Author: Thane Page 3 of 5

The tour van was parked in a desolate corner of a truck stop in rural Kansas, surrounded by flat plains, distant wind turbines, and not much else. Inside, the air was thick with unspoken grievances and the lingering scent of artificial bacon spray.

Gabriel sat sprawled on the long couch, sipping coffee like it held the secrets of the universe. Maya stood near the kitchenette, arms crossed, one brow raised like a queen awaiting her judgment. Jonah paced back and forth at the center of the lounge like a man preparing closing arguments for a trial that might end in bloodshed.

Thane, seated at the head of the table with his arms crossed and icy blue eyes locked in kill mode, banged a fist against the faux-wood surface. “Alright. Tour Van War Council is now in session. Someone tell me why there’s a bite mark on the emergency fire extinguisher and why our drummer smells like a Mardi Gras float that died in a microwave.”

Jonah spun on his heel. “Because these two,” — he pointed violently between Gabriel and Maya — “have declared WAR on basic decency.”

Gabriel raised his cup. “It was performance art.”

Maya smirked. “It was justice.”

Mark, in his usual gruff monotone from the back, muttered, “It was Tuesday.”

Rico slid into a seat beside Thane, quietly munching cereal from a Solo cup and watching the drama unfold like it was morning cartoons. “Continue.”

Jonah slammed the drum throne onto the center of the table. It let out a low, squeaky groan. “This thing has been violated. It moaned when I sat on it. It moaned, Gabriel.”

Gabriel, straight-faced, took a long sip. “You should feel flattered.”

Thane pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaled slowly through clenched teeth, and fixed a glare on the entire room. “Okay. This has to stop. No more glitter bombs. No more bacon oil in shampoo bottles. No more seducing inanimate objects for shock value. We are on tour. This is not ‘Prank Olympics: 2025 Edition.’”

Mark, still leaning in the hallway with his arms crossed, added helpfully, “You forgot the goat sounds app played on loop through the PA system at 3 AM.”

Gabriel raised a finger. “Technically, that was my contribution to the cultural enrichment of the van.”

Maya growled. “He was trying to summon eldritch barnyard spirits, I swear.”

Thane leaned forward slowly. “So help me, if anyone—and I mean anyone—so much as whispers the word ‘mayonnaise’ near my bunk again, I will reroute this van to the nearest swamp, and we will all get out.”

Jonah sat down, rubbing his temples. “I just want peace. And a new drum throne that doesn’t moan at me.”

Gabriel reached over, gently patting his shoulder. “I’ll get you one that purrs instead.”

“NO!!!”

Rico raised his spoon. “Motion to install security cameras.”

Thane grunted. “Motion denied. I don’t want to know what happens when the lights go out.”

Maya raised her hand. “Motion to launch phase two of the war under cover of darkness?”

“Denied!”

Gabriel leaned back. “Motion to rename the drum throne ‘Sebastian’ and treat him with dignity.”

“DENIED!”

Jonah stood, pointing at Gabriel. “I’m watching you, coffee wolf. You’re one glitter sneeze away from getting duct-taped to the roof.”

Thane slammed the gavel (which was just a rolled-up setlist). “Council adjourned. No more pranks, or I swear I will superglue this entire tour into submission.”

The room was silent… for three seconds.

Mark coughed.

The drum throne moaned.

Gabriel burst out laughing.

Location: Hotel Lobby, 9:42 a.m. The Morning After The Chaos.

Thane stood at the front desk of the hotel, deadpan and growling under his breath, arms crossed over a Feral Eclipse hoodie that still faintly reeked of smoky beef jerky and artificial lavender.

The front desk clerk, poor soul, was trying very hard not to comment.

Behind Thane, chaos unfolded in layers.

Gabriel strutted through the lobby like a caffeinated rockstar fresh out of a glitter tornado—smiling, waving at confused guests, sipping a to-go cup of god-knows-what with two tiny lavender fog machine scent cartridges stuck in his jacket pocket like trophies.

