Stop.”

“Why?! So I can keep getting turned into a sparklewerewolf OC trading card by a bunch of giggling—”

Gabriel shoved him—not hard, but enough to interrupt the meltdown.

“Look at me.”

Thane froze.

Gabriel’s icy blue eyes locked onto his. No anger. Just… sincerity.

“This is what happens when you matter to people.”

Thane blinked. That wasn’t what he expected.

Gabriel kept going. “You gave them something real. Something raw. They’re dumb about it, yeah. But they love what you built. They’re trying to honor that—even if it comes out all wrong.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against Thane’s. “Don’t hate them for loving you the only way they know how. You’re not a joke to them. You’re a legend. Even if their legends wear glue-on tails.”

Thane stood there, fists trembling, breath heaving… and slowly let out a ragged sigh.

Mark cracked the door open. “Can I come back in, or is this still a war zone?”

Gabriel turned with a grin. “De-escalated.”

Thane muttered, “Barely.”

Mark stepped in, surveyed the broken chair and bent table. “Jesus. Looks like someone held an exorcism in here.”

Thane rubbed his face. “I’m gonna need six drinks, a shower, and maybe a ritual cleansing.”

Mark deadpanned, “If someone shows up in a fursuit next show, I’m setting myself on fire.”

Gabriel grinned, patting Thane’s back. “That’s the spirit.”

Evening showtime, meet-and-greet line, back of the venue

It started innocently enough. The venue had arranged a post-show meet-and-greet for fans who had splurged on VIP passes. Gabriel was still buzzing from his final solo and riding the caffeine high of two pre-show espresso shots and one disturbingly chunky energy drink labeled “Thermonuclear Howl.”

He was the first to take a seat at the folding table set up near the back of the venue. Mark and Thane followed, both clearly Not Having It™.

Then the first fan walked in.

Wearing ears. Sparkly pink werewolf ears. And a tail. That wagged.

Thane froze. Mark’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Gabriel blinked, looked left, looked right, and whispered, “Oh no.”

The next fan wore a hand-sewn hoodie with fur glued to the sleeves and what appeared to be actual meat bones dangling from the drawstrings. She growled theatrically and purred, “You guys awakened my inner beast.”

Mark made a face like he’d just bit into a hot dog and discovered a thumb.

Rico, already half-laughing behind a merch crate, whispered to Maya, “Ten bucks says Thane goes full aneurysm before this is over.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “I’m not betting on inevitability.”

Then came the real kicker.

A teenage fan—maybe seventeen—wearing a glittery silver cape, mismatched claw gloves, and makeup that made him look like a raccoon who’d been mugged. He proudly declared:

“I’m FERAL THANE.”

There was a beat of silence. Even Gabriel’s smile twitched.

“Excuse me?” Thane asked slowly, standing just a little taller.

“I made a whole OC based on you!” the fan beamed. “He’s, like, part arctic wolf, but also part dragon and his fur smells like—”

“Stop.”

The fan blinked. “Huh?”

Mark leaned forward, voice like a glacier scraping across asphalt. “Go home. Reconsider your life.”

The fan slunk away.

Then someone showed up with a shirtless Gabriel cosplay and a Sharpie, asking to “sign my chest like the alpha you are.”

Gabriel did it.

Thane looked like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest bass amp.

“You’re enabling them,” he hissed under his breath.

Gabriel just sipped his coffee and grinned, “I’m living my best life.”

Another fan waddled up in a onesie with painted abs, fangs made of Tic-Tacs, and a “Team Mark” pin.

Mark didn’t blink. “Get therapy.”

Behind the line, Jonah was filming everything.

Rico whispered, “I’m gonna meme the shit outta this.”

Maya just laughed and leaned on the wall. “We knew what this band was when we joined.”

Thane finally stood, hands flat on the table. “Okay. I am calling an emergency band meeting right now. This is not sustainable.”

Gabriel sipped his drink with a contented sigh. “You love it.”

“I don’t!”

“You love it.”

Mark stood next to Thane, arms crossed. “We’re burning the internet down after this.”

“Good.”

Meanwhile, another fan posed for a photo with Gabriel while holding a handmade sign that read:
“I HOWL FOR COFFEE AND CHAOS”

Thane turned and muttered, “That one might be our target demo.”

Same afternoon, merch table near the venue’s main concourse

The venue’s merch coordinator—a teenager named Kyle who looked like he got this gig because he once dated the assistant manager’s niece—stood proudly behind a folding table piled with freshly unpacked boxes. A banner above the booth read: FERAL ECLIPSE—WILD. RAW. HOWLIN’. (Yes, with an apostrophe.)

Gabriel was the first to wander over, lured by the smell of popcorn and curiosity. He stopped cold at the sight of the merch.

“Thane is gonna lose his entire mind,” he whispered, awestruck.

The T-shirts were… something. Bright neon pink and lime green tie-dye with “Stay Feral, Des Moines!” printed in Comic Sans across the chest. The “wolf” silhouette was clearly a clip art German Shepherd with sunglasses. One hoodie had a full moon with sparkles around it and the slogan “BITE ME, I’M LOCAL” in glittery puff paint.

There were also:

• Foam claws (all five-fingered, because of course),
• “Feral Eclipse” slap bracelets with paw prints,
• Stick-on glow-in-the-dark “fangs,”
• A limited edition tote bag with an anime-style werewolf in a crop top.

Gabriel picked one up and turned to Kyle. “Hey, man… where did you get these?”

Kyle beamed. “I designed them myself. I used AI, like… four whole times.”

“Oh,” Gabriel said, as if Kyle had just admitted to building a spaceship with hot glue and hope. “Oh, buddy.”

Thane arrived seconds later, Mark right behind him.

Thane’s ears immediately flattened. “What. The actual. Hell is this?”

Kyle, still beaming. “Custom merch for tonight! Wanna autograph some for the fans?”

Mark pointed at the foam claws. “These have five digits. We have four.”

Kyle blinked. “I mean, artist interpretation?”

“Is this glitter?” Thane asked, holding up the hoodie with two claws like it was contagious.

Gabriel whispered, “Please wear it. Please.”

“No.”

“Please just once.”

“Gabriel—”

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

“…Fine.”

Gabriel let out an unholy squeal of victory.

Mark wandered over to the tote bag. He held it up with two clawed fingers, deadpan. “I think this is fan art of us, but… anime.”

Jonah and Rico finally walked up, both with tacos. Jonah stopped mid-bite. “Okay. What the hell are we looking at?”

Rico raised a brow. “We get a cut of this?”

Kyle replied, “The venue keeps all merch proceeds.”

Mark: “I knew I hated this place.”

