Month: April 2025

The crowd was already a boiling stew of denim jackets, faded concert tees, and plastic cups sloshing mystery beer. Some were legit superfans—wearing Feral Eclipse merch with pride—others were curious locals drawn in by flyers, friends, or the promise of “something weird but loud.”

Backstage, Thane gave a last glance across the stage setup. Lighting rig was holding, mics were hot, and the monitors were about as dialed in as they’d get without selling a soul to the audio gods. The VariLites were humming like a six-eyed predator waiting to pounce—just the way Mark liked them.

“All right,” Thane called, looping his coiled audio cable over his shoulder like a shoulder snake of judgment. “Thirty seconds. Everybody breathe.”

From stage right, Jonah spun his sticks between his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s light it up.”

Maya flexed her hands, already gripping her guitar like it owed her money. “I swear, if my strap fails again, I’m going to play the whole set with my teeth.”

Gabriel gave a confident smirk as he stepped up beside Thane, bass already slung low. “You ready to see me not rip my shirt this time?”

“You mean the one you safety-pinned together with gaff tape?” Thane raised a brow.

Gabriel puffed out his chest. “Fashion-forward.”

From the wings, Mark’s voice echoed dryly over comms. “Fog in three… two…”

The first hiss of the machine pumped out a thick red mist from the back truss, catching in the downbeams of six VariLite VL2Bs aimed like lasers through the haze. The house roared in anticipation. Somewhere, a dude screamed, “PLAY THE HOWL SONG!”

“Drums,” Thane called.

Jonah clicked in. One-two-three-four—

And then it hit.

Maya launched into the first crunching riff, distorted and raw. Gabriel’s bass slammed in behind her like thunder rolling through a graveyard. Jonah drove it like a madman, hair flying, sticks a blur. Cassie, center stage with the mic, stepped forward, hair whipping, eyes blazing, and snarled the opening lyric like a wolf leading the pack.

The crowd went feral.

Three notes in, Thane caught the monitor on stage left start to slide off its perch.

“SHIT—Mark, tilt three is slipping!”

Mark’s voice snapped back instantly, calm as death. “I see it. Already rerouting the signal. Tell Jonah not to kick it again with his damn boot.”

Jonah yelled mid-verse, “TELL MARK I’LL KICK WHAT I WANT.”

Stage left haze grew thick as a second fogger fired—too early. Thane coughed. “Mark—timing?”

“Fog unit two’s brain just exploded. You’re welcome.”

Gabriel danced around a puddle of mystery condensation and somehow made it look cool, even throwing a cheeky wink to the crowd. A rogue beam of red light cut across him like a spotlight from hell.

Maya, dead center, ripped through her solo like she was casting demons out of her guitar. Sweat glistened on her forehead. One of her strings snapped and she didn’t even flinch—just kept going, eyes locked in.

A beer cup landed near the front wedge. Gabriel kicked it aside without breaking rhythm.

Thane didn’t have time to breathe. One of the DI boxes was making a high-pitched whine, and the lead vocal compressor was dancing like it was on fire. He hit two knobs, shoved a fader, and punched a mute button that probably saved a speaker’s life.

Cassie shouted into her mic between verses, “We’re flying without landing gear, baby!”

The crowd loved it.

Pure chaos.
Pure lightning.
Pure Feral Eclipse.

By the time the opening song ended, half the venue looked like they’d just walked out of a thunderstorm—sweaty, stunned, and already screaming for more.

And on stage, every member stood grinning like lunatics.

Mark’s voice came through the comms again, dry as ever:
“Show’s going fine. Just used a guitar cable to tie off a fogger. No big deal.”

6:31 PM – Fifteen Minutes to Doors

Backstage was a pressure cooker of last-minute tuning, nervous pacing, and vague panic about whether anyone had remembered to bring the merch table banner (they hadn’t—Mark had to print one on paper towels in the venue office an hour ago).

