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.”