Thane looked ready to rip a foam claw in half, when Maya appeared behind them and loudly announced, “HEY! Who gave our drummer a Hello Kitty shirt with fangs?!”

All heads turned. Jonah froze. He looked down. Sure enough, someone had slipped a “Feral Kawaii” tee over his regular one. It had a chibi werewolf licking a moon like an ice cream cone.

Rico just gave him a thumbs-up. “Honestly, bro? You pull it off.”

Jonah groaned and walked into the nearest wall.

Thane turned back to the table and growled, “This is not us.”

Gabriel grinned and held up one of the pink glittery shirts. “Maybe not… but imagine the tour photo.”

Mark muttered, “I’m starting to think I’m the sane one.”

Mid-afternoon, backstage at the Ridge Rock Pavilion – a mid-sized amphitheater in Des Moines

The backstage area was… something. Someone had clearly Googled “werewolf hospitality” at 2 a.m. and gone way, way too far.

The green room smelled like raw meat, incense, and desperation. A small table in the corner held a mountain of bloody ribeye steaks—uncooked, sweating in the open air under the humming fluorescent lights. There was also a full jar of peanut butter, two cans of dog food (?!), and a pile of beef jerky shaped into a paw print.

Gabriel stood in the doorway, frozen, just staring at the carnage. “What the hell?” he muttered.

Thane stepped up beside him, a clipboard of load-in notes tucked under one arm. He blinked at the absurd meat display, his jaw slightly slack.

Mark brushed past both of them, stopped mid-step, squinted at the tray, and said flatly, “Is this a threat?”

Enter Becky, the venue’s PR manager—a beaming, overly enthusiastic woman in her early thirties with bright eyes and the energy of a motivational speaker. “Hi, guys!! Welcome! I just want to say how excited we are to have Feral Eclipse performing tonight. And don’t worry—we totally did our research.”

Gabriel slowly turned toward her. “Research.”

Becky gestured proudly at the table. “We wanted you to feel at home! I read online that werewolves love red meat and strong scents, so we curated this special welcome spread just for you!”

Thane looked at Mark. Mark looked at Thane. Neither said a word. The air was thick with judgment.

Undeterred, Becky launched into her next proud announcement. “Also! We changed out all the signs on your dressing rooms to say ‘Pack Leader’ and ‘Beta Babe’—so fun, right?! Oh! And if you need a full moon backdrop for any of your Instas, we’ve got one set up by the side entrance!”

Thane dropped his clipboard.

Gabriel reached forward and gently pushed a dog biscuit off the tray like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Mark stared out into the void as if silently calculating the prison sentence for arson.

“I… don’t know whether to laugh or set this place on fire,” Thane finally muttered.

Mark offered a dry suggestion: “Can we do both?”

Just then, Maya stepped in, took one look at the raw steaks and Becky, and demanded, “Okay, what in the name of Latin rage is this?”

“Werewolf dinner!” Becky declared proudly.

Maya turned slowly to Thane. “If I kill her, do I still get paid?”

Meanwhile, Rico and Jonah entered behind her, pushing a massive amp through the hallway. Rico paused mid-roll and blinked at the bizarre meat altar.

“Yo,” he said, wide-eyed. “Are we doing a ritual tonight?”

Jonah, already backing up: “I told y’all we should’ve stayed in the van.”

Gabriel, ever the agent of chaos, stepped forward and raised a raw steak like a champagne toast. “To full moons and well-done misunderstandings.”

Before he could bite into it, Thane snatched the steak away.

“We’re eating at the taco truck across the street,” he said, already turning.

Gabriel pouted. “But—”

“Nope,” Thane cut in sharply.

Mark gave the meat tray one last glance and shook his head. “Someone’s gonna get salmonella just from standing near that thing.”

An Hour Later — Feral Eclipse Tour Van, Hotel Driveway

Jonah was the first to say it out loud.

“Okay, we’ve officially gone viral. Again.”

He was hunched in the back of the van, phone in hand, eyes wide as he read the comments scrolling past at lightning speed. “There’s already three TikToks with Riley’s blurry selfie, and one of them is set to our live version of ‘Blood Moon Promises.’ It’s got 40k views in the last half hour.”

Gabriel, lounging in the passenger seat with his feet on the dash and his coffee cup (now his third) in clawed hand, grinned. “She had a good angle. I looked damn heroic helping her up.”

“You looked like a caffeinated cryptid,” Mark muttered.

“I am a caffeinated cryptid.”

Thane was in the back with his laptop open, trying to settle the next venue’s load-in logistics, but he paused when Rico spoke up from the other bench.

“Uh, guys… the hotel just reposted it.”

Everyone froze.

Rico kept reading: “’We’re howlin’ with excitement! Feral Eclipse spotted at our breakfast buffet this morning! Thanks to fan @RileyEatsStars for the sweet clip. #FeralEclipse #WerewolfWakeup #HazelnutHospitality’”

Thane looked up, deadpan. “They hashtagged Hazelnut Hospitality?”

Gabriel leaned over to peek. “Wait, is that fan art?!”

Sure enough, someone on Instagram had already sketched a pastel-styled drawing of Gabriel handing Riley the tiny Nutella jar like it was a holy relic. Thane was in the background, looking confused and vaguely annoyed, and Mark was photobombing with a raised eyebrow and a fork full of bacon.

Gabriel snorted. “I look like a breakfast saint. That’s going on my next T-shirt.”

Mark groaned. “We’re never gonna have a quiet hotel breakfast again, are we?”

“Nope,” Jonah said. “Also… uh… the hotel’s other guests are now tagging us too. Apparently, a dad with a hangover got mad about the ‘wolf boys’ scaring his kid, and now he’s in the comments arguing with fans.”

Thane shut the laptop slowly and sighed. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Maya chimed in from the back bench, tapping her phone. “We’ve been on Instagram for two hours and you’re already trending on three platforms. I can’t decide if I’m proud or worried.”

Rico held up his phone. “Oh, and look—someone just uploaded AI fan art of all of us eating breakfast shirtless. Mark, you’re oddly shredded.”

Mark blinked. “…That’s unsettling.”

“Flattering, though,” Gabriel added, sipping his coffee. “I say we lean into it.”

Thane chuckled under his breath, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his muzzle. “You lean into it. I’m going to get us to the next gig without being mobbed by children holding Nutella jars.”

As the van pulled away from the curb, Mark pulled his hood up and muttered, “Calling it now—next time, someone’s gonna ask me to autograph a bagel.”

Still Morning – Fancy Hotel Dining Room

Most of the Feral Eclipse crew had migrated into a food coma.

