Month: May 2025 Page 1 of 2

The van bumped across gravel with the grace of a drunk moose. Dust clouded the windows as they pulled up to what the GPS optimistically called “Red Pines Event Pavilion.” It was, in fact, a half-rotted barn with a corrugated tin roof and a faded “Bud Light Presents: Open Mic Friday” banner barely clinging to the eaves. A neon horseshoe sign blinked “ECLIPSE TONIGHT” with a C flickering like it was on life support.

Gabriel leaned forward in his seat and peered out the windshield. “I think I’ve been here in a nightmare once.”

“Is it the smell of cow shit or the tumbleweed stuck in the fence?” Maya muttered, clutching her guitar case like it might leap out and run away.

Mark squinted through the windshield, unimpressed. “This place is haunted.”

“I’d rather hope it’s haunted,” Thane grunted. “Means the last band probably didn’t survive to leave a bad review.”

Rico, sprawled sideways with his guitar case wedged between his knees, pointed toward the double doors that looked like they were once kicked in by an angry goat. “Why is there a stuffed deer head outside the building?”

Jonah, barely awake, pulled his hoodie tighter over his head. “Please let it be taxidermy. Please.”

Inside wasn’t much better.

The “stage” was a wooden platform raised exactly six inches off the ground. It leaned just slightly to the left, as if it had opinions. A single overhead light swung gently above it, flickering like a possessed lightning bug. The only speakers in sight looked older than three of the band members combined. There were two mic stands—both duct-taped—and a jukebox in the corner blasting Toby Keith at skull-rattling volume.

The bar owner, a wiry man in a denim vest with a handlebar mustache that deserved its own zip code, stepped forward and held out a greasy hand.

“You the Eclipse fellers?”

Gabriel—ever the diplomat—grinned and shook the hand. “Yes, sir! We’re Feral Eclipse.”

The man looked around the group, pausing on Gabriel’s clawed hand and then on Mark’s towering gray-furred frame. “Damn. Y’all ain’t just a band. Y’all a damn furry convention.”

Thane inhaled sharply.

Mark put one clawed hand on Thane’s shoulder.

Gabriel held up a hand quickly. “We’re all musicians, sir. We just play a little harder than most.”

The owner snorted. “Harder, huh? We usually do country covers on Fridays, but hell, y’all can play whatever. Long as the beers flow and no one dies.”

“Low bar,” Maya muttered.

Rico wandered off toward the “dressing room,” which was actually a broom closet with a folding chair and a single fly strip swinging from the ceiling.

And yet—somehow—as soundcheck began, something shifted.

Gabriel’s first bass thrum reverberated through the rickety walls like thunder. Jonah’s drums—jammed between hay bales and a broken jukebox—exploded into rhythm. Maya’s guitar screamed defiance into the stale air.

The local crowd started drifting in—cowboys, punks, confused tourists, a dude in a tank top that read “Beers Before Fears.”

And they loved it.

They whooped. They howled. They two-stepped in the mosh pit. One guy cried.

By the time the set hit its peak, the band was on fire. Mark’s lighting rig was working overtime with whatever surviving bulbs he’d found. Thane looked like a war god behind the mixing board, soaked in sweat and growling orders into his headset mic.

And the barn? It didn’t collapse.

They played their hearts out. They screamed. They burned. They converted.

When it was over, the crowd roared for more.

Outside the barn, beneath the red Oklahoma sky, the band leaned against the van. Gabriel passed around cold sodas from a cooler someone left behind. They were sticky and half-warm, but perfect.

Mark smirked. “So. Not haunted.”

Thane took a long drink. “Worse. It was honest.”

Gabriel raised his soda. “To the barn that didn’t fall.”

Maya clinked hers. “And the stage that almost did.”

Everyone laughed.

Jonah looked back at the building with a stunned expression. “…What the hell just happened?”

Thane shrugged. “Magic. Or moonlight. Maybe both.”

The morning after was always rough.

But this morning? This one was biblically cursed.

The tour van—beloved, battered, and one shaky tire away from becoming modern art—was packed with four barely-functioning humans and three sleep-deprived werewolves, all equally grumpy, and at least two of them actively contemplating violence. The sun wasn’t even fully up yet. Everyone looked like they’d fought a tornado and lost.

Gabriel was at the wheel, wide-eyed and buzzed from his second gas station cold brew—he insisted on driving this leg. Thane, in the passenger seat, looked like a man on his sixth war tour, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the faint twitch at his temple every time the van hit a pothole.

In the back row, Jonah was passed out against the window with drumstick imprints on his forehead. Rico was slumped next to him, earbuds in, mouthing lyrics to a song only he could hear.

Cassie sat with her knees pulled up, hood over her head, holding a half-eaten granola bar like it had personally wronged her. “If this van hits one more bump, I’m gonna puke out my soul.”

Maya was trying to tune a guitar in her lap while simultaneously elbowing Gabriel in the ribs from behind his seat. “I told you we should’ve stopped at the nice coffee shop.”

“There wasn’t time!” Gabriel barked back, slurping his cold brew like it was a life elixir. “We’re twenty minutes behind schedule already because someone left their entire amp rig back at the hotel.”

Rico raised his hand weakly. “That was me. I have no regrets.”

From the back, Jonah moaned, “Tell my mom I died doing what I loved. Except I didn’t. I died in a tin can with no AC and Gabriel playing ska on the Bluetooth.”

Gabriel grinned into the rearview mirror. “It’s called character development, Jonah.”

Maya launched a balled-up sock at his head. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Mark, seated sideways at the side equipment rack (the only one tall enough to do so without folding like origami), checked the rig straps with an expression of deadpan despair. “If this amp stack slides forward one more inch, it’s going to flatten Jonah like a pancake.”

Thane growled without opening his eyes. “Maybe then we’ll have room for the fanmail crate.”

Gabriel yawned, then jolted suddenly as the van hit a speed bump at mach five.

THUMP—CRASH—SPLASH.

The third coffee of the morning shot skyward like a geyser and splattered across the roof liner, raining back down in glorious brown droplets.

Everyone screamed.

“I just bought that!” Maya wailed.

Cassie covered her head like it was acid. “Coffee rain! COFFEE RAIN!”

Jonah sat bolt upright, blinked at the mess, and murmured, “Is this… my resurrection?”

Gabriel swerved slightly from laughter. “Okay, okay, my bad! But look on the bright side—we’re all awake now!”

Thane stared at the mess, clawed hand slowly rubbing his muzzle.

“I swear,” he muttered darkly, “if the promoter doesn’t have our load-in ready by the time we get there, I will burn their stage to the f***ing ground.*”

Gabriel glanced sideways at him, still grinning. “Love you too, my wolf.”

Thane exhaled sharply and leaned his head against the window, eyes closed. “Only reason you’re still alive.”

Mark, from the back: “This is fine. This is normal. This is the exact energy I signed up for.”

The van creaked, coffee continued to drip from the ceiling like an espresso-based rainstorm, and the open road stretched out before them like a dare.

Feral Eclipse rolled on.

Backstage smelled like ozone, fog fluid, and sweat-soaked denim.