Mark stood near the elevator, arms folded, brow twitching violently as he stared at the drum throne that Jonah carried under one arm, which now let out a loud, wet fart every time it was slightly touched.

“I WOKE UP TO HOWLING UNDER MY PILLOW!” Jonah barked. “And my hair smells like smoked brisket and grandma’s bath salts!”

“Yogic barbecue,” Gabriel said smoothly, sipping.

Rico passed by, muttering, “I can’t sit down anymore. I have PTSD. From a chair.”

Thane turned slowly, ice-blue eyes locked on Gabriel, Jonah, and Maya—who had the audacity to walk in last with an innocent smile and sunglasses on indoors like nothing had happened.

“I’m only going to say this once,” Thane growled, loud enough that even nearby guests turned.

“I find one more prank, one more scent bomb, one more sound byte…
…I swear on the ancestors, I will reassign all of you to overnight merch duty in rural Kansas. In February.
And if you think I won’t, try me.”

Silence.

Even Gabriel looked sheepish…ish.

Mark gave a satisfied grunt of approval.

Then—BZZZZZT. A small, fuzzy howl burst from inside Thane’s hoodie pocket.

Everyone froze.

Gabriel paled. “That was supposed to be Jonah’s!”

Thane closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. And growled, “Merch duty. All. Of. You.”

Location: The Tour Van, Somewhere Outside Denver. Time: 2:47 a.m. The War Room.

The van’s overhead lights were off. The others were asleep. The hum of tires on the freeway created a white noise blanket.

But in the very back of the van, beneath a makeshift blanket fort of hoodies and empty merch boxes…

…sat three absolute gremlins.

Maya, cross-legged, scribbling frantically in her prank journal.
Gabriel, perched on a cooler like a caffeinated gargoyle, a Sharpie in each hand.
Jonah, hoodie up, arms folded, glitter still in his ears, eyes haunted.

“This ends now,” Jonah whispered, glaring at both of them. “Or I go scorched earth.”

Gabriel grinned, wild and fangy. “Scorched earth sounds fun.”

Maya leaned forward, eyes gleaming like a dragon plotting arson. “You two amateurs forget—I’ve literally superglued a tour manager’s shoes to the ceiling of a club bathroom.”

Gabriel snorted. “You were kicked out of Tijuana twice.”

“Three times,” she corrected. “One involved a goat.”

Jonah held up a finger. “Okay, focus. We call a truce, we go out in one glorious blaze of prank-fueled glory, together. No casualties. Well—maybe Thane’s patience, but that doesn’t count.”

Gabriel raised a brow. “What’re we talkin’? Glitterbombs in the XLR cables? Hair dye in Mark’s shampoo?”

Jonah leaned in. “We fill the fog machines with scented mist. Like… lavender and beef jerky.”

Gabriel’s eyes lit up. “We make the audience think we’re summoning a werewolf yoga class and a barbecue.”

Maya scribbled fast. “We install Bluetooth speakers under every bunk. Play random wolf howls at 3:00 a.m. every night until someone cracks.”

They high-fived. The unholy pact was sealed.

From the bunk behind them, Thane’s voice growled low and cold.

“If you glue anything else in this van, I will rewire your toothbrushes to play Nickelback.”

Silence.

Gabriel cleared his throat. “…worth it.”

Day 6. Tour Van. Prank War Level: Escalated.

Jonah didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the glitter stuck in places glitter should never be. Not because Rico kept humming “It’s Raining Men” every time he walked past him. Not even because he found a flake of holographic confetti in his toothbrush.

No.

Jonah was plotting.

And the next morning, vengeance arrived with the quiet hum of a soldering iron, a suspicious package of cheap Halloween props, and a laptop full of MIDI mappings.

Gabriel was the first target. Of course he was.