Gabriel stood in the dressing room—well, technically it was a storage closet with an overloaded power strip and three sad chairs—trying to look composed while tugging down the hem of his Feral Eclipse stage tee.

“Thane,” he said calmly, “why does this shirt feel like it was washed in glue and despair?”

Thane didn’t look up from his clipboard. “Because I forgot to soften the band laundry. Just pretend it’s battle armor.”

Gabriel shifted awkwardly. “Battle armor doesn’t ride up and expose your werewolf belly every time you inhale.”

Mark, seated nearby with a roll of gaff tape in one hand and a half-eaten gas station sandwich in the other, muttered, “Maybe the belly is part of the stage presence.”

Gabriel pointed at him. “I will staple your sandwich to your forehead.”

Just then, Maya burst into the room, holding up her T-shirt. “OKAY. WHO’S RESPONSIBLE FOR GIVING ME A SMALL?”

Cassie peeked in behind her, giggling. “I mean, you are small.”

“I am small and dangerous,” Maya growled, tugging at the shirt that barely reached her waistband. “I look like a backup dancer for a toddler metal band.”

Thane finally glanced up. “We ran out of mediums. It’s either that or one of the old promo shirts with the misprinted logo.”

Maya blinked. “You mean the one that said FERAL ELK-LIPS?”

Mark didn’t even smile. “Those sold well in Montana.”

Gabriel bent over to retrieve his tuning pedal, and the fabric of his too-small shirt gave a heart-wrenching rrrriiiiiiipppp from armpit to hem.

Everyone froze.

“…I think I’m free now,” he said, very quietly.

Thane exhaled. “Okay. Everyone swap shirts if you need to. I’ve got a sewing kit, duct tape, and two emergency tank tops in the tech crate. Just… look like a band. Please.”

Cassie reached for one of the tank tops, held it up, and read the faded logo: Bite Me, I’m With the Band.

She grinned. “Honestly, I’ve worn worse.”

Mark, rising from his chair, tossed the rest of his sandwich in the trash. “I’m going to check the fog machine. When I come back, I expect everyone to be clothed or creatively disguised.”

As he left, Gabriel looked down at the shredded shirt and sighed. “I’m gonna just rock this like an open vest. A little werewolf realness for the crowd.”

Thane gave a thumbs up. “That’s the spirit.”

Maya, who had tied her shirt into a fierce cropped knot, leaned toward Cassie. “This is going to be one hell of a show.”

Cassie laughed. “We look like a band held together by attitude and static cling.”

The backstage lights flickered. A low rumble of the crowd gathering beyond the curtain sent a wave of electricity through the air.

Thane looked around at his patched-up, over-caffeinated, emotionally-frayed band.

“Places in five.”

Back alley behind The Throttle Room – Tulsa, Oklahoma

The loading dock smelled like stale beer and hot pavement. It was 4:07 PM, and load-in was officially behind schedule—just like always.

Cassie leaned against a flight case with a fading “FERAL ECLIPSE – VOCALS” sticker peeling at the corner. She had one boot braced on the side, arms crossed over her mesh tank top, and eyeliner that somehow hadn’t budged since Chicago.

She sipped a half-flat Dr. Pepper and glanced toward the open bay doors. Inside, the unmistakable sound of Thane yelling at a tangled XLR snake echoed through the stage rafters.

“Bet you five bucks he threatens to burn the whole rig by soundcheck,” she said, not looking up.

Jonah, the drummer, perched cross-legged on a bass cab like some ADHD gargoyle, drumming on his knees with two Sharpies. “Oh please. He’s already halfway there. I heard him mutter something about ‘dragging this entire venue to hell by the truss.’”

Cassie snorted. “You’d think a werewolf would have more chill.”

“Thane?” Rico chimed in, emerging from the trailer with a guitar case over one shoulder and sunglasses on indoors. “Dude treats gaff tape like a personal vendetta.”

Just then, a deep growl of frustration from inside made them all glance toward the doorway.