The band stumbled into the green room like survivors of an apocalypse—sweaty, buzzing, wide-eyed, and trying to remember how to human again. Gabriel kicked the door open with his heel and flopped onto the faux-leather couch like it was the throne of Valhalla.

“Holy shit, that crowd,” he breathed, wiping his soaked face with a towel. “Did you see the kid in the front row with the LED werewolf mask?”

Thane followed behind, one clawed hand clutching his pack of coiled cables like a python he hadn’t finished choking yet. “I saw him. I also saw the idiot trying to film on stage right while standing on the damn fog cannon. Nearly launched him into the f***ing truss.”

Mark walked in last, still adjusting sliders on a wireless console in his hands like the show wasn’t over until the lightboard said so. “Three beams overheated. One fogger’s clogged. Two strobe units blew their fuses. Great show.”

Cassie collapsed onto the arm of the couch, makeup smeared, shirt plastered to her back. “I think my spine fused to the mic stand mid-second song. Might need a crowbar.”

Rico wandered in with a bag of gummy worms and just sort of… fell sideways into a beanbag chair. “No thoughts. Only sugar.”

Jonah followed him in, looking half-possessed. “I transcended. I saw sound. It was red.”

Maya, who had already found the mini-fridge and was halfway through a bottle of water, raised an eyebrow. “You broke two sticks and your backup pedal, dude.”

“I used the kick drum like a cannon. I regret nothing.”

Gabriel raised a celebratory fist. “That’s the energy I live for!”

He then tried to high-five Jonah, missed, and knocked over a stack of plastic water bottles.

Thane growled and started rewrapping cables with the same energy someone might use to interrogate a spy. “I swear, if I ever meet the promoter who installed those janky power tie-ins—”

“I already put a beer in their office toilet,” Mark muttered.

Cassie snorted. “That’s why you were gone for ten minutes.”

From the hallway, a runner poked her head in timidly. “Uh… just wanted to say, you guys have mail. Someone dropped off a package. It’s, uh… vibrating?”

Everyone stopped.

Gabriel sat up straight. “Is it addressed to me?”

“…It just says ‘To the black-furred one with claws.’”

Gabriel lit up. “That’s me! I’m gonna open it.”

Thane barked, “Do not open anything that vibrates and doesn’t have a return label—”

But Gabriel was already slicing into the package with a claw.

Inside?

A single, blinking LED collar.

And a note that read:

“You looked so dominant tonight. Call me. 🐾”

There was a moment of stunned silence.

Then Jonah muttered, “So hey, do we need to, like, screen our fanbase for collars now?”

Cassie choked on her water. Maya cackled and fell over. Rico was too tired to process and just popped another gummy worm.

Gabriel blinked at the gift, then looked up slowly. “Okay. One: flattered. Two: deeply confused. Three… Thane?”

“Burn it.” Thane grunted, not even looking up from his cables.

Gabriel sighed, tossed it in the trash, and flopped back on the couch.

Mark clicked a button on his tablet. “Cameras off. Lights stable. Fog fans cooling.”

Cassie raised her water bottle like a toast. “To another night of madness.”

They all clinked—plastic bottles, metal cans, and one rogue drumstick from Jonah.

And for a moment… just for a breath… it was quiet.

Then Gabriel, grinning sideways, whispered, “Hey, anyone else wanna prank Maya again tonight?”

“NO!” came five simultaneous voices, and a pillow flew across the room.

The stage lights were dimmed, flickering faint red like an animal’s breath in the dark.

The crowd hadn’t stopped murmuring since the doors opened—part anticipation, part confusion. Nobody had seen a soundcheck, there were no openers, and a few fans were whispering that the band had stormed into the venue like a tornado of gear, fury, and caffeine.

Backstage, Thane clicked the last cable into place and gave Mark a quick nod. “Whatever doesn’t explode, make it flash.”

Mark’s fingers danced over his patch panel. “My specialty.”

Cassie, doing last-second stretches, cracked her neck. “Can we just not break anything vital tonight?”

Jonah slapped his snare like it owed him money. “No promises.”

Rico was behind his kit, head bowed, muttering something to the gods of rhythm and fire.

Maya stood center-left, testing her strings. “Let’s see if the roof holds.”

Then Gabriel stepped forward.

He didn’t speak.

Didn’t smirk.

Didn’t even twitch.

He just howled.

Not into the mic—just raw from his chest, filling the backstage hallway, vibrating the metal door hinges.

The crowd outside erupted like gasoline to a match.

Mark hit the lights.

Six VL2Bs exploded into deep red, blasting down through a thick layer of creeping fog. The backdrop shimmered as the Feral Eclipse logo cracked across it like lightning splitting the sky.

And then—BOOM.

Maya’s guitar screamed to life with a war cry of distortion.

Rico slammed into the opening riff like he’d declared war on time itself.

Gabriel leapt onto the stage, claws flashing, bass in hand, carving the first riff into the air like a blade. His icy blue eyes locked with the crowd’s and dared them to blink.

Cassie hit the mic like she’d been born with one in her hand.

“WE—ARE—FERAL ECLIPSE!”

The audience surged forward.

Thane moved through the shadows at stage left like a predator, hands flying over the controls strapped to his rigging vest, eyes flicking between meters and surge levels as if managing a nuclear reactor.

Mark’s lights hit full sync: pulsing, breathing, attacking the fog and giving the stage a heartbeat of its own.

Gabriel dropped into the breakdown—low, growling notes that made ribcages thrum and eyeballs twitch. He threw his head back and roared.

And the crowd roared back.

Fists in the air. Horns. Claws. Cell phones forgotten. Tears on some faces. One fan threw an entire wolf tail plushie onto the stage and Gabriel kicked it back into the pit with a savage grin.

Maya hit her solo, bending the strings like reality itself had to obey.

Jonah exploded behind the kit, snapping sticks, flipping them mid-beat and catching the replacements with the swagger of a man possessed.

Cassie dove into the final chorus with a scream that cracked like thunder over the fray.

And Thane?

He stood at the monitor rack, drenched in sweat, clawed feet planted wide as he juggled feedback loops, dying power amps, and the wrath of the gods, running the sonic war machine with blood and fire.

By the end of the set, the crowd was rubble.

Literal crowd-surfers lay in sweaty heaps, breathless.

Someone fainted.

Someone else proposed.

A kid near the front had clearly peed himself from excitement.

And in the center of it all, Gabriel stood over the mic, chest heaving, fur soaked, claws out, smiling with the fury of a beast set free.

He leaned in, voice gravel and glory.

“Next time… bring more friends.”

The van screeched into the venue’s back lot with all the subtlety of a garbage truck crashing into a dumpster full of bad decisions. A stack of mismatched road cases toppled sideways in the rear as Thane killed the engine with a growl low enough to match his mood.

“Six hours of driving,” he muttered, stepping out barepaw and already bristling, “and we’re ten minutes late because somebody needed Red Vines and a spirit quest.”

Gabriel, still chomping on said Red Vines, flashed a cheeky grin. “I regret nothing.”