Thane was slouched in his chair with his claws wrapped around a third cup of coffee, gaze fixed on a point somewhere past the glass windows and into the void. Gabriel was quietly humming to himself between bites of croissant-stuffed eggs, feet swinging under the table. Mark, still grumbling about “banana textures,” was calculating how much longer it would take the espresso machine to break down if Gabriel hit it one more time.

Then, she appeared.

A teenaged girl, maybe sixteen, in a soft hoodie and sneakers, was sitting with her mom a few tables over. She’d been “sneaking glances” for ten minutes straight—trying to act casual while very much not being casual.

She had the look of someone internally screaming the entire time. Phone clutched tightly in both hands. Eyes wide. Hands twitching.

Gabriel was the first to notice.

He tilted his head, ears perking, and whispered across the table, “We’ve been spotted.”

Thane sighed, “You sure?”

“She’s wearing a tour hoodie from Tulsa,” Gabriel replied, nodding toward the girl. “Second row. That’s definitely her. She was the one who tossed a glow stick at Jonah during his solo.”

Jonah blinked. “That was her? That thing nailed me in the temple.”

Gabriel grinned. “Direct hit. Five stars.”

Rico leaned in. “She gonna ask for a pic?”

“Nope,” said Mark, still sipping his black coffee, “She’s about to pretend she’s not freaking out. Then she’ll try to casually pass by us with her phone recording, trip over a chair, and we’ll all pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ten seconds later… she tripped over a chair.

“Called it,” Mark muttered.

Her mom looked up in alarm, but the girl waved it off like she meant to do that. She walked by their table, phone in hand, held at an angle so unnatural it could only be the “I’m definitely not filming you right now” position.

Thane, deadpan, without looking up: “Smile, boys. We’re going viral again.”

Gabriel leaned toward the girl, flashing his most charming fang-filled grin. “Morning!”

She stopped dead.

Her phone hit the floor with a clatter.

“I—I—Hi! Oh my god, hi!!” she squeaked.

Mark blinked slowly. “Nailed it.”

Gabriel stood up slowly and extended a clawed hand to help her pick up her phone. “You okay?”

She nodded frantically. “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt! I just—I’m such a huge fan—my name’s Riley—I saw you in Tulsa and the light show was so—”

Thane smiled softly and reached for his coffee. “Appreciate the love, Riley.”

Maya gave a mock glare from across the room. “Make it quick, guys. We’re on the road again in twenty.”

Riley’s mom had now walked up, equal parts embarrassed and trying to play it cool. “Sorry about that—she’s just really excited.”

Gabriel posed for a quick selfie with Riley (who was shaking so hard the picture ended up hilariously blurry), then gave her one of the little hotel Nutella jars from his pocket.

“Emergency werewolf gift,” he said with a wink.

As they walked away, Jonah shook his head. “You keep giving out hotel condiments, and we’re gonna get blacklisted.”

Gabriel beamed. “Worth it.”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “She’s totally posting that video before we check out.”

Mark leaned back, already dreading the inevitable. “Can’t wait to read the headline: ‘Feral Eclipse Guitarist Gives Me Hazelnut Trauma’.”

Morning after the chaos – Upscale Hotel, Somewhere Fancy

The Feral Eclipse crew wandered into the gleaming breakfast buffet like a pack of under-slept rockstars who had no business being near breakable tableware. The hotel had clearly not prepared for werewolves.

The dining area was an elegant spread of marble floors, glass carafes of artisan juices, and waitstaff in pressed uniforms who wore the same expression as people trying not to acknowledge an oncoming tornado.

Thane led the pack, still wearing yesterday’s jeans and a “Coffee or Crying” T-shirt he’d found in a merch box. His ice-blue eyes scanned the offerings like a general evaluating a battlefield. One clawed hand gripped a tray; the other already held a heaping plate of bacon.

Mark followed behind with a slow, measured pace, fur slightly fluffed from sleep. He looked around the room like he was trying to spot which waffle iron would betray them first. He mumbled, “I give this five minutes before we’re asked to leave.”

Gabriel bounded in behind them with an energy level that should’ve been illegal. Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. Steam rising from the massive hotel-branded coffee cup in his claws.

“OHHHHH they have croissants! I’m gonna put scrambled eggs in them. Gourmet werewolf breakfast taco, baby!”

A child at a nearby table pointed and whispered, “Mommy, look! Furry superheroes!”

Thane gave the kid a wink. Mark muttered, “If one more person calls me Chewbacca, I’m burning this place down.”

Maya strolled in, fully human and fully amused, wearing shades and a tank top that read I don’t tour with amateurs, I just babysit them. She glanced at Gabriel’s third trip to the omelet bar.

“I swear, you burn more calories thinking than performing,” she teased.

“Brain fuel,” Gabriel replied, mouth full of melon. “Also this hotel has tiny Nutella jars and I am now their god.”

Jonah and Rico joined them, plates balanced high with pastries and suspiciously fancy meats. Jonah gestured to a dish labeled “local artisanal sausage” and asked, “Think it’s real meat?”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “You gonna tell the werewolves if it isn’t?”

Thane set his tray down at the far end of the long table and started organizing his food into tactical quadrants. “Don’t care. It’s protein. As long as it’s not tofu shaped like bacon, we’re good.”

Mark, two seats down, peeled a banana like it had personally insulted him. “Tofu tries to be bacon one more time, I’m staging a coup.”

A server arrived with fresh juice and a practiced smile. “If there’s anything else you need, please let us know.”

Gabriel, suddenly very interested, leaned in. “Do you have a chocolate fountain?”

The server blinked. “Sir, it’s eight-thirty in the morning.”

Gabriel didn’t break eye contact. “So… that’s a no?”

Thane sighed, gesturing at Gabriel with a fork. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Eventually, the band settled into a lopsided but functional breakfast rhythm—coffee, muttered insults, and a near fight over the last muffin.

But for a few brief moments, in the golden glow of morning sun and maple syrup, they looked like any other weird little family just trying to get through one more day on the road.

Hotel balcony, just before dawn

The city was still sleeping. Even the traffic sounded like it had hit the snooze button. Pale lavender hues tinged the skyline as the sun began to rise, casting a soft gold light over rooftops and quiet intersections.

Thane leaned on the hotel balcony railing, elbows resting on the cool concrete, a can of diet Mountain Dew cracked open beside him. The chaos of the previous night still echoed faintly in his ears—the lights, the roar of the crowd, the crash afterward—but now, it felt like he was watching it all from a distance.

The sliding door opened behind him with a quiet whoosh.

Gabriel padded out barepaw, still in his band T-shirt, fur sticking up on one side like he’d been battling the pillow and lost. He looked groggy but grounded. No trace of the whirlwind from before. Just him, raw and real.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside Thane and leaned in with a quiet sigh, both clawed hands wrapped around a cup of coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

After a few beats of silence, he murmured, “So… that happened.”