While the black-furred werewolf snored peacefully in the bunk above, Jonah spent three hours surgically modifying Gabriel’s pedalboard. He didn’t touch any of the critical tones—Jonah respected music too much for that. But every time Gabriel toggled the distortion channel…

Fart noises.

Wet, echoing, slow-motion fart noises.

Custom-mapped to his tone stomp. Through the arena PA. Complete with bass boost.

---

Showtime. That night. Kansas City.

Thane was dialed in at FOH. Mark was stalking the lighting rig with laser focus. Maya was shredding. Rico was slamming out the opening beat of “Hollow Heart.”

Gabriel, center stage, flipped on the distortion…

PPPPPPBBBBBBTTHHHHHHHHHHH.

The crowd fell silent for a full second.

Then roared with laughter.

Gabriel froze.

He toggled the pedal again.

BRRRAAAAAPPPPP-P-POP.

He spun around. “WHO DID THIS?!”

Jonah was behind the drum kit, smirking like a war criminal.

Rico actually fell off his stool laughing. Maya missed a chord. Even Mark paused the light cues, a clawed hand to his face.

Thane, over the comms:

“I swear to every moon that ever shined, I will end all of you.”

---

Backstage. Later.

Gabriel cornered Jonah with a half-full bottle of Fireball and a feral grin. “Okay. You got me. That was genius.”

Jonah narrowed his eyes. “We’re even?”

Gabriel tilted his head. “Even?”

And dumped the Fireball over Jonah’s head.

Jonah screamed. “MY EYES. IT BURNS.”

---

Somewhere in the shadows of the arena, Maya scribbled in a little black notebook labeled: ‘Prank Ideas.’

A single line:

“Duct tape + fog cannon + bag of flour.”

The war… continues. 😈

Day 5. Tour van. Spirits high. Sanity low.

Jonah was having a good day.

He’d just crushed the last show, fans had actually cheered his solo, and he’d snagged the last iced Red Bull from the gas station cooler before Gabriel. (That alone was an achievement worth framing.)

He had no idea he was walking into a war zone.

Gabriel had rigged a glitter bomb in Maya’s overhead cubby—an elaborate setup involving a tripwire, a container of “UltraSparkle Unicorn Confetti™,” and about 20 minutes of whispered scheming with Rico.

But no one told Jonah.

He reached up to grab his spare hoodie from the cubby, humming some dumb TikTok song—and BOOM.

An explosion of pink, purple, and silver glitter erupted like a Vegas finale.

Jonah staggered back, choking, sparkling, arms flailing like a disco ball with PTSD.

“WHY AM I TASTING GLITTER!?”

Maya looked up from her book just in time to see Jonah coated from eyebrows to boots.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes wide. “They got a civilian.”

Rico wheezed from the kitchenette, trying not to drop the microwave burrito he was clutching. “Collateral damage. Man down!”

Jonah stormed down the aisle of the van, glitter sticking to his neck like guilt. “WHO. DID. THIS.”

Gabriel looked up from his laptop, eyes full of fake innocence. “Wasn’t me, sparklecake.”

Jonah pointed both hands at the ceiling. “It came from the cubby above your seat, bro!”

Gabriel smirked. “Then maybe you shouldn’t go poking around other people’s—”

“SHUT UP,” Jonah snapped, glitter puffing from his chest as he shouted.

Mark leaned into the aisle just far enough to mutter, “You look like a Bratz doll exploded.”

Thane, still re-coding the lighting cue list from the co-pilot seat, didn’t even turn around. “I swear to Fenrir, if I find a single sequin in the fog cannon again, I will break both of you.”

Jonah threw himself into his seat, fuming, still sparkling under the overhead light. “I drum for this band. I have dignity. I am a respected—”

Gabriel flicked a single piece of confetti at him.

Jonah growled. Growled. It wasn’t impressive. It came out like a Labrador who’s just seen a squirrel.

“Okay,” Jonah muttered. “Okay. You want war? You want sparkle warfare? Fine.”

The van went quiet.