The venue? A concrete shoebox with the acoustic warmth of a metal coffin. There were water stains on the ceiling, two visible rats near the loading door (Mark nodded at them respectfully), and someone had duct-taped a “DO NOT FLUSH ANYTHING EVER” sign on the green room toilet.

Inside, the stage was half-lit and still littered with bits of confetti from whatever ska band had played last night. The sound tech was a kid who looked like he’d dropped out of college to follow jam bands and had the wiring skills to match.

Thane’s icy blue eyes locked on the kid. “Power drop?”

The tech blinked. “Huh?”

“POWER. DROP.” Thane’s claws flexed.

“Oh! Uh… yeah. There’s one. But like, we lost the three-phase a while ago. Got this one quad outlet, but two ports kinda smell like smoke.”

Mark stepped up beside Thane, crossed arms, and loomed. “We’re going to need more than that unless you want your monitors to burst into flames.”

The kid stared. “Cool…”

Maya groaned, throwing her guitar case down and opening it like she was preparing for battle. “If my strap snaps again, I swear to every human god, I will beat someone with the amp head.”

Cassie stepped over a tangle of cables, her mic in one hand, and looked around. “Who the hell books a band like us and gives us one working power strip and a fog machine that smells like burnt soup?”

Rico, always the optimist, chimed in. “Hey, at least there’s a stage this time.”

Jonah looked up from reassembling part of his kit that had exploded during the bumpy ride. “And at least I still have my beer bottle from the last set. You know. In case of emergencies.”

Gabriel slung his bass on, still chewing Red Vines. “We’ve played worse.”

Thane looked at him sideways. “Name one.”

Gabriel grinned. “That wedding gig where we accidentally caused the divorce mid-set.”

Cassie smirked. “Oh yeah. That was beautifully traumatic.”

Thane rubbed his temples and began plugging in the gear himself, grumbling like a thundercloud. “Alright, wolves and humans—let’s see if we can make this sonic trashcan shake.”

Mark, perched in his lighting command zone (which was really just two milk crates and a borrowed laptop), flicked on the VariLites. They blinked once. Then again. Then flickered out entirely.

“Cool,” he said flatly, “they fear commitment.”

Gabriel’s voice rang out from center stage. “Y’all ready to blow the doors off this sad shoebox?!”

The monitors squealed with feedback that could peel paint.

Jonah dropped his beer bottle.

Cassie covered her ears.

Thane looked like he was about to shift, chew through the PA rack, and eat the contract.

And from somewhere near the back, the jam-band tech kid yelled, “Duuuuuude, that’s, like, real primal.”

The band responded in unison:

“SHUT UP, KYLE.”

The sun was starting to set over the McMansion hellscape as the last of the balloons bobbed lifelessly against the overpriced wrought-iron fence. The businessman’s check had cleared—mercifully—and the van was loaded.

Mostly.

Cassie climbed in last, her arms covered in smeared cake frosting and possibly face paint. “That kid spit on me. Twice.”

“I saw,” Maya muttered, arms crossed, rage-smoldering. “You flinched the first time. That was your mistake.”

Thane slammed the side door shut with enough force to rattle the window seals. “Drive. If we don’t make this next gig, I swear I will bite someone.”

Mark, already in the passenger seat, glanced back with the expression of a man who had accepted the universe’s cruelty. “What was that, like, thirty-five miles of emotional damage?”

Jonah grunted as he shoved his drums back into place in the rear. “This is how I die. Not on stage. Not in glory. Just slowly melting into a puddle of rage in a van that smells like fruit punch and broken dreams.”

Gabriel slid into the driver’s seat with a grin that could only be described as bravely optimistic bordering on oblivious. “Hey, c’mon! The little guy hugged me at the end. Said we were his favorite band!”

Cassie deadpanned, “He also asked if we were part of Paw Patrol.”

That got a low growl out of Thane.

“I swear,” he muttered, digging claws into his seatbelt, “if one of you so much as mentions ‘Baby Shark,’ I will end this tour.”

The van lurched into gear and pulled out of the neighborhood. The silence inside was thick enough to chew.

Then…

POP.
From the back.

A glitter balloon.

The last one.

It exploded with a faint twinkling sound and showered the interior in a final, fatal sparkle storm.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Jonah screamed, smacking at his sleeves. “IT’S IN MY DRUM PADS!”

“IT’S IN MY FUR!” Mark shouted, sounding like someone discovering a cursed tattoo mid-concert.

Cassie coughed. “I swear this stuff multiplies. I had glitter in my nose.”

Thane was vibrating. Actively vibrating. He turned slowly toward Gabriel.

“You.”

Gabriel flinched. “Look, I didn’t know! He said ‘private party,’ not ‘cake-fueled hell rave for six-year-olds!’”

Maya grabbed a bag of gummy worms off the floor and hurled it at him. “You said we only play as a pack.”

“Yeah, well…” Gabriel shrugged, catching the bag with one hand. “You’re still alive. That’s something!”

Thane pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “No talking. Nobody talks. Until we’re at the next venue. And if there’s a bouncy castle there, I will burn it down myself.”

“Can we at least get food?” Jonah grumbled.

“There’s still cake,” Gabriel offered.

The growl that rose in the van could’ve registered on seismic equipment.

Mark, ever the voice of reason—albeit exhausted reason—sighed. “I’ll call ahead. Tell them we’re twenty minutes late. And maybe also warn them that we’re all one sugar crash away from homicide.”

It started innocently enough—like all good catastrophes do.

Feral Eclipse had just wrapped a scorcher of a show the night before, still buzzing as they piled into the tour van that morning. Gabriel, ever the caffeinated optimist, convinced everyone they needed a pit stop for coffee and road snacks. Again. They pulled into a sleepy corner mini-mart in some suburb that probably had more HOA meetings than music venues.

Gabriel bounded inside, hoodie half-zipped, tail twitching lazily behind him, already headed for the cold brew cooler when a sharply dressed man intercepted him near the energy drinks.

“Excuse me,” the man said with that million-dollar-smile-and-zero-personality vibe. “You’re the guitarist from that band last night, correct? Gabriel?”

Gabriel blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

“I’m throwing a private party today. I was impressed by your… stage presence.” The man handed over a sleek black business card. “Would you be interested in doing a short set for a private audience? I’m happy to pay well for a few live songs. Just a little fun for the family, you know?”

Gabriel, never one to say no to playing—and high on caffeine—lit up. “Sure! But we don’t do solo gigs. We play as a pack. You get the whole band or nothing.”

The man smiled wider. “Perfect.”

---

🏡Arrival at the Lair of Disappointment

An hour later, the van rolled through a gated community lined with perfect lawns and suspiciously identical mansions.

“This doesn’t feel like a venue,” Thane muttered, narrowing his eyes at the giant inflatable bounce house on the front lawn.

Gabriel squinted. “Huh. Maybe it’s a backyard BBQ thing?”

Maya groaned. “If there’s a piñata, I’m leaving.”

Mark stared at the life-size cardboard cutout of Bluey on the driveway. “I’m not emotionally equipped for this.”