Thane chuckled softly. “Yeah. Sure did.”

“Still vibrating a little.”

“You’re not. But your tail twitched like four times.”

Gabriel gave a tired laugh, sipping his coffee. “I just wanted to impress them, you know? Like… we’re the new guys. And I didn’t want them thinking we were just the gimmick with claws.”

Thane turned to him, resting a forearm on the railing. “You don’t need to impress anyone, my wolf. You already are impressive. You’ve got talent, heart, and a terrifying relationship with caffeine. That’s more than enough.”

Gabriel gave him a side-eye and a crooked grin. “Terrifying?”

“Truly. Like, OSHA should be notified.”

They stood there for a while, watching the sun come up in companionable quiet. The air was crisp, the city slowly waking below. Somewhere in a room across the way, a curtain twitched, and a dog barked once, as if to confirm that yes, the day had officially begun.

Gabriel shifted closer, shoulder brushing Thane’s. “Thanks for being there last night.”

“Always.”

“You really mean that?”

Thane gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Even if you dive off the deep end, I’ll be the one swimming after you. With a rope. And a fire extinguisher. And probably Mark yelling in the background.”

Gabriel chuckled again. “I’m really lucky, you know.”

Thane finally turned toward him and met his eyes. “We both are.”

They stayed there as the sun rose higher, casting long, golden rays across the world—and just for a moment, it felt like everything was exactly where it needed to be.

Post-show, backstage hallway

The roar of the crowd was still echoing off the walls, but back here, it felt like the world had come to a screeching halt.

The set had gone off surprisingly well—shockingly well, considering Gabriel had played the entire first half like his claws were being powered by a nuclear reactor and a gallon of espresso. His bass solos had been tight, maybe even a little too tight, like he’d transcended normal rhythm and entered some higher plane of cosmic groove.

But now… now, reality was dragging him back down like a cinderblock on a bungee cord.

Gabriel stumbled through the stage-left curtain and sagged against the cinderblock wall, fur soaked with sweat, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

“Water…” he croaked. “Is… is water a thing? Still legal? Am I… am I vibrating?”

Mark was the first to reach him, eyes wide but calm, gently easing the bass from Gabriel’s hands before it could be dropped or turned into a hallucinated helicopter.

Thane was second. He didn’t say a word. Just crouched low in front of him, icy blue eyes locked on Gabriel’s glazed ones. The panic, the sheer velocity that had been pushing Gabriel forward for hours… it was gone. All that remained was a trembling werewolf whose whole body looked like it was trying to shut down in alphabetical order.

“I can’t… feel my ears,” Gabriel whispered, blinking slowly. “Did we play yet?”

Thane exhaled through his nose and eased his arms under Gabriel’s to hold him steady. “Yeah, my wolf. We played. You crushed it. And now you’re crashing.”

Gabriel nodded once, then slumped forward, his forehead resting against Thane’s shoulder. “Sorry…” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to. I just thought it’d be fun. They were cool guys. And the powder made the air make music.”

“I know,” Thane said softly, one clawed hand gently resting against the back of Gabriel’s neck. “You don’t have to explain. You’re okay now.”

Jonah appeared with a bottle of water, holding it out like he was defusing a bomb. “Uh. Should I…?”

“Yeah,” Thane said, accepting it without looking. “Thanks.”

Mark stood nearby, arms crossed, brow furrowed in the way he did when he was balancing concern with the urge to yell. “I’ll go find the tour manager. Tell him we need a later checkout tomorrow. And maybe a forklift.”

Gabriel groaned into Thane’s shoulder. “I think my organs are trying to swap jobs.”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Thane murmured. “Just ride it out. We’ve got you.”

A pause.

“…You still love me even though I’m an idiot?” Gabriel whispered.

Thane’s arms tightened just slightly around him. “I love you especially because you’re an idiot.”

From down the hall, Maya shouted, “Tell him to puke before he hits the hotel carpet!”

Mark deadpanned, “Now that’s leadership.”

Pre-show green room, Denver Hard Rock Arena

The green room backstage was buzzing—half with excitement, half with fluorescent tube lights that flickered like they were trying to drop the beat. The venue smelled like anticipation, stale sweat, and Febreze sprayed over questionable decisions. Feral Eclipse had officially made it—they were opening for Spinal Muzzle, one of the most infamous hard rock bands of the past two decades. Tattooed, loud, legendary… and absolutely, unequivocally insane.

Gabriel had vanished the second their backstage passes were clipped.

Thane had been double-checking the rigging specs, clipboard in claw, barely holding it together after the clustertruck that was the broken van axle incident earlier. Mark was quietly nursing a giant bottle of soda like it was his only lifeline to sanity.

Then Rico wandered in, chewing half a granola bar and looking… worried.

“Hey, uh… Thane?” he said, voice low.

Thane didn’t even look up. “If this is about a missing mic stand, I swear I will—”

“It’s not that. It’s Gabe. I just walked by the other band’s green room. He’s in there. With them.”

Mark looked up. “Define ‘with them.’”

Rico scratched the back of his neck. “He was laughing. Real loud. And… I think they handed him something. White. Powdery. On a mirror.”

Mark blinked. “…Oh no.”

Thane dropped the clipboard. “He did not.”

Jonah poked his head in, eyes wide. “Uh… he did. He definitely did.”

---

By the time Thane made it down the hallway, the door to the Spinal Muzzle green room was wide open. Inside, the band’s frontman—Razor, who somehow looked both 45 and immortal—was doubled over laughing. Gabriel stood in the middle of the room, eyes way too wide, pacing in tight circles and talking faster than Thane could think.

“—and that’s why I think if we add strobes to the kick hits we could realign the crowd’s heartbeats with the rhythm and literally control time, guys, I mean—oh hey, Thane!”

Thane stared at him. “Gabriel. What. Did. You. Do?”

Gabriel beamed, nose twitching. “Made friends! And they gave me special friend powder!”

Rico facepalmed behind Thane.

Mark leaned in the doorway, sipping his soda. “Well. This should be fun.”

---

Fifteen minutes later

Back in the Feral Eclipse green room, Gabriel was upside-down on a folding chair, mumbling about sound waves and coffee flavor harmonics. Jonah had barricaded the door with a keyboard stand, and Rico was scouring the venue’s snack table for orange juice. Mark just stood silently in the corner, sipping and judging.

Thane crouched down in front of Gabriel. “Gabriel. Fucking focus. What did you take?”

Gabriel blinked, one ear twitching wildly. “It was like lightning! In my face! And then I was… faster than music, man.”