Then Maya, eyes gleaming, said, “Welcome to the chaos, rookie.”

Somewhere in Arizona, 2:00 PM. Desert heat outside. Air conditioning and vendettas inside.

It started innocently enough. A harmless joke.

Gabriel had swapped Maya’s guitar picks with ones that glowed in the dark and had tiny cartoon wolves on them. He’d even labeled the bag “FOR THE ALPHA BITCH.”

Maya found them right before rehearsal.

“Cute,” she said, flatly.

Gabriel just grinned from his seat, sipping coffee from a cup that said Bass Players Do It Deeper.

The next morning, Gabriel opened his gear case and found his entire bass string set swapped out for pink nylon ukulele strings. There was a glittery sticker on the lid: “REVENGE SERVED HOT, LIKE MY ATTITUDE.”

Mark smirked quietly from the back row, watching it unfold like a slow-motion car crash.

Thane, who was trying to reroute a shorted cable in the lighting rack, didn’t even look up. “Whatever this is—don’t involve me.”

By Day 3, it had escalated.

Gabriel hid a Bluetooth speaker under Maya’s seat and played fart noises during every bump in the road. Maya filled Gabriel’s shampoo bottle with green hair dye that turned his mane into a mossy nightmare.

“You’re gonna rue this day,” he hissed, towel-wrapped, lime-green and furious.

“Oh no,” Maya replied, deadpan. “Is the emo wolf gonna write poetry about it?”

Rico and Jonah had started keeping score with dry-erase markers on the fridge door:
Maya – 4 | Gabriel – 3 (minus 1 for green hair)

Thane, having had enough, declared the back two rows of the van a Neutral Zone. Any war fought beyond that line would be met with growls and actual werewolf retribution.

Naturally, Gabriel mounted a stuffed raccoon head on the boundary with a sign that read: “NO GODS, NO LAWS, NO THANE.”

Mark kicked it clean out the van door at a gas station.

But then—then came the nuke.

Gabriel waited until Maya was napping and replaced her phone’s keyboard autocorrect. Every time she typed “guitar,” it changed to “butt flute.” “Stage” became “puppy zone.” “Feral Eclipse” turned into “Fluffy Glitter Wolves.”

The group text was unreadable for hours.

“Gonna shred the butt flute at the puppy zone tonight!! LET’S GO FLUFFY GLITTER WOLVES!!”

Even Thane had to pause and laugh.

But Maya… she bided her time.

That night, as Gabriel was climbing into his bunk, the entire thing collapsed—bolts loosened, screws missing, held up by zip ties and vengeance. He hit the floor with a thud and a yelp.

Everyone turned.

Maya leaned against the bathroom door, arms crossed. “Call me ‘alpha bitch’ again.”

Gabriel groaned from the floor, rubbing his ribs. “…Respect.”

The scoreboard on the fridge now read:
Maya – 6 | Gabriel – 2 (bonus point for creativity deducted for medical risk)

The house lights dropped. A low rumble coursed through the stadium. Murmurs of the crowd grew into a rolling tide of anticipation. The massive LED wall lit up in a crimson glow as the Feral Eclipse logo burst to life—claws slashing through light, sound, and sanity.

Behind the black curtain, the band stood together—werewolves and humans alike, shoulder to shoulder in the breathless seconds before chaos.

Thane adjusted the strap of his utility harness, one hand coiled around the thick black audio cable like a weapon. His ice-blue eyes burned. Gabriel stood beside him, bass guitar slung across his shoulder, grinning like a demon with a caffeine IV. Mark towered nearby, arms folded, legs braced like a statue built for war.

“Let’s tear their souls out,” Thane growled, loud enough for only his pack to hear.

Jonah, drumsticks spinning in his fingers, grinned. “Wasn’t planning to do anything less.”

Maya cracked her knuckles, already halfway snarling in anticipation. “Time to remind the world who we are.”