“Three… two… one…” Jonah counted down.

Thane appeared, towering, fur bristled, ice-blue eyes blazing and holding what looked like half a lighting clamp in one clawed hand. “WHO PUT GAFF TAPE ON MY PATCH PANEL?!”

Nobody said anything. From across the dock, Maya didn’t even look up from coiling her own cable. “That was Mark,” she called dryly. “Said it looked ‘emotionally unstable.’”

Rico muttered under his breath, “I mean… he’s not wrong.”

Just then, Mark himself emerged from the shadows near the lighting rig, eyes half-lidded, carrying a coffee that definitely hadn’t come from a venue-approved source.

He looked at them like they were all a disappointment, and said in a perfectly flat tone, “If this truss were a person, I’d sue it for incompetence and general malaise.”

Jonah whispered to Cassie, “I think that’s the most positive thing he’s said all tour.”

Gabriel chose that moment to leap off the loading ramp, two iced coffees in hand and the biggest grin plastered across his muzzle.

“Hey crew! Guess who charmed the barista into a triple shot for free?”

Cassie looked him up and down, still panting slightly from the run, and smirked. “You or the claws?”

“Probably both,” Gabriel replied with a wink, handing one coffee to Thane, who was still radiating unholy rage.

Maya finally stepped into view, swinging her guitar over one shoulder and cracking her neck like a pro wrestler before a match. “If we don’t start load-in in the next five minutes, I’m mutinying and running this band myself.”

Jonah pointed at her with both Sharpies. “Honestly, I’d vote for you.”

“You should,” she said. “I have better hair and I don’t yell at cables.”

Mark raised his mug. “Yet.”

As the sun dropped lower behind the grimy rooftops, the band and the wolves—humans and not-so-humans alike—finally got to work, slamming cases into position, tightening bolts, running lines, and muttering half-sentences under their breath.

In the organized chaos of it all, there was a strange rhythm. A weird, dysfunctional family rhythm made of snarls, sarcastic one-liners, and three musicians who had somehow decided that sharing a tour with werewolves was fine.

Rico strummed a quick riff on his guitar and muttered, “Still better than my last band. No one’s tried to hex anyone yet.”

Cassie shrugged. “Yet.”

And from inside the stage, Thane’s voice rang out again.

“Mark, I SWEAR TO FENRIR if this fog machine tries to kill me again—”

Jonah grinned. “Showtime’s gonna be awesome.”

Tour van, 2:13 AM, somewhere on the highway

The wheels hummed steady beneath them, cutting through the Texas night. Inside the tour van, dim blue LED strip lights cast a quiet glow over empty pizza boxes, half-drained soda cans, and the slowly circulating cloud of airborne glitter that refused to die.

Thane sat in the front seat, laptop open on his lap, trying to update the rigging log. Trying. But every keystroke brought a faint shimmer off the pads of his claws, and the cursor had glitter under it.

Mark was reclined on the opposite bench seat, headphones in, arms crossed, eyes closed. The glitter in his fur sparkled gently every time the cabin lights dimmed. Someone—probably Gabriel—had drawn a smiley face in it on his shoulder. Mark hadn’t noticed yet. Or maybe he had, and was just accepting his fate.

Gabriel, sprawled on the floor in front of the mini fridge, was still laughing every few minutes at absolutely nothing. His tail twitched under the kitchenette table, and he had a glitter mustache that wasn’t coming off until at least Tuesday.

“You’re gonna wake up in like three weeks and find it in your teeth,” Thane muttered, rubbing his face.

Gabriel rolled onto his back and pointed lazily at the ceiling. “I regret nothing.”

Mark opened one eye, slowly. “You should. I sneezed earlier and sparkled like a My Little Pony death scene.”

Gabriel grinned wider. “See? That means it worked.”

Thane sighed, closing the laptop. “At this point, we don’t even need fog machines. We are the fog machines.”