Thane sighed and looked at the others. “We’re not making it through this show unless we burn that powder stash and chain him to a bass amp.”

Mark didn’t even flinch. “He’s going to crash mid-set and take out half the drum kit.”

Jonah grinned. “So, normal show then?”

Gabriel suddenly sat bolt upright. “I JUST WROTE A BASS SOLO IN MY HEAD. IT’S MADE OF GEOMETRY.”

Thane rubbed his temples. “Okay. We’re going into damage control mode. Jonah—water. Rico—more water. Mark—remind me why I don’t just maul that other band.”

Mark shrugged. “Public relations?”

Just outside the venue loading bay, 30 minutes to showtime

The echo of slamming cases and tuning guitars faded behind the heavy service door. Outside, the alley behind the venue was dim and quiet, the only light coming from a flickering overhead bulb and the distant glow of a nearby gas station sign.

Thane sat on a concrete ledge by the dumpster, elbows on his knees, claws laced together. The night air was cooler here—damp with the scent of rain and alley grease. His chest still rose and fell just a little too quickly.

The door creaked open and closed again. Mark walked out, carrying two bottles of water. He handed one to Thane without saying a word and leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed.

They sat in silence for a long minute. Then Thane finally broke it.

“I almost lost it, Mark.”

Mark took a slow sip of water, then nodded. “Yeah. You almost did.”

“I hate that. That side of me.” His claws tightened around the bottle, the plastic crinkling. “I don’t want to be the guy everyone’s afraid of.”

“You’re not,” Mark said. “Not to us.”

Thane scoffed quietly. “Rico might disagree.”

Mark glanced at him. “Rico will get over it. He poked the wolf. You growled. That’s life. But you didn’t bite. That’s what matters.”

Thane stared down at the ground, then let out a breath. “I’ve worked so damn hard to stay in control. To not be that walking threat everyone expects. And then one dumb comment and I’m back on edge like it’s instinct.”

Mark’s tone softened, which was rare for him. “You’ve got every right to be tired. You pulled the van back from the grave, kept us from missing the gig, and still haven’t gotten a second to yourself.”

There was a pause, then:

“You’re not dangerous, Thane. You’re exhausted.”

Thane blinked and looked sideways at him. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Mark said with a shrug. “It’s supposed to make you go take five minutes and breathe before you turn into a cautionary tale in a backstage safety handbook.”

That actually got a soft laugh from Thane. He leaned back against the wall, letting his eyes close for a second.

“I appreciate you stepping in,” he said.

“You always step in for me when the world’s on fire,” Mark replied. “Figured I’d return the favor.”

Another beat of silence, warmer this time.

“Besides,” Mark added with a smirk, “I wasn’t about to carry your ass offstage in handcuffs. That’s Gabriel’s job.”

That earned a full-on laugh from Thane—tired but real.

“Remind me to write ‘Don’t kill the band’ on the setlist,” he muttered.

Mark deadpanned, “Already embroidered it on a pillow. It’s on your bunk.”

Backstage, 45 minutes to showtime

The backstage tension was thicker than the stage fog. Cables were being flung instead of coiled, doors closed a little too hard, and nobody made eye contact.

Rico had cracked the wrong joke at the worst possible time—some smug remark about Thane and the van repairs that sounded more like mockery than ribbing. Thane had gone from calm to apex predator in two seconds flat.

Now Rico stood, tense and pale, his hands spread like he was about to surrender to airport security. “I was just messing with you, man—”

Thane, muscles tight and hackles up, took a step forward, a low growl in his throat that made the air itself seem to retreat.

Mark’s arm shot out like a steel gate, planting himself firmly between the two.

“Thane,” he said calmly, “no murder before load-in. We talked about this.”

Thane didn’t look at Mark—his eyes were locked on Rico like crosshairs.

“Deep breath,” Mark continued, not budging. “I know you’re tired. I know what happened today sucked. But he’s not worth losing your temper over.”

“He disrespected me,” Thane snarled.

“He disrespected your van,” Mark corrected. “And I’ll remind you, it’s barely holding itself together. Unlike you, who can.”

There was a long pause. Thane’s claws flexed. He took a breath—shaky, but controlled—and stepped back.

Mark kept his eyes on Thane a moment longer, then turned to Rico.

“You,” he said dryly, “go tune something. Quietly. Somewhere far away from Thane’s claws.”

Rico blinked, nodded, and backed away like someone retreating from a live grenade. “Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

When he was gone, Thane exhaled hard and dropped onto a road case. His clawed hands rubbed over his face.

Mark crossed his arms. “You good?”

Thane gave a low, grumbling reply. “…Thanks.”

Mark just nodded. “That’s what I do. I prevent homicides.”

Thane chuckled, just a little. “You’re the real MVP.”

“Damn right I am,” Mark muttered, already walking off. “Next time, let Gabriel handle it. That one look of his could end wars.”

Still broken down. Still hot. Now everyone’s talking.

Thane was elbow-deep in the engine bay, grease streaked across his forearms, claws smudged with radiator fluid, and the unmistakable snarl of a werewolf slowly losing his grip echoing faintly in the back of his throat.

Gabriel crouched beside him, cheerfully unhelpful but loyally close—his tail lazily flicking in the dust while sipping the last of his now-warm coffee.

Behind them, the humans had given up pretending to be useful and were instead forming their own little shade-seeking think tank beneath the one sad excuse for a tree.

Maya, shirt tied up at the waist, already had her boots off and was fanning herself with a lyric sheet. “I’m just saying, maybe we wouldn’t be broken down in Hell’s Armpit if our fearless tech alpha would let a real mechanic touch the engine once in a while.”

Rico chuckled. “You know wolves and territory. That engine bay is basically his den.”

“I heard that,” Thane barked from under the hood.

Jonah, still sitting on the flight case they’d dragged out for seating, smirked. “It’s true, man. We offered to take it to a shop last week and you looked at us like we’d just insulted your mate.”

“That’s because you did. This van’s gotten us through three tours and five near-deaths,” Thane snapped, standing up, claws glinting in the sun. “And I know it inside and out. The belt snapped because someone overpacked the rear and threw the weight balance off.”

“I packed the merch box,” Rico said with mock offense. “We need to sell shirts to pay for gas and Gatorade.”

“And I packed Gabriel’s pedal board,” Maya added, eyebrow raised.

Gabriel’s ears twitched. “Why am I catching strays over here? I’m not the one who threw the patch kit at the transmission.”

“You threw the patch kit?” Jonah asked, laughing.

“I placed it. Aggressively,” Thane growled.