Rico double-checked his guitar tuning one last time. “If I puke, just play around it.”

The curtain snapped upward with a hydraulic hiss.

A wall of white-hot light exploded over the crowd.

And Feral Eclipse erupted.

Mark launched the light rig into overdrive—six VariLite VL2Bs mounted along the truss above the stage fired pulsing red beams down into the fog, slicing through smoke and madness like laser fangs. The strobes kicked into sync with the first beat.

Gabriel exploded forward, feet pounding the stage, claws digging into the plywood as he slammed the opening bass riff hard enough to rattle teeth in the cheap seats. His hair flared behind him like a shadowy halo. He screamed wordlessly into the roar of the crowd, feeding off their wild energy like fire on gasoline.

Maya, planted to Gabriel’s left, had transformed into a literal rhythm machine—her fingers a blur on the strings, body rolling with each hard riff. She looked feral in her own way, fire blazing in her eyes.

Rico’s solos screamed over the top of it all—beautiful chaos woven into thunder.

Jonah was a human blur behind the kit, sweat flying from his arms like rain in a hurricane.

And Mark—oh, Mark—was a one-man lighting apocalypse. He sent pulsing reds, savage whites, and shadowy blues blasting across the crowd in waves that matched the beat so tightly the audience could feel the rhythm in their ribs.

The crowd? Lost their damn minds.

People screamed, cried, threw shirts, waved clawed hand signs. Several fans in the front row were howling—literally howling—along with Gabriel as he leaned out over the barricade, baring his fangs and slapping hands with total strangers like he’d known them all his life.

By the time they reached their third song, “Lunar Burn,” the entire crowd was bouncing in unison, an ocean of bodies worshiping at the altar of claws and chords.

And then—mid-song, no warning—Thane flipped the fog cannons to full.

A flood of low-lying fog spilled across the stage. The red beams from above tore through it, slicing through the mist like blades. Gabriel stood dead center in it, bass slung low, eyes glowing like embers as he lifted his arms and howled.

The crowd howled back.

No music.

Just that moment.

That shared madness.

Then—BOOM. Jonah’s drumline kicked in. Maya screamed into the chorus. Rico spun into a solo so hot it should’ve come with a warning label.

They had something here.

Something real.

After the final encore, the lights dimmed. The crowd screamed for more, even as the stage went dark.

And in the shadows, Gabriel leaned over to Thane and whispered, breathless:

“We’re not a band anymore.”

Thane tilted his head. “Oh?”

Gabriel grinned wide, fangs flashing.

“We’re a goddamn movement.”

Backstage meeting room, fifteen minutes post-furniture destruction

The makeshift band meeting had commandeered the dim, echoing room adjacent to the green room. A half-eaten veggie platter sat lonely on the table. Thane had managed to unfold a chair without breaking it this time. Mark stood beside him like an unyielding slab of granite. Gabriel was perched backward on a stool, coffee in hand like a referee ready to call a foul.

Maya leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, fiery eyes locked on Thane. Rico and Jonah slouched nearby, trying their best to look small and un-injurable.

“Alright,” Thane muttered. “Let’s hear it.”

Jonah was the first to brave it. “Look, man… we didn’t know cosplay fan art would set you off that hard.”

“It’s not the art,” Thane growled. “It’s being turned into… merch. I’m not a plush toy. I’m me.”

Rico raised a hand slowly, like a kid in class worried about asking the wrong question. “What if… and just hear me out… you are you. But now, people are seeing that. You made an impact. They’re just… processing it through glitter and chaos.”

“Badly,” Maya added flatly. “Very badly. But they are trying.”

Thane rubbed the bridge of his snout, sighing. “It’s just… hard. We’re not celebrities. We’re a crew. A family. This wasn’t supposed to be about becoming somebody’s furry fanfiction inspiration.”

Gabriel sipped his coffee. “Yeah, but now we are. The weird thing is… that’s kind of beautiful.”