The van creaked to a halt. The band climbed out and were immediately greeted by a swarm of sugar-drunk 6-year-olds wearing party hats and face paint. A bubble machine hissed somewhere in the distance. A clown juggled silently on the porch, his expression dead inside.

“Welcome to hell,” Cassie whispered.

The businessman came striding out, clapping his hands. “Wonderful! You made it! We’ve got power outlets on the patio, and I moved the balloon animal station so you can set up near the bounce house. You don’t mind playing a few covers, do you? Something the kids can dance to?”

Thane slowly turned toward Gabriel.

Gabriel gave him the most sheepish, wide-eyed, tail-curled-between-the-legs look he’d ever mustered.

“I may have misinterpreted what he meant by ‘private party.’”

Thane inhaled like he was about to commit a felony.

Mark, already pulling a light case from the van, muttered, “I hope this kid’s ready for some trauma.”

---

🎶Setlist of Doom

The band tried—tried—to adapt.

Cassie sang a painfully toned-down version of “Veins of Thunder” with all the growls removed. Rico tried to find a beat that didn’t inspire headbanging. Jonah wore his sunglasses the entire time and muttered under his breath, “This is how legends die.”

Maya played with her volume knob dialed so far back it was practically a lullaby.

Meanwhile, Gabriel was thriving. He handed out picks like candy, let kids touch his strings (against every bassist instinct in his body), and even led a mini mosh with inflatable guitars someone handed out.

At one point, Thane was asked if the “doggie man” could tie balloon animals.

“I will eat that clown,” he growled.

“I’m begging you not to,” Mark said flatly.

---

🎁A Very Special Encore

As the set mercifully wrapped, the birthday boy was handed a custom-made “Feral Eclipse” cake—complete with poorly drawn werewolf figurines on top.

“You guys were AMAZING!” the businessman beamed.

“Sir,” Jonah said, “you invited a metal band to a child’s birthday party.”

“Yes,” the man nodded. “Great exposure! All the neighborhood parents are on Instagram!”

Gabriel laughed. “Well, at least someone had fun.”

Cassie, clearly seconds from cracking, whispered, “If I hear the word ‘kidcore’ one more time, I’m setting the merch van on fire.”

---

As they loaded the van, Thane looked over at Gabriel, who was somehow still grinning.

“You are never allowed to talk to strangers in mini-marts again.”

Gabriel shrugged. “You gotta admit… it was kind of legendary.”

Mark slammed the back door shut and muttered, “I have seen war zones with less chaos.”

The next morning, the band arrived bleary-eyed and still buzzed from Cassie’s accidental takeover at the venue. They’d been booked for a live on-air interview at a local alt-rock radio station—Z95.1 The Foxhole—known less for thoughtful music coverage and more for fart soundboards, obnoxious jingles, and DJs with names like “Dingo” and “The Badger.”

Feral Eclipse stepped into the cramped glass-walled studio at 7:45 a.m., greeted by the overpowering smell of coffee, artificial maple syrup, and whatever unholy body spray Dingo wore like war paint.

“YOOOOO!” Dingo howled, punching the “AIR HORN” button twice. “It’s your boys—and girls—and wolves—from the band that made last night explode harder than a diet soda in a dryer! Say it loud—it’s FERAL ECLIIIIIPSE!”

He mashed the soundboard again. Fart noise. Explosion. Goat scream.

Maya blinked slowly. “I already hate this.”

Cassie flopped into the interview couch, oversized sunglasses hiding the regret in her soul. “I could still be sleeping.”

Jonah groaned, nursing an energy drink. “I should still be sleeping.”

Gabriel was the only one beaming, tail swishing lazily as he leaned into the mic. “Morning, Foxhole!”

Dingo grinned. “So, uh… let’s get into it. For those of you who don’t know, Feral Eclipse is like… part human, part werewolf, part musical hurricane, am I right?”

Badger chimed in: “And last night y’all howled. Literal howling! That’s your gimmick, right?”

Thane leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “It’s not a gimmick. It’s just how we are.”

Dingo gave a wheezy laugh. “Sure, sure. But c’mon — what’s it really like sharing a stage with a bunch of howling, barefoot, clawed-up werewolves?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Maya took off her sunglasses, locked eyes with Dingo, and said in her calmest, most terrifying voice:
“Like standing in front of a speeding train made of teeth and distortion pedals.”

Cassie snorted. Jonah choked on his drink.

Thane grinned just enough to show fang. Gabriel wagged a finger playfully. “You poked the wrong female, Dingo.”

The interview spiraled from there.

They were asked if the band hunted groupies under the full moon.

Maya responded by asking if Dingo hunted brain cells in the dark.

Badger wanted to know if Gabriel’s claws helped him play bass better.

Gabriel shrugged. “Helps me open beer cans.”

Thane was asked if his job as a tech manager was “just plugging stuff in.”

His audio cable was in his hand faster than a viper strike. “Wanna find out what this does if I wrap it around your mic?”

Jonah was asked nothing, because he fell asleep mid-interview with his head on Cassie’s shoulder.

And by the time they wrapped, the station had exactly one usable clip: Gabriel laughing, saying, “We’re a weird band, yeah. But we’re real. We don’t need fake howls or pre-recorded tracks. What you hear? That’s us. Raw, sweaty, and sometimes covered in confetti, but it’s us.”

---

Outside the studio, walking to the van

Maya muttered, “I should’ve punched that guy.”

Cassie shrugged. “I would’ve held him down.”

Thane just rubbed his temples. “No more radio. Ever.”

Gabriel leaned over to him with a wicked grin.
“But what if the next one has a buffet?”

Cassie never meant to be the frontwoman of Feral Eclipse.
Originally? She was just the backup vocalist.
Mostly tambourine. Sometimes keys. Definitely not lead anything.

Jonah was the original singer—front and center, gritty vocals, lots of swagger. He could wail through a distortion pedal and command a crowd like he was born in a stadium.
But after one particularly chaotic gig at a dive bar with a sketchy fog machine and a stage no bigger than a shower mat, everything changed.

---

Six months earlier – Flashback

The band was mid-set. Jonah stepped forward to belt the chorus of “Midnight Riptide”—their big closer.
He hit the wrong reverb pedal, tripped over a half-coiled cable, and faceplanted into a monitor with a sound so loud, the crowd thought it was part of the act.

Cassie, frozen at the side of the stage with a mic in hand and wide, terrified eyes, heard Thane yell in her earpiece:
“CASSIE! COVER HIM—NOW!”

With zero conscious thought, she stepped up, snatched Jonah’s fallen mic, and absolutely tore into the chorus like a banshee possessed.
The crowd lost their minds.

Mark, from the lighting booth, later described it as “the musical equivalent of watching someone discover they could breathe fire by accident.”

---

Backstage, post-set

Jonah sat with an ice pack on his face and a smirk that said he wasn’t mad about it. “Well… turns out I’m a better drummer than a lead vocalist anyway.”

Cassie was still shaking. “I thought I was gonna puke.”

Gabriel clapped her on the back. “Then why’d you sound like a war goddess?”

“I blacked out. I don’t even remember it.”