The van hit a bump, and a faint tinkle sounded as a Rocket Gator charm dislodged from the air vent and clinked onto the floor.

Mark didn’t even flinch.

“I’m never trusting either of you again,” he said, voice flat. “Next time we pass a souvenir shop, I’m buying a flamethrower.”

Thane chuckled. “You say that every time.”

“And one day,” Mark whispered darkly, “it’ll be true.”

Gabriel reached for a soda, popped it open, and took a long sip. “Hey Thane?”

“Yeah?”

“Next tour… you think they’d let us shoot glitter into the crowd?”

Thane blinked slowly. “Gabriel.”

“…Yes?”

“You’re sleeping outside.”

Mark raised a hand. “Seconded.”

Gabriel just laughed, rolled onto his side, and curled his tail like a smug cat. “Worth it.”

And so the van rumbled on—three wolves, a metric ton of glitter, and one unforgettable night in the books. Somewhere out there, a stagehand was still coughing up sparkles, and a lighting console would never quite be clean again.

But on the open road, beneath the stars, they were content. Sleepy. Sparkly.

And ready to do it all again.

Post-show, same venue, very late

The set was a hit. The crowd had gone feral. Gabriel had absolutely shredded under a literal spotlight of sparkling fog, and Feral Eclipse walked offstage to a sea of flashing lights, howling fans, and an entire front row covered in gator-shaped glitter flakes.

But now?

Now came the reckoning.

Thane stood at the back of the venue, arms crossed, staring down at one of the subwoofers—completely caked in glitter. Like someone had rolled it in glue and dragged it through a Hobby Lobby.

Nearby, two venue staff stood frozen, holding a shop vac like it was a crucifix warding off a demon.

Mark joined him, sipping his third soda of the night, eyes tired and haunted. His voice came out flat as drywall.

“There’s glitter inside the dimmers.”

Thane winced. “How deep?”

“I sneezed glitter.”

“Oh.”

Mark pointed toward the back riser. “Also, a stray confetti charge got sucked into the intake fan on the hazer. It now produces a fine mist of regret and sparkles.”

Down on stage, a crew member kicked something with a clink. It was a Rocket Gator sticker. Still attached to the inside of a cymbal.

The house lighting op—some poor overworked twenty-something with a nose ring and trauma in her eyes—approached Thane like he owed her money.

“There’s glitter in the motorized yoke.”

Thane blinked. “Like… inside the housing?”

She nodded, defeated. “In the housing. It spins. It… throws glitter now.”

Gabriel appeared from stage left, shirt half untucked, hair floofed from sweat and fog. “Okay, that sounds awesome, not gonna lie.”

Mark didn’t even look at him. “You owe this venue a fruit basket. And maybe a therapy session.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I could sign some posters?”

“You’re gonna be signing warranty forms,” Thane muttered, hands on his hips.

Just then, the front of house assistant wheeled up a bin full of recovered debris—mostly confetti, some gator charms, and at least two small children’s shoes. No explanation.

“Don’t ask,” she said. “Just… don’t.”

Mark sighed and rubbed his temples. “This is why I don’t do joy.”

Gabriel walked up behind him and gently patted his shoulder. “But don’t you feel a little more fabulous now?”

Mark turned slowly. “I have glitter in places I don’t talk about in public.”

Thane started laughing so hard he had to lean against a bass amp.

“Okay,” he gasped, “next time, we clear any glitter-related ideas through the rigging team. And by that, I mean me.”

“Noted,” Gabriel said, absolutely not noting anything.

Behind them, someone turned on a fan.

A glitter cloud rose like a cursed phoenix.

Mark sighed again, deeply.

“This venue is going to blacklist us.”

Gabriel grinned. “But we’ll be remembered.”

Next venue, pre-show setup, 1 hour to curtain

The venue was already buzzing when Thane arrived—crew calling cues, gear still rolling in, the lighting rig humming as Mark began calibrations from FOH. Everything seemed normal.

Too normal.