Mark, who had been silent up to this point, finally chimed in from his perch on a folding chair, deadpan and bone-dry: “We’re going to die out here. If dehydration doesn’t get us, the werewolf rage kill will.”

“Say that again, I dare you,” Thane snarled, teeth bared, shoulders flexing as he took a slow step toward Mark and the others. The desert wind carried a hint of something feral, something primal—and for one tense moment, even the heat seemed to hold its breath.

Mark didn’t flinch. “I said, we’re going to—”

“Thane.” Gabriel’s voice sliced through the air, calm and steady. His hand was on Thane’s shoulder, claws brushing lightly through the matted fur. “Not worth it. They’ll taste like stress and irony.”

Thane growled low, nostrils flaring… then exhaled hard and rolled his neck with a crack. “Right. Right. I promised.”

Gabriel leaned in closer, voice softer. “Besides, I haven’t had dinner yet. Let’s not fill up on junk food.”

A reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of Thane’s muzzle. “Fine. I’ll finish rigging the belt. Someone find me water, duct tape, and an emotional support animal.”

“I’m the emotional support animal,” Gabriel said proudly, standing tall with his arms wide.

Jonah muttered, “We’re all gonna die petting the werewolf, aren’t we?”

Maya groaned. “Only after he eats us for mocking his spark plugs.”

Mark deadpanned again, “Call it ‘Death by Ignition Drama.’ I’ll write the song.”

Late morning. Blazing sun. A long stretch of West Texas highway with nothing but mirages and regret.

The Chevy tour van, affectionately named “Fangwagon,” was doing its best impression of a dying animal. The whole crew was inside—seven bodies and enough gear to rebuild a music store if it exploded.

Thane sat behind the wheel, one clawed hand adjusting the rearview mirror, the other tapping rhythmically on the wheel as if sheer force of will would keep the engine from quitting. Gabriel, in the passenger seat, was chugging a gas station iced coffee like it was going to give him wings. Spoiler: it didn’t.

In the back, Maya sat crisscross on a flight case, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Rico was dozing with his face against the window, Jonah had his earbuds in, and Mark sat silent, glaring at the rattling A/C vent like it owed him money.

Then—THUNK-KRCHHHH.

The van gave a lurch. The dashboard flickered. Thane’s ears snapped upright.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled, easing off the gas.

Gabriel looked over. “Did we hit something or just lose a piece of the van?”

“Do you smell smoke?” Maya asked sharply from the back.

“No, but I can smell our career dying,” Mark deadpanned.

The van shuddered again, then coasted silently for a second too long.

Thane pulled to the shoulder. “That was the serpentine belt, I’d bet anything on it.”

Everyone piled out, the dry heat slamming into them like a hairdryer to the face. Thane popped the hood, and a thin wisp of smoke curled up into the air like it had somewhere better to be.

Gabriel leaned in beside him. “So… we walk now?”

“We’re not walking anywhere,” Thane muttered, inspecting the mess. “I can fix this, but I need a belt. And duct tape. And about six fewer people asking me questions.”

Mark pulled out his phone. “No signal.”

Maya pulled out hers. “Same. Welcome to ‘We All Die in Texas,’ starring: Us.”

Jonah sighed. “I knew we should’ve taken the scenic route. Scenic routes have Walmarts.”

Rico pulled a lukewarm soda out of the cooler and cracked it open with a hiss. “Guess we’re camping. Anyone bring marshmallows?”

Thane stood up, wiping grease onto his jeans. “Alright. This is fixable. I’ve got a patch kit, and if I can jerry-rig the belt with zip ties, we can limp to the next town.”

Gabriel looked skeptical. “How many zip ties?”

“Enough to qualify as an engineering degree,” Thane replied.

Mark stared at the van. “I’m not dying in this van. If this is how I go out, I demand a better soundtrack than ‘loose fanbelt in A minor.’”

“Rico,” Thane snapped, “check the back bin. Should be a repair roll and extra fluid.”

“On it.”

“Jonah, Maya—watch the road. Just in case anyone comes by who isn’t planning to murder us.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “And me?”

“You,” Thane sighed, “stand there and look pretty.”

Gabriel saluted with his coffee cup. “Mission accepted.”

8:17 AM – Lobby Breakfast Area, Sunrise View Lodge

The smell hit first: burnt coffee, rubbery eggs, and the vague sorrow of powdered orange juice. The complimentary breakfast area looked like a crime scene designed by a cereal mascot—stale pastries under plastic domes, a toaster older than Thane, and one very overwhelmed waffle machine coughing batter.

Thane shuffled in first, fur fluffed and still damp from the world’s most aggressive showerhead. His black Feral Eclipse shirt was only half-tucked into his jeans, and his claws clicked faintly on the linoleum floor as he grabbed a paper cup of coffee with the same reverence as a relic.

He passed Mark, who was already seated in a booth with one half-toasted bagel, staring into space like he was experiencing war flashbacks.

“No coffee yet?” Thane asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Mark didn’t blink. “There was one cup left. The machine screamed. I took it as a warning.”

Thane slid into the booth across from him. “You look like you were mauled by dreams.”

“I was,” Mark said flatly. “You tried to eat my tail in your sleep.”

A moment later, the front door opened with a squeak and in bounded Gabriel—fur neat, tail wagging, coffee in hand, and acting way too chipper for someone who spent the night half-curled on a questionably clean motel bedspread.

“MORNING, LOBBY DWELLERS!” he sang, spinning into the booth next to Thane and almost sloshing coffee on his fur. “Guess who found a box of Fruity Dino-Pebbles in the cereal cabinet?”

Thane raised his mug. “Guess who doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to guess?”

Gabriel took a huge slurp of coffee, then grinned. “Spoiler: it’s me.”

Behind them, Maya stormed in wearing sunglasses, a hoodie, and murder in her stride. She grabbed a paper plate and tossed three mystery danishes onto it like she was challenging fate.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t breathe my air until I’ve had four cups of coffee and a victory pastry.”

Rico and Jonah stumbled in shortly after—Rico with pillow creases on his face, Jonah carrying a plate of hotel sausage links like they were treasure.

Jonah dropped into the seat next to Mark. “These taste like despair and meat glue. I love them.”

Rico sat beside Maya and muttered, “Someone in the next room was playing polka covers of Kesha until 4 AM.”

“Polka should be illegal after midnight,” Maya said, deadpan.

Gabriel leaned into Thane. “You snored so hard last night the lamp fell off the nightstand.”

Thane nodded solemnly. “Good. That means I’m still alive.”

They sat in silence for a few beats, sipping bad coffee, eating worse breakfast, and watching the single waffle machine sputter like it wanted to be put out of its misery.