Thane just grinned. “Good. Keep blacking out then.”

Jonah raised his hand. “Call it now—Cass is the front. I’m movin’ to drums.”

Maya squinted. “Wait… can you actually play drums?”

Jonah: “Better than I can walk on stage without breaking a limb.”

---

Now

Cassie owns the mic like she was born with it.
Jonah absolutely rips on drums, complete with flying sticks, acrobatic fills, and that feral grin he never used as a singer.
And every time “Midnight Riptide” comes around, Cassie makes damn sure to stomp that chorus like it owes her rent.

The morning after Fred’s surprise onstage cameo, the tour van was unusually quiet—mainly because Gabriel had lost his voice from screaming “HOWL WITH ME, FRED” no less than nine times during the encore.

Thane sipped his diet Mountain Dew with his claws wrapped tightly around the can like it had personally wronged him. Mark, of course, was already deep into his daily crossword, mumbling threats at a particularly devious five-letter word for “stage fog.”

Then Thane’s phone buzzed.

Unknown Number:

*Hi! Mayor Patterson here. We’d like to present Feral Eclipse with a Key to the City this afternoon. We also have several angry complaints about ‘the wolf with the glowing eyes’ howling at our senior citizens, but let’s focus on the first thing. 🙂 *

Thane stared.

Gabriel, now wrapped in a hoodie and nursing a hot tea like a recovering banshee, looked up with a hoarse: “Did we win something?”

“You, specifically, terrified local retirees and are now being honored for it.”

Mark didn’t even look up. “Sounds about right.”

---

City Hall – 3:00 PM

The entire band filed into the council chambers, clearly out of place among floral upholstery and oil paintings of mayors past.

Gabriel’s hoodie was replaced with a leather jacket. His voice was back to a raspy whisper—just enough to mutter, “I feel like a rock ‘n roll Grim Reaper.”

Rico had managed to tape a “Feral Eclipse” sticker over his bass drum that he brought for the photo op. Jonah brought… himself. And Maya, bless her, had a guitar case, a toothpick, and zero patience.

Cassie was livestreaming the whole thing. “This is going to be either legendary or a misdemeanor.”

The mayor approached in a pressed suit and trembling hands, holding a plaque and a large ceremonial key. “It is with great honor— and mild concern—that we recognize Feral Eclipse for their… unique cultural contribution to our city.”

A polite cough. “Please, someone… uh… step forward.”

Fred, standing beside the group in his now slightly upgraded “FERAL GRANDPA – ROAD CREW” hoodie, shoved Gabriel aside and stepped up.

“I accept this key on behalf of the wolves, the humans, and the sheer madness we unleash nightly.”

The mayor blinked. “Sir, are you in the band?”

Fred grinned. “Not yet.”

Mark coughed to cover a laugh. Maya full-on snorted.

Gabriel leaned into Thane. “Should we correct him?”

Thane sipped his drink, deadpan. “Nope. Let him have it. Honestly, I’m afraid of what’ll happen if we say no.”

The press cameras flashed. Fred raised the key in triumph. Somewhere in the back, an old lady from the retirement home fainted with joy.

---

Later That Night

A new sticker now graced the van’s sliding door:
“KEY TO THE DAMN CITY.”
With a crude drawing of Fred howling under it.

Fred, now fully outfitted in a custom “Feral Grandpa” tee and a trucker hat that said “HOWL, DAMMIT”, had somehow become the official senior emissary between Feral Eclipse and the retirement home next door.

“Listen,” he said, sitting backstage on an amp case like a mob boss, “Eunice in 2B says she’ll call the cops if your soundcheck rattles her teeth again. But… Doris in 4A wants to know if the tall black-furred one is single.”

Gabriel blinked. “What?”

“She saw you on the venue’s Facebook page. She thinks you’re ‘mysterious.’”

Mark nearly choked on his water bottle.

Meanwhile, the soundcheck was proving… difficult. The moment Jonah tested the kick drum, every loose ceiling tile in the green room trembled. Rico’s quick snare roll caused a piece of decorative molding to fall off the balcony. And Maya’s amp—set to her usual “scorch the demons” level—triggered some sort of city-wide seismograph alert, apparently.

Thane, hunched over the audio rack, groaned. “I can feel this venue judging me.”

Outside, two elderly women were peeking through the venue’s side door, one clutching a purse like it might ward off evil, the other clearly hoping for a glimpse of a shirtless Gabriel.

Fred leaned toward Gabriel again. “Now, about Doris…”

Thane stomped over. “Can we not sell our bassist to the geriatric community?”

Gabriel shrugged. “He’s got charisma. I respect that.”

Back inside, Mark activated a gentle red wash across the stage for a lighting test. Unfortunately, the retirement home mistook it for a fire alarm and evacuated the east wing.

Fred returned from making amends with a tray of cookies. “Diplomacy,” he said, passing out chocolate chip apologies.

Rico grabbed one. “Fred, you’re the best thing that’s happened to this tour.”

Gabriel took two. “You’re gonna come on stage with us, right?”

Fred puffed up. “Damn right. I want in on the howl song.”

---

That night, just before the encore…

Thane leaned into Gabriel. “You really sure about this?”

“He earned it,” Gabriel said.

And so, on the final chorus of “Lunar Burn,” the lights went wild, fog blasted high, and out onto the stage hobbled Feral Grandpa Fred—raising his cane high to the roar of the crowd.

The audience lost their minds.

Thane stood off-stage, stunned, cable draped over one shoulder.

Mark muttered over comms, “…I think I actually like this guy.”

Gabriel grinned, howled at the ceiling, and pointed at Fred like he was the goddamn finale.

The next venue was a converted theater in a small town that proudly declared itself “The Gateway to Somewhere Slightly More Interesting.” Gabriel parked the van behind the building and immediately got a bad feeling.

The loading dock ramp was cracked and slanted like a skate park for reckless grandmothers. The side door had a handwritten sign that read:
“PLEASE KNOCK. DO NOT ANGER MARGE.”

Mark stared at the door. “Is… Marge the building manager or some sort of eldritch being?”

Maya stepped out of the van, stretching her back with a groan. “If I get tetanus from this gig, I’m invoicing someone.”

Gabriel, meanwhile, had spotted a small, metal sign bolted to the fence. It read:
“Silent After 9 PM – Retirement Community Next Door. Offenders Will Be Prosecuted.”

“Oh no,” Gabriel whispered, eyes widening with glee. “Thane… we’re about to play “Burn the Packlight” with 60,000 watts of subwoofers… next to grandmas.”

Thane slowly turned toward him, coiled audio cable already in one clawed hand. “Do not provoke the elderly.”

Inside, the venue was an actual gem—an old opera house with updated sound and gorgeous lighting potential. But the moment they plugged in, a venue rep came sprinting down the aisle with arms flailing.

“NO SOUND TEST YET! The wall shared with the senior yoga center is vibrating!”

Jonah, who had just started hitting the snare, grinned sheepishly. “Oops.”

Rico—tuning a tom nearby—looked around. “So… are we canceling the pyro?”