Gabriel had been suspiciously chipper all day. Not just his usual “excited-to-be-alive” vibe. No… this was a smug kind of chipper. Tail twitching, eyes a little too bright, grinning just a little too much.

Thane knew something was coming. He just didn’t know when.

It happened halfway through line check.

Mark was standing at the lighting board, going through his color presets like clockwork. “Red wash, stage left. Chase pattern, preset three. Spot cue—” he paused. “Wait… why is cue twenty labeled ‘Eternal Sparkle’?”

He hit the button.

Boom.

All house lights dimmed.

Then, from every direction, fog machines kicked on in unison, unleashing a wall of glitter-infused haze that flooded the stage like a disco hurricane. From above, confetti cannons fired—each one loaded with shimmering silver gator-shaped glitter.

A fanfare blared from the PA. Not the band’s opening track. No, no.

It was “Rocket Gator’s Theme Song”, which—somehow—Gabriel had ripped from the gator ride and remixed with club bass.

The lyrics were even worse:

🎶 “Strap in, scream out, let the gator ride begin—
Space and scales, we’re goin’ full sin!” 🎶

Mark froze mid-cue, claws flexing on the board.

Thane, across the stage, dropped his tablet and just stared as a full-on inflatable Rocket Gator slowly rose from behind the amp stack. Seven feet tall. One googly eye askew. Clearly zip-tied to a moving platform.

In the chaos, Gabriel appeared at stage left, arms crossed, grinning like a feral mastermind.

“Too much?” he asked innocently.

Mark turned toward him slowly, face a blank canvas of impending judgment. “You activated every fog unit.”

Gabriel beamed. “I coordinated the DMX patterns myself. Thane wouldn’t let me blow up pyro, so this was plan B.”

Mark blinked, glancing toward the lighting rack now coated in sparkly residue. “There is glitter in my gobos. You glittered my gobos.”

Thane finally spoke, wheezing. “I am both horrified and so, so proud of you.”

Gabriel sauntered up and gave Thane a soft shoulder bump. “What can I say? If I’m going down, I’m dragging you both into fabulous, shiny hell with me.”

Mark looked at the inflated gator, deadpan. “I’m going to feed that thing to a real alligator.”

“No need,” Gabriel said. “It’s inflatable and biodegradable.”

There was a long pause.

Mark just muttered, “You planned that.”

“Of course I did.”

Thane wiped tears from his eyes again, claws resting on his toolbelt. “Okay, okay. Gator war truce. After this, nobody touches fog machines or sticker budgets without a permit.”

Gabriel raised a clawed hand solemnly. “Agreed.”

Mark raised his coffee. “Temporary ceasefire. Pending terms.”

Next night, backstage at the new venue, two hours before showtime

The venue was a serious step up from the last one—high ceilings, clean dressing rooms, freshly waxed floors, and stage rigging that didn’t look like it might fall apart with a strong gust of bass. Thane was perched up on a catwalk above stage left, fine-tuning a stubborn lighting anchor while the crew buzzed below like caffeinated ants.

Mark had been uncharacteristically quiet during load-in. Not the good kind of quiet either—the intentional kind. Thane had noticed, of course, but with all the tech checks and patch corrections going on, he hadn’t had time to dig into it.

Then Gabriel’s voice crackled over comms.

“Thane? Uh… did you mess with the dressing room?”

Thane furrowed his brow. “No, I’ve been up here the whole time. Why?”

“Then… you should probably come see this.”

Thane climbed down and made his way to the dressing room, passing through the familiar backstage maze of cables, dim light, and low conversation. As he stepped into the doorway, he stopped cold.

The entire room was plastered—plastered—with Rocket Gator stickers.

They were everywhere: on the walls, the mirrors, the ceiling tiles, the backs of chairs. Even Gabriel’s prized guitar case had stickers inside it, including one right over the logo that read “RIDE THE ROCKET, COWARD.” Another one near the coffee station simply said “GATOR SEES ALL.”

