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.