Thane whipped around. “We never had pyro, Rico.”

“Right. Totally theoretical question.”

While Thane argued with the venue manager about decibel limits and the precise definition of “minimal bass,” Gabriel disappeared. Ten minutes later, he returned with a new T-shirt that read “I Scared Marge” in bold letters.

“What did you do?” Thane asked.

“She yelled at me for existing too loud,” Gabriel replied, sipping coffee.

Mark had climbed into the rafters to hang lights, muttering about OSHA violations and the tragic misuse of truss clamps. Maya was duct-taping a setlist to her pedalboard and laughing every time someone said “Marge.”

Then… the door opened.

An elderly man in a beige cardigan stepped in, holding a small hearing aid in one hand and a flyer for the show in the other.

“You the loud wolf band?”

Everyone froze.

“Yes, sir,” Thane said cautiously.

The man smiled. “My name’s Fred. I’m ninety-three. Can I get a shirt that says ‘Feral Grandpa’?”

Gabriel’s grin went nova. “Sir, I will make you one right now.”

The hotel lobby smelled faintly of cinnamon rolls, chlorine, and something that might’ve been disappointment. Thane stood near the front desk, arms crossed, wearing the universal face of a man who’d slept on a van bench, wrangled half a lighting rig into a trailer at 2 AM, and still hadn’t had his diet Mountain Dew.

Gabriel, by contrast, was happily curled into a lobby armchair like it was his personal throne. He had a triple-shot iced coffee in one clawed hand, his phone in the other, and his tail swishing with pure morning glee. Mark stood nearby, flipping through a weathered paperback titled Lighting the Apocalypse: A Memoir.

Then came the lobby fans.

The front desk clerk peeked over the counter. “Umm, Mr. Thane? There’s… someone here to see you guys?”

Thane’s ears flicked. “Us?”

The lobby doors slid open, and in came three people in full-blown, homemade werewolf costumes. Like… dollar-store fur, glued-on claws, and enough makeup to choke a MAC store.

“Oh, no,” Mark muttered, already regretting waking up.

Gabriel lit up. “YES. I love commitment.”

One of the fans approached with a gift bag held reverently in both hands. “We’ve been following Feral Eclipse since the underground demos! You saved my life during my second divorce! This is for you.”

Thane accepted the bag warily, like it might be ticking.

Inside was a hand-drawn comic titled “Thane’s Thicc Claw Chronicles”—an epic saga of him slashing through evil with heroic thighs and glowing paws.

Mark read over his shoulder and nearly dropped his book. “I—Is that me in a maid outfit?”

The fan beamed. “Yes! You’re the voice of reason in chapter seven!”

Gabriel, sipping his coffee, held back laughter. Barely. “Please tell me there’s a musical number.”

Another fan leaned in. “Gabriel, I knitted you a cozy for your bass guitar. It’s got paw prints and your face. It’s reversible.”

“Bless your chaotic soul,” Gabriel grinned, accepting it like a golden idol.

The third fan, who’d been silently staring at Mark this whole time, finally blurted, “You’re my favorite. You look like you’d destroy me with one look. That’s so hot.”

Mark blinked. “Thanks. I guess?”

The desk clerk was now actively trying to not die of laughter. Gabriel finally stood, looping an arm around Thane.

“Hey, big guy,” he whispered, “you ok?”

Thane looked dazed. “I need a drink. A strong one. Preferably without glitter in it.”

From across the lobby, the fans began excitedly taking selfies—with Gabriel cheerfully posing, Mark halfway behind a ficus, and Thane visibly questioning every decision that had led him here.

Gabriel winked at the camera.

“Feral Eclipse, baby. Changing lives—and maybe your search history.”

Post-brunch. A couple of band members still look traumatized from “Raging Moon Toast.” The crew has wandered downstairs, some bleary-eyed, some still riding the adrenaline from the night before. Gabriel’s sipping his fourth coffee. Thane’s carrying a coil of audio cable for no reason. Mark looks like he’s regretting everything. Again.

A hotel clerk at the front desk waves them down. “Uh… excuse me? Are you guys… Feral Eclipse?”

Maya sighs. “Yeah, what gave it away? The claws? The caffeine aura? The faint smell of fog machine?”

The clerk looks unsure whether to laugh or run. “There’s… a package for you. Actually, a few. They’ve been coming in all morning.”

Jonah steps forward, curious. “Fan stuff?”

“Maybe?” the clerk says, wheeling out a luggage cart stacked with colorful boxes, envelopes, and at least three weirdly shaped gift bags.

Gabriel grins. “OH HELL YES. PRESENTS.”

Rico raises a brow. “Or pipe bombs.”

Maya mutters, “Honestly, both are on-brand for our fanbase.”

Thane opens the first envelope, reading aloud:

“To the alpha with the icy stare and the thighs of destiny—
Enclosed is a handmade thong made of ethically sourced faux wolf fur. I hope it finds you well. – ‘LunarLover93’.”

He deadpans. “I hate this planet.”

Mark opens a box and immediately slams it shut again. “Nope. That’s taxidermy. Nope nope nope.”

Gabriel eagerly rips into a box. Inside is a glitter-covered portrait of him drawn entirely in coffee stains. He holds it up proudly. “LOOK. IT’S ME. MADE OF BEANS.”

Jonah pulls out a small package addressed to “Drum Daddy.” He opens it and pulls out… a rubber chicken. With fangs. And tiny drumsticks taped to its sides.

There is silence.

Then Jonah says, deadpan, “This is my new emotional support item.”

Gabriel gently clutches the coffee portrait to his chest. “I’m gonna hang this above my side of the van bunk.”

Rico finds a rolled-up poster tube and opens it—revealing fan art of Thane and Gabriel as anime wolf princes in sparkly outfits, standing on a mountain of speakers and hearts.

Thane groans. “WHY ARE WE SPARKLY?!”

Maya’s cackling. “Because you’re someone’s OTP, apparently.”

Mark unearths a hand-sewn plushie of himself. It has a tiny scowl, clawed feet, and a felt coffee cup glued to its paw. He stares at it for a long moment. Then carefully tucks it under his arm without a word.

Gabriel gently nudges Thane. “You okay?”

Thane gives him a flat look. “I’m one taxidermy fan letter away from setting this entire rack of mail on fire.”

Gabriel beams. “You’re doing great.”

Just then, the clerk leans back out and nervously adds, “Oh! There’s… also someone waiting in the lounge who says they made you all something special.”

Everyone freezes.

Rico: “Is it edible?”

Jonah: “Is it legal?”

Maya: “Is it emotionally safe?”

Gabriel, eyes sparkling: “I HOPE IT’S ALL THREE.”

Post-gig, sun peeking through half-closed blackout curtains. A coffee machine wheezes in the background. Thane and Mark are groaning awake on opposite couches. The air smells like… is that burnt cinnamon?

Gabriel stood in front of the hotel kitchenette’s stovetop like it was a stage rig, shirtless, tail swishing behind him in full concentration. Clawed hands held a spatula like it was his bass. Something sizzled angrily in the pan. Something that had once been French toast. Maybe.