Gabriel stood in the middle of the chaos, holding up one of the stickers between two claws like it was radioactive. His fur bristled as he scanned the carnage, wide-eyed.

“This is a hate crime,” he muttered.

Thane stared in awe, then slowly broke into a grin. It was beautiful. It was unhinged. It was exactly the kind of calculated, spite-fueled vengeance Mark specialized in.

And then he saw it—the crown jewel of the scene.

A framed poster, lit perfectly by a soft white spotlight, hung dead center on the wall. It showed all three of them on the Rocket Chomp Coaster, snapped mid-scream by the on-ride camera. Gabriel’s ears were pinned back. Thane looked mid-howl. And Mark?

Mark looked dead into the camera.

Expressionless. Unbothered. Like the gator ride was a business meeting he didn’t schedule but had shown up to anyway.

That broke Thane. He doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

Just then, Mark walked in, clipboard under one arm, casual as ever.

“Sound check’s in twenty,” he said, brushing past them. “Oh—and Gabriel, I added Rocket Gator charms to your guitar strings. Gotta keep the theme consistent.”

Gabriel sputtered. “You touched my guitar?!”

“I wore gloves.”

Thane leaned on the wall, tears in his eyes. “You magnificent bastard…”

Mark glanced over, tail flicking once. “That’ll teach you both to drag me to a cursed neon gator hellscape.”

Gabriel pointed at him, incredulous. “This means war.”

Mark simply nodded, already turning to leave. “I look forward to it.”

One hour later, somewhere between Amarillo and nowhere useful

Thane should’ve known it was coming.

The moment Gabriel pressed his muzzle to the van window and let out a howl of pure delight, the possibility of peace vanished into the Texas wind.

“GUYS—‘Gatorland Galaxy: Home of the World’s Largest Taxidermy Reptile Rocket Ride!!’—EXIT 247! WE’RE GOING.”

Thane was halfway through checking rigging supply emails and coasting in a haze of post-diner exhaustion. Mark sat beside him, sunglasses on, arms crossed, looking like a furry, very dead executive en route to the underworld.

“We’re what now?” Thane asked flatly, not even bothering to hide the dread in his voice.

Gabriel was already unbuckling and leaning between the seats like an overgrown puppy. “Thane. Thane. The sign has a gator in a space helmet. I need this in my soul.”

Mark, still unmoving: “Leave me behind. Tell my story.”

But it was already too late. Gabriel took the exit like a man on a mission from chaos.

---

Fifteen minutes later…

The three of them stood before the gates of Gatorland Galaxy, a roadside atrocity that hadn’t been updated since 1993 and looked like it had survived a small tornado and a government coverup.

The attractions included:

• A six-foot animatronic alligator in a foil jumpsuit that wheezed “WELCOME TO SPACE!” every few seconds.
• Faded posters advertising a live gator feeding that turned out to be a sunburned man tossing hot dogs into a kiddie pool.
• A ride called the Rocket Chomp Coaster, clearly made from repurposed barn parts and sketchy ambition.
• And a cotton candy stand that, for some reason, also sold boiled peanuts and used VHS tapes.

Mark stared up at the rickety “space rocket” ride, arms crossed, completely deadpan. “This is how we die. This is my final form: pancaked by a neon gator rocket.”

Gabriel, naturally, was already dual-wielding a souvenir gator-head drink cup and two massive bags of neon green cotton candy. “THIS. IS. AWESOME.”

Thane just sighed. “We’ve got load-in at 4:00.”

Gabriel tossed him a gator hat without breaking stride. “We’ve got memories now.”

Mark tried one of the boiled peanuts, chewed once, stared into the void, and muttered, “I think this is how time breaks.”

Eventually, Gabriel talked them both into riding the coaster. Thane sat in the back, holding his rigging bag like an emotional support pack. Mark screamed once. Just once. And Thane made a mental note to never let him live it down.

