The air outside the Red Pines barn was thick with post-show heat, bug spray, and the kind of giddy madness that only follows a musical exorcism. The makeshift parking lot had become an impromptu fan zone—pickup trucks pulled up with tailgates down, beer coolers cracked open, headlights on for ambiance. Someone had lit a citronella candle on the hood of their Ford and called it a VIP table.

Feral Eclipse filed out one by one, still dripping, still riding that adrenaline high.

Cassie was immediately mobbed by a group of teens who looked like they’d lost a bet with a thrift store. “YOU SAVED ROCK AND ROLL!” one girl cried, holding up a homemade poster that just said HOWL MOMMY in glitter.

“Sweet,” Cassie grinned, signing it without breaking stride.

Gabriel, tail flicking lazily behind him, posed for selfies with fans who dared get close—though one kid ran off squealing, “HE WINKED AT ME AND MY SOUL LEFT MY BODY.”

Jonah stumbled toward the van, but two fans intercepted him with a battered snare drum and a sharpie.

“You were like an angry wizard back there, man,” one said.

“I blacked out after the second song,” Jonah replied, scribbling his name upside-down. “Glad it worked out.”

Rico was holding court near the folding merch table (which was actually just a milk crate and a flatbed trailer), showing a young guitarist how to do a hammer-on while simultaneously swatting mosquitoes. “We play loud enough, they usually leave,” he explained.

Meanwhile, Maya had cornered a guy who asked if her amp “came in pink.”

“Does your ribcage come in rearranged?” she snapped.

Thane stood to the side, arms crossed, watching it all with a tired, satisfied grin. His black polo shirt was damp with sweat, his jeans dusted in hay and stage gunk, and his claws still faintly glowing under the weird pink light of a bug zapper.

Mark appeared beside him like a silent ghost, passing him a lukewarm bottle of water.

“They love us,” Mark said flatly.

“They’re insane,” Thane replied.

“Same thing.”

Then it happened.

A man in overalls and a mullet that defied physics approached, cradling what at first looked like a wrinkled pillowcase.

“I made this for y’all,” he said, proud as sin.

He opened it to reveal… a full-sized, taxidermied possum.

Wearing a tiny leather jacket.

With “Feral Eclipse” scrawled on the back in puffy paint.

The crowd erupted.

Gabriel lost it, laughing so hard he dropped his soda.

Maya recoiled. “Is it… blinking?”

“It’s just the gloss,” Cassie whispered, eyes wide.

Jonah whispered, “It’s got tiny sunglasses…”

“His name’s Randy,” the fan explained. “Thought he’d look good on y’all’s merch table.”

Rico gently accepted the offering. “He’s… perfect.”

Mark deadpanned, “If I wake up and that thing’s on my pillow, I’m setting the van on fire.”

Thane finally chuckled, shaking his head. “Okay. Okay. That’s it. Show’s over. Let’s load up before we inherit anything else.”

As they packed up the van, Gabriel buckled Randy the Possum into the front seat.

“Randy rides shotgun now,” he declared. “He’s earned it.”

Thane just muttered, “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

And with that, Feral Eclipse rolled out of Red Pines, headlights piercing the night, Randy’s tiny shades catching the moonlight.

Ready for the next chaos, claws and all.