Thane sat up, blinking hard. “What in the seven hells are you doing?”

Gabriel turned, wide-eyed and way too cheerful for the morning after a show. “Brunch, obviously.”

Mark grunted without opening his eyes. “Something’s on fire.”

“It’s caramelizing,” Gabriel shot back proudly. “I saw it on TikTok. You just gotta blast the heat and flip it with confidence.”

“You’ve been watching cooking TikToks again?” Thane narrowed his eyes.

“Uh huh. Gordon Ramsay. But like… werewolf style.” Gabriel beamed, gesturing at the pan where something vaguely food-shaped had fused with the non-stick surface. “I added Red Hots, cinnamon, vanilla extract, and uh… that little bottle of vodka from the mini fridge.”

Mark opened one eye. “That’s not French toast. That’s arson on bread.”

Gabriel flipped the entire pan’s contents onto a plate with dramatic flair. The result thudded. Hard. Like drywall.

“I call it Raging Moon Toast!” he announced triumphantly, handing the plate to Thane with a toothy grin.

Thane stared at it. Then at Gabriel. Then back at the plate. “This looks like something I’d scrape off a subwoofer grill.”

“I’m touched,” Gabriel said, completely unbothered.

Mark groaned. “I’m not eating that. I have a death wish, but not that kind.”

Thane braced himself, tore off a chunk, and popped it in his mouth.

A pause.

He blinked.

Then his ears went flat. “Gabriel.”

“Yeah, Thane?”

“Did you just combine sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, vodka, and spicy candies and try to fry it in a hotel pan with no butter?”

Gabriel looked very pleased with himself. “You can taste the ambition, right?”

Thane slowly stood up, staring at the burnt-red slab in his hand. “I can hear my arteries crying.”

Mark muttered, “I’m putting in an order for real breakfast. If anyone wants something not soaked in danger, speak now.”

Gabriel took a proud bite of his own chaotic creation and immediately winced. “…okay maybe a little less vodka next time.”

The smoke alarm chirped once in sympathy.

The bass is rattling the roof. The crowd is in an absolute frenzy. Sweat flies from every limb on stage. Fog pours out in massive bursts. The lights are strobing like lightning trapped in a cage.

Gabriel is tearing through the bassline, clawed fingers a blur, black fur soaked, fangs bared in pure exhilaration. He stomps across the stage like he owns it—and let’s be real, right now? He does.

Maya’s got the rhythm churning like a damn freight train, slamming each chord with a feral twist of her hips, her eyes wild under the rig lights. She looks over at Rico, who’s blazing through the solo so fast his strings might catch fire.

Mark doesn’t even blink. He punches the cue—BOOM. Pyro goes off, flames leaping skyward like fire demons. The VL2Bs behind the truss fire downward with deep red beams slashing through smoke like bloodied claws.

And then…

CRACK.

Everyone flinches.

Jonah—mid-drum fill—his right drumstick shatters in his grip. It flies over the snare like a splintered javelin and lands in the audience. There’s a beat of pure silence…

Then—without missing a single goddamn beat—he grabs a full, unopened Blue Moon beer bottle from behind the kit and starts drumming with that.

WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

The crowd loses their collective shit.

Foam sprays from the cap as Jonah slams the cymbals with the neck of the bottle like he’s conjuring thunder from hops and madness. He looks like a possessed bartender at a biker bar drum circle.

Rico sees it and howls with laughter mid-solo. Maya spins toward Jonah, her mouth open like are you freaking serious right now!?

Gabriel? He drops to his knees on stage in mock worship and bows to Jonah while still playing.

And the fans?

They’re throwing beer, screaming, chanting “JO-NAH! JO-NAH!” at the top of their lungs.

Even Mark, stoic Mark, cracks the tiniest grin as he floods the stage with blue-white strobe pulses in Jonah’s honor.

Thane throws his head back and howls, slapping the cable against the riser. “NOW that’s rock and f***ing roll!”

The curtain ripples like the breath of a monster. Behind it, tension crackles. The crowd outside is deafening—thousands of bodies, crammed shoulder to shoulder, pulsing with raw anticipation. A rhythmic chant rises from the front row: FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!

Backstage, it’s a war party.

Gabriel—sleek black fur gleaming under the stage rig, bass slung low across his chest like a weapon of mass destruction—paces like a predator. His icy blue eyes flash toward the curtain, already hearing the beat in his blood. He’s a god behind strings, and tonight, he’s ready to baptize this crowd in thunder.

Maya, rhythm guitar in hand, stands planted like a damn hurricane—sharp-eyed, hair wild, a sneer tugging at her lips. She’s already snarling under her breath: “If someone flubs this opening riff, I will bite a throat.”

Jonah, the drummer, is a machine at the kit—fingers loose, sticks spinning, heart already two measures ahead. His entire body buzzes like a live wire. “Let’s break the f***ing ground,” he mutters, cracking his knuckles.

Rico, lead guitarist, is all energy and nerves—shoulders bouncing, fingers twitching over the fretboard as he tunes. “Please don’t set anything on fire this time,” he says, not sure if he’s talking to Gabriel, Jonah, or God.

And in the wings—

Thane, towering and tense, stands with coiled audio cable in one clawed hand and a storm in his ice-blue eyes. His bare feet flex against the risers. “Mark—lighting’s ready?”

Mark, cool and composed, eyes narrowed from beneath thick gray brows, grunts. His hands hover over his custom DMX board like a conductor over a symphony of lasers. “You’ll know when I start,” he says.

Then—BOOM.

The curtain snaps upward in a blinding flash of red.

Gabriel charges forward like a bullet, slamming the opening bass line down hard enough to rattle the bones of the security guards.

Maya follows, rhythm roaring, power chords blasting through the stadium like shotgun fire. Her hair whips with every crunch of her strings.

Rico dives into his lead line, fingers blurring, mouth twisted in a grin that says hell yes we’re doing this.

And Jonah—oh god, Jonah—he detonates behind the kit, each drum strike a thunderclap, cymbals crashing like lightning at war.

The crowd. Explodes.

People scream. Cry. Climb over barricades. There’s a guy in the fifth row literally howling at the moon.

And above it all—Mark drops the hammer.

Six VariLite VL2Bs mounted along the upper truss fire down jagged red beams through the fog, slicing the stage into ribbons of fire and fury. The lights are choreographed with surgical precision—ripping, flashing, biting the beat with every strobe.

Gabriel jumps to a monitor, slams his foot down, and howls into the crowd with his arms raised high.

And the crowd?

The crowd howls back.

The floor was packed.

The first three rows were a melting pot of mania—sweaty, snarling, vibrating with anticipation. Lights still low. House music still playing. No one cared. They were already acting like the show had started.

One girl in the front center—purple hair, face paint, a custom-made shirt that read “Mate Me, Gabriel”—was trying to start a synchronized howl. Loud. Sharp. Repeated. And increasingly off-key.

A guy to her left—shirtless, shredded jeans, enough body glitter to qualify as a safety hazard—was aggressively moshing with a folding chair.

There was no music.

No beat.

Just him.
And the chair.
Locked in a battle for dominance.