Eventually, Mark broke the quiet with a sigh. “So… what time is load-in?”

Thane checked the time and winced. “We need to be rolling out in ten.”

Gabriel stood up, still clutching his coffee. “LET’S GOOOOOO!”

Maya didn’t move. “I dare someone to try to make me leave this booth.”

Rico groaned. “Do they make tour insurance for emotional damage?”

Jonah, still chewing: “I think that’s called tequila.”

As the team slowly rose and shuffled toward the door—bags dragging, breakfast regrets mounting—Gabriel was already halfway to the van, tail high and singing some off-key pop song with alarming confidence.

Mark took one last swig of his lukewarm coffee, sighed, and muttered, “Day two of the chaos parade.”

Thane gave him a sideways grin. “We march with claws.”

10:02 PM – Sleepy inn on the edge of town

The van rolled into the cracked parking lot of the Sunrise View Lodge—a bold name for a squat, two-story motor inn surrounded by chain-link fencing and exactly one half-lit palm tree. The only view here was the Waffle Depot across the street and a dumpster large enough to be haunted.

“Why does this place look like it’s been condemned twice and is trying for a third?” Mark asked, clutching his soda like a protective talisman.

“They had a group rate,” Thane grunted, stepping out with a clipboard still in hand. “And they don’t ask questions.”

Gabriel grabbed his duffel, tail flicking behind him. “Perfect. I’m gonna take a four-hour shower and cry.”

Cassie, Maya, Rico, and Jonah piled out of the van in various states of road-worn disarray, dragging cases and backpacks across the pothole-laced parking lot like a pack of exhausted cats. Rico dropped his duffel and muttered, “I will give my soul for a towel that doesn’t smell like armpit.”

Inside the lobby—which was 50% ficus plants and 50% outdated regional brochures—a lone front desk clerk blinked at the approaching wall of band.

She was maybe 22, clearly underpaid, wearing a name tag that said “HAYLEY :)” in a font that tried too hard to be friendly.

Her smile faded the instant she saw Gabriel’s clawed hand resting on the counter. Then her eyes traveled to Thane’s clipboard, Mark’s permanent scowl, and Maya—who was glaring at the decorative moose painting like it owed her money.

“Um… can I help you?”

Thane leaned forward. “Feral Eclipse. Three rooms under Conriocht. Two doubles, one single.”

Hayley tapped at the keyboard like it had insulted her. “Right… I have you in 102, 103, and… 205?”

Maya stepped up. “No. No stairs. Not with this amp. If I have to carry this up a flight I will set the building on fire with my mind.”

Hayley looked panicked. “We don’t have an elevator.”

“Then swap with Jonah. He’s like, four ounces and lives in the floor tom anyway,” Maya snapped.

Jonah, still yawning, held up a hand. “I’ll allow it.”

Thane pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “Everyone just go inside. I’ll figure out the keycards.”

Gabriel slid over and offered a charming, toothy smile to Hayley. “Sorry. We’re a little… road-cooked.”

Hayley, unblinking: “Do you have a pet deposit form for… um… that?”

Gabriel blinked. “For what?”

She pointed. “You’re… I mean… claws?”

Gabriel’s smile went full fang. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll try not to shed in the ice machine.”

Hayley backed away slowly and handed over the room keys without another word.

Outside, Rico had given up and was now laying on his duffel in the parking lot. “This is where I live now. My spirit has left my body.”

Mark walked by, sipping a second soda. “Don’t leave a forwarding address.”

By the time everyone had their keys and semi-agreed on roommate arrangements (Maya demanded her own room with a “do not disturb ever” policy), the band trickled toward their rooms like migrating zombies.

Gabriel flopped onto the bed in 102, still fully clothed, tail twitching once before going still.

Thane followed, dropping his rigging notes on the table with a grunt and flopping down beside Gabriel, stretching out his clawed toes with a tired sigh. “I swear, if the AC unit growls at me again like last time, I’m just throwing it out the window.”

Mark opened the door, stood there for a beat, looked at the ugly painting on the wall, and muttered, “I’ve made worse choices.”

From somewhere down the hall, Maya’s voice echoed: “If the water pressure in this shower is weak, I will scream.”

Jonah answered, “Please do. I want to sample it.”

9:17 PM – Post-show, post-fog, halfway to the hotel

The Feral Eclipse tour van rattled down a dimly lit Oklahoma backroad with the hum of overworked tires and the soft rattle of empty Red Bull cans somewhere under the bench seat. The scent inside was a cocktail of dried sweat, fog fluid, string polish, and just a hint of nacho cheese. Everyone was either comatose or vibrating from leftover adrenaline.

Gabriel was at the wheel, all sleek black fur and hyper-focus, one clawed hand gripping a giant coffee he somehow hadn’t let go of since the green room. The bass player was still riding high—singing along to whatever was playing on the radio, drumming on the steering wheel like he wasn’t the one doing 67 in a 55.

Thane sat shotgun, arms crossed, trying to unwind. A fresh coil of cable rested on his lap like a service animal. His fur was matted with sweat and smoke, and he looked half-dead but proud. “Gabriel, you missed the turn.”

Gabriel blinked. “No I didn’t. There’s a mini-mart up ahead. I saw the sign.”

“Mini-mart?” Mark’s voice croaked from the middle seat. “If they don’t have ibuprofen and soda, we leave Jonah behind.”

“Rude,” Jonah mumbled from the back. “Also fair.”

The van squeaked into the lot of a run-down combo gas station and liquor store. The neon sign buzzed like it had a grudge. A flickering “OPEN” sign clung to one window like it owed someone rent. Inside, the building looked like a time capsule for 1998 and a tax write-off for whoever ran it.

Gabriel leapt out first, still in performance gear, and made a beeline for the cooler wall like a caffeinated cryptid. “I need sparkling water. Or sugar. Or both.”

Thane followed, slower, dragging a clipboard to jot down gear failures and set notes as he walked—still in tech mode. “If they’ve got batteries, grab some. Half the in-ears crapped out again.”

Rico stepped into the liquor store next door with all the quiet reverence of a man entering a chapel. “Do not follow me. This is sacred time.”

Cassie and Maya stayed in the van arguing about whether it was too late for pizza while Mark stiffly unfolded himself from the backseat and muttered, “This is how I die. Not onstage. Not in a blaze of glory. In the snack cake aisle of a Chevron.”

Jonah, half-asleep, didn’t even leave the van. He just cracked one eye open and said, “If anyone finds sour gummy worms, I’ll trade you a cymbal.”

Inside the mini-mart, fluorescent lights hummed with the existential despair of overworked ceiling panels. Gabriel, now armed with an armful of random energy drinks and a suspiciously purple snack cake, turned and nearly bumped into Thane, who was standing by the batteries… and holding a banana.