---

Later, at the exit…

The three of them stumbled out of the Galactic Gift Barn like shell-shocked survivors, clutching knockoff T-shirts, gator-shaped stickers, and a deep, lingering sense of regret.

Back in the van, as Gabriel climbed behind the wheel with manic glee and fired up the engine, Mark leaned over to Thane, eyes hollow.

“I take back every complaint I’ve ever made about load-in days,” he said, voice flat. “I didn’t know true suffering until I met Rocket Gator.”

Thane laughed so hard his claws cramped.

Early morning, roadside diner just outside Amarillo

The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon yet. A faint pink glow spread across the dusty Texas sky like a tired yawn. Thane, Gabriel, and Mark sat huddled in a cracked vinyl booth inside The Saddle & Griddle—an ancient greasy spoon that smelled like burned bacon, black coffee, and twenty years of crushed dreams.

The waitress had called everyone “honey,” hadn’t blinked at Gabriel’s claws, and had already brought a full pot of coffee before anyone even asked. She clearly knew the type.

Mark sat across from the other two, fur slightly rumpled, blue polo shirt wrinkled from the long drive, and a sour look on his muzzle that screamed he’d been awake since before the concept of mercy. He stirred three creamers into his coffee with the lifeless precision of a man surviving on sheer caffeine and spite.

Gabriel, bright-eyed as always—even after a full night riding shotgun in the van—flipped through the laminated menu like it was a treasure map.

“Ooh, hey! ‘Lone Star Stack’—eight pancakes, eggs, sausage, hash browns and toast. You think it’s named after an actual star or just the state?”

Mark didn’t even glance up. “It’s named after the inevitable heart attack.”

Thane smirked behind his chipped mug. “He’s not wrong.”

Gabriel grinned at Mark. “Come on, old wolf. You need something greasy to bring you back to life.”

Mark sighed with the weight of the world and set down his spoon like it had personally wronged him. “I’m beyond saving. Just let me fade into the booth upholstery.”

Their waitress—name tag Ruby, hair up in a shellacked bun that looked structurally reinforced—returned with a pen poised. “Y’all figured out what you want?”

Mark pointed at the menu without lifting his head. “Whatever has the fewest moving parts and the lowest emotional investment. And no melon.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “So… eggs, toast, bacon. Black coffee. No drama.”

Mark finally looked up and gave a single solemn nod. “That. Exactly that.”

Gabriel ordered the Lone Star Stack, obviously, and Thane went for the skillet scramble with extra hot sauce—because sleep-deprived werewolf techs run on protein and spite.

As Ruby walked off, Mark leaned back in the booth and looked at both of them. “You know what’s sad? This isn’t even the worst diner we’ve ever been in.”

Gabriel snorted. “You mean the one in Tulsa where the table collapsed under your plate?”

“No,” Mark said, deadpan. “The one in Kansas where the ‘meatloaf’ tried to bite me back.”

Thane chuckled. “I still say that wasn’t meatloaf. That was punishment.”

“Whatever it was,” Mark muttered, “it had an agenda.”

The food arrived fast, clearly slapped together by a cook who didn’t care if his customers were famous, cursed, or undead. The bacon was crisp, the eggs hot, and the toast didn’t scream when stabbed. Honestly, that was good enough.

As they ate, conversation drifted into that cozy, blurry space between exhaustion and the next caffeine hit. Mark stayed quiet, as usual, but every now and then dropped a one-liner that had Gabriel snorting coffee or Thane choking on toast.

By the time plates were cleared, Mark was still tired, still cynical—but his shoulders had eased. Just a little.

Ruby returned with the check and a wink. “Y’all drive safe now. And you,” she said to Mark, “smile once in a while, huh?”

Mark, unblinking: “I’ll put it on the schedule.”

Gabriel leaned toward Thane and whispered, “He’s actually in a great mood.”

Thane grinned. “I know. He only made two apocalypse jokes today.”

Mark, already sipping his refill, mumbled without looking up: “The day is still young.”