Security had already tried to stop him once, but he’d hissed and told them he was “channeling the spirit of the lunar surge.”

Stage left, a small group had started a coordinated claw-hand chant. “FE-RAL E-CLIPSE! SLASH! SLASH!” with actual air slashing motions. One of them was wearing homemade foam claws the size of oven mitts.

Two fans in the second row were cosplaying as Thane and Mark, complete with homemade furry feet and LED collars. Problem was—they’d somehow gotten way too into character and had begun mock-growling at people who got too close to the barricade.

Security referred to them as “Discount Snarl Bros.”

Gabriel peeked out from backstage and immediately ducked back, wide-eyed.
“They’re sharpening spoons out there,” he whispered.
“Why?” Thane asked, instantly alarmed.
Gabriel just shrugged. “To feel something, probably.”

Maya passed by holding her guitar, glanced at the monitor, and laughed. “You guys sure know how to attract the feral part of the demographic.”

Back at FOH, Mark slowly reached over, grabbed the master volume fader, and muttered,
“I should just cut the power and run.”

Thane leaned in next to him, gaze fixed on the front row through the haze.
“No. Let it ride.”

Then—without warning—one of the fans up front ripped off his shirt to reveal a freshly inked tattoo across his chest: “Pack Loyalty — Fangs Out Forever”

Another immediately fainted.

Security called for medics.

Jonah, tuning backstage, raised an eyebrow.
“We haven’t even played a note yet.”

Mark sighed.
“They’re pre-gaming insanity.”

Gabriel, sipping a new cup of coffee:
“…I kinda love it.”

Thane cracked his knuckles and stared at the swirling chaos near the barricade.
“Let’s give them something worth howling about.”

Thirty minutes to showtime.

The front row was already feral.

The clock struck six.

The main lobby lights dimmed.

And the doors of the venue flung open like floodgates releasing a tide of chaos.

Fans poured in—an eclectic wave of humanity in black shirts, tattered denim, and too many piercings to count. Someone was already filming with their phone. Someone else howled. The staff at the merch table visibly braced as the first dozen people beelined for limited-edition Feral Eclipse hoodies like it was a Black Friday bloodbath.

A shriek rang out near the front barricade.
“Oh my GOD—they put claws on the stage monitors!”

They hadn’t. That was just Thane’s wiring looking aggressive.

Backstage, Maya peeked through the curtain, lips curled into a grin. “You seeing this? We’ve officially crossed into cult territory.”

Jonah, reclined across two folding chairs, didn’t even look up. “We been cult. This is just… confirmation.”

Out front, the cosplay squad made their presence known.

Three superfans, all in varying levels of DIY werewolf makeup and fur-stitched leather, posed for a photo op right in front of the stage. One had sharpie-scrawled “GABRIEL 4 LYYYYFE” across their bare chest. Another had tried to recreate Thane’s stormy streaks of gray with what looked like silver glitter and glue. The third? Full-on snarling with glued-on dollar store claws and a tail that wagged a little too much.

Mark, watching from FOH with arms folded, deadpanned: “I’m leaving.”

Thane, beside him, squinted at the group and made a face like he’d swallowed spoiled chili. “They made me look like a drag muppet.”

“Your tail was sparkly,” Mark agreed.

Back near the barricade, Gabriel appeared—black T-shirt clinging to him, coffee cup still in hand, radiant with post-soundcheck energy.

The cosplay squad squealed.

“Oh shit, it’s him—IT’S HIM—GABRIEL!!”

He blinked, mid-sip, nearly choking.

“Hi?” he said with his usual wide-eyed grin.

They lunged for selfies. Gabriel obliged, though his face read full “I’m too caffeinated for this.” One fan asked him to sign their bicep. Another offered him a stuffed wolf plushie wearing sunglasses.

He took it.

Its tag read: “Lil’ Gabe.”

“Sweet baby lycanthropy,” he muttered, stuffing it in his hoodie pocket.

Backstage again, Thane and Mark both glared at the scene playing out on the CCTV.

“I hate it here,” Thane growled.

Mark grunted. “You should be flattered. They made Jonah into a Funko Pop once. It had glitter abs.”

Just then, a security guard walked by muttering into his radio:
“We got another one howling at the soda machine. Requesting backup.”

Backstage was a war zone of last-minute adjustments—cables taped down, amps humming, Gabriel tapping out bass lines with a manic energy that made even Maya nervous. Mark stood at the lighting console, claws hovering over the sliders like a predator stalking prey. Thane, meanwhile, was doing his final sweep—checking connections, tightening stands, re-coiling anything that dared to slouch.

And then…

POW!!

A deafening pop shook the loading dock. Lights flickered. Every screen in the venue blinked off.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL—” Thane roared from under the drum riser, slamming into view like a grizzly with caffeine withdrawal.

Mark’s lighting rig went dark.

Maya’s guitar amp sizzled.

Gabriel dropped his bass with a yelp, cradling the cable like it had just insulted his mother.

Then… a voice. Wavering. Terrified.

“…I think I accidentally plugged the fog machine into the PA distro…”

Everyone turned.

There stood Logan, holding a melted three-prong adapter and looking like he’d just survived an electrical exorcism.

Thane’s snarl echoed through the concrete walls.

Mark stepped off the platform slowly—like a force of nature in a button-down shirt and black cargo pants. His claws clicked against the floor. One twitch of an ear. His eyes narrowed.

“Logan,” he growled, voice calm but deadly.

“I was trying to clean up the cord nest!” Logan squeaked. “And the labels were faded! And then the raccoon jumped out of the trap and I dropped my vape into the power strip!”

Thane took a step forward, fur bristling, hands flexing wide to bare full claws.

“I’m going to bury you under this stage,” he snarled.

“I vote we bury him behind the arena,” Mark added coolly. “Less traffic. Cleaner dirt.”

Logan backed into a lighting tree, knocking over a spare gobo lens with a crash.

“I was helping!” he whimpered.

Gabriel zipped in, practically teleporting between the wolves and the panicked intern. He grabbed Thane by the upper arm, claws gently digging into fur.

“Thane. Breathe. He’s not worth it.”

Thane was panting like he’d just sprinted a mile uphill with a speaker stack on his back.

Gabriel lowered his voice. “Think of the lawsuit. Think of the paperwork. Think of me… writing a heartfelt ballad about how my wolf went to prison for gutting an intern with a mic stand.”

Thane froze… and let out a low, guttural groan.

Mark finally huffed and stepped back, muttering, “He’d probably break the mic stand anyway. Kid’s made of panic and Hot Pockets.”

Gabriel turned to Logan and shoved a roll of gaffer tape into his shaking hands.

“Go. Tape down the green room fridge door so it doesn’t rattle again. That’s all you’re allowed to touch. Tape. And fridge.”

Logan nodded so fast his headset nearly fell off again.

As he vanished into the back hallway like a caffeinated goblin, Gabriel leaned into Thane’s side and whispered:

“Ten bucks says he tapes himself to the fridge.”

Thane exhaled a chuckle through gritted fangs. “Make it twenty.”