Gabriel blinked. “Why the banana?”

Thane: “No idea. My brain said ‘potassium.’”

Gabriel just nodded. “That tracks.”

Meanwhile, in the liquor store next door, Rico triumphantly held up a bottle of Platinum 7X like a knight presenting a holy relic. “I summon thee—party juice!”

Maya, having changed her mind, stormed in behind him. “You better have Fireball in there, Rico, or I swear—”

Mark stood outside between both doors, sipping a soda and staring into the parking lot like he was reevaluating every life choice that led him to this moment. “Rock and roll,” he muttered. “All glamour. All the time.”

Eventually, everyone filtered back into the van—some with sugar, some with alcohol, and one (Thane) with a banana and a pack of guitar strings that weren’t even the right gauge.

As they rolled away, Gabriel cranked the volume again. “Next stop: Hotel Chaos.”

Mark leaned his head back and groaned. “Wake me when we crash into the pool.”

8:03 PM – Somewhere between adrenaline, chaos, and a badly dented nacho tray

The green room wasn’t a room so much as a warzone with carpet. The scent of sweat, string lubricant, and the world’s most questionable veggie platter hung thick in the air. Someone — probably Rico — had turned the volume on the little Bluetooth speaker way too high, blasting classic hip-hop while the band exploded in every direction at once.

Cassie was sprawled across the old leather sofa like a starfish, eyeliner smudged, shirt half-untucked. “I just found a chicken nugget in my bra. Not sure how long it’s been there.”

Maya, rhythm guitar slung over one shoulder, was rifling through the catering table with the intensity of a treasure hunter. “If none of this is spicy, I’m flipping the table.”

Jonah, the drummer, stood in the corner with a towel around his neck and two sticks still clenched in one fist like he forgot to let go after the set. “I think my snare stand is possessed. It moved. During the last song. While I was playing it.”

Mark, arms crossed by the door, offered helpfully: “Or you’re hallucinating from dehydration. Both are on-brand.”

Jonah blinked. “Oh. Cool. Just checking.”

Rico, meanwhile, was mid-argument with Thane near the rack of empty guitar cases. “I’m just saying — again — it’d be awesome if someone labeled these by instrument and not ‘Rico’s Shiny One’ and ‘Don’t Touch, It’s Maya’s.’”

Thane, coiled audio cable looped in one clawed hand like a lasso of logic, shrugged. “We tried that. Then Maya yelled at me for touching her ‘vibe.’ I don’t even know what that means.”

From across the room, Maya didn’t look up. “It means don’t touch my vibe, wolfman.”

Gabriel was leaning against the drinks cooler with a fresh shirt and a towel draped around his neck like a pro wrestler. He looked like the only one not actively malfunctioning. He took a sip of his coffee and grinned. “Well, I think it went great.”

Mark deadpanned: “You broke a monitor, two foggers, and screamed into the wrong mic during intros.”

Gabriel pointed with his cup. “Exactly. Rock and roll, baby.”

Cassie groaned from the couch. “Can we just acknowledge that the crowd went feral? Like I legit thought someone was gonna jump the barricade.”

Rico nodded. “That one guy with the glowing shirt? Yeah. He barked.”

Jonah: “Wasn’t that Thane?”

Everyone looked at Thane, who was now casually rewinding cable.

“…Yeah,” he said after a pause. “That one was me.”

A round of exhausted laughter erupted. Even Mark cracked a half-smile.

At that moment, Ruby—the venue’s overworked backstage coordinator—poked her head in. “Y’all good? Need anything?”

Maya: “A blowtorch and nachos.”

Thane: “Gaffer tape and maybe a chiropractor.”

Gabriel: “Coffee. Always coffee.”

Ruby just blinked. “…Right. So… no?”

As she backed out slowly, Rico grabbed a half-broken chair and flopped down next to Jonah. “Next show’s gonna top this one. I can feel it.”

Jonah gave a long, dramatic nod. “Yeah, but first — I gotta find out if that snare stand follows me home.”

7:12 PM – Backstage, Immediately After Opening Set

The backstage hallway was chaos flavored with sweat, fog juice, and celebratory profanity. Sound crew sprinted past with rolls of gaff tape and half-dead DI boxes. One of the monitor techs looked like he’d been electrocuted by enthusiasm alone.

Thane stood in the corner, one hand braced against the wall, still panting like he’d sprinted a marathon carrying an amp rack. His other hand gripped a half-empty water bottle that may or may not have originally belonged to someone else. Possibly even someone human.

“Okay,” he wheezed, “who the hell decided to trigger both foggers at once?”

From down the hall, Mark strode in calmly with a clipboard in one hand and a rag over his shoulder like a jaded kitchen manager. “Fog unit two glitched. Reassigned its function to ‘panic sprinkler.’ You’re welcome.”

“You mean you set off a cloud bomb during Gabriel’s solo.”

Mark didn’t blink. “I call it dramatic enhancement.”

Gabriel burst in next, still glowing—literally glowing—under a film of sweat, fog, and sheer ego. His bass was slung lazily over his back, and his mouth curled in a wolfish grin.

“That. Was. AWESOME.” He leaned against a crate of mic stands and dramatically wiped his brow with the edge of his shirt. “Did you see the look on that one dude in the front row when I snarled the chorus? He backed up like I was gonna bite him.”

Thane huffed. “You were gonna bite him.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Yeah, but he didn’t know that.”

Maya came stomping in behind him, a busted string still dangling from her guitar like a war trophy. She threw her jacket on a nearby stool and grabbed a towel off the crate.

“I need duct tape and a new A-string,” she growled. “That was the best solo I’ve ever done while internally screaming.”

Cassie appeared next, sweaty curls plastered to her forehead, still breathing hard like she’d just finished her third workout of the day. “That was incredible,” she beamed, flopping dramatically into a folding chair. “Also, pretty sure I kicked a monitor into a different time zone.”

Mark held up his clipboard. “It’s in Kansas now.”

Cassie gave him a thumbs-up. “Good. They need better monitors anyway.”

For a moment, the group just stood there—some leaning, some sitting, everyone dripping.

No words. Just that shared, electric post-battle silence.

Then Thane chuckled low in his chest. “Okay… that was loud, stupid, half-on-fire, and barely held together.”

Gabriel raised his coffee thermos high. “Just the way we like it.”

Mark raised his clipboard in a deadpan toast. “To chaos.”

Everyone clinked with whatever they had—thermos, water bottle, wrench, drumstick.

The war was only beginning. But the first blow had landed hard—and judging by the audience’s deafening reaction, it hit exactly where it needed to.