Mark grunted. “It’s still stupid.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Gabriel shot back with a grin.

At that moment, the door creaked open.

A tech assistant sheepishly peeked in. “Uh… sorry to interrupt. Fanmail dump just got delivered. Apparently it’s been piling up since Dallas and no one told you guys.”

He wheeled in two bins overflowing with envelopes, doodles, signed photos, even a stuffed wolf plush in a Feral Eclipse shirt.

“Oh, great,” Mark muttered. “Our legacy in crayon.”

Rico wandered over, lifting a letter with doodles of the band in wolf and human forms playing onstage. “This one’s got, like, actual shading. Damn.”

Gabriel grabbed a postcard and burst out laughing. “This one says, ‘Dear Gabriel, if you ever get tired of Thane, I’m 5’10”, make a mean grilled cheese, and love wolves.’”

Thane side-eyed him. “You gonna answer that one?”

“Depends. Do you make a mean grilled cheese?”

Before Thane could answer, another knock echoed at the door.

It opened a crack.

A hotel security guard stood there awkwardly. “Sorry. We tried to stop her. She, uh, slipped through a service hallway. She said she just needed a second.”

From behind him, a teenage girl stepped forward. Nervous. Hands clasped around a carefully folded drawing.

Thane’s ears twitched. His eyes softened just a hair.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… I really needed to say thank you. I’ve been… having a really hard time. Like, really hard. And your music? Your existence? It made me feel like I wasn’t weird. Like maybe… maybe being different doesn’t mean being broken.”

She held out the drawing. It was him—Thane—standing in a spotlight, cable in one clawed hand, face fierce but proud. The text under it read: “Real. Raw. Relentless.”

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he knelt down slowly and took the drawing with a clawed hand that trembled just slightly.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly.

“Emma.”

He nodded. “Emma, I’m proud of you. For being different. And for being here.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m proud of you too.”

Gabriel grinned and whispered behind him, “Say it. You’re feeling feelings.”

Thane didn’t look back. “Shut up.”

Mark muttered under his breath, “If we adopt a fan, I swear to god…”

Maya leaned against the wall, smirking. “Too late. Thane has an emotional support Emma now.”

Thane rose, still holding the drawing. He looked around at the ridiculous, chaotic, loving mess that was his band.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go play a show.”

Backstage, five minutes after the cosplay catastrophe

Thane kicked the door open so hard the hinges protested in fluent French. The green room fell into silence as he stormed in, claws flexing, teeth bared, eyes blazing like twin ice storms ready to swallow a city.

Mark trailed a safe distance behind, wordlessly shutting the door. He gave a quiet nod to the others in the room that clearly said: “Get out. Now.”

Maya raised both brows, grabbed Rico and Jonah by their shirts, and hauled them into the hallway. She knew that look. The “casual homicide pending” look.

Alone now, Thane launched into a tirade like the air itself had insulted him.

“Cosplay? Furry OC dragon-wolf sparkle disasters?!”

He flung a folding chair halfway across the room. It exploded against the wall like a paperclip in a jet turbine.

“They made me into a goddamn cartoon mascot! What the fuck is wrong with people?! I am not some soft, plushie-friendly… fanfiction fuel!”

He picked up a plastic water bottle and crushed it in one clawed fist. “They wore fake claws, Gabriel. FAKE. CLAWS.”

Gabriel, who’d followed him in mid-sip of his eleventh post-show coffee, blinked.

Thane was just getting warmed up. He turned, jaw clenched, fur bristling.

“I have bled for this band. I’ve soldered busted cables with my fangs in the freezing rain. I’ve fixed trusses with a broken wrist. I’ve held this chaotic hell-train together with my goddamn claws and sweat. And now? Now? Some TikTok disaster in glitter ears wants to be me? ‘Team Feral Thane’? ‘Smells like burnt marshmallows and leadership’?! WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”

He flipped a table.

Gabriel set down his cup, walked straight up to Thane, and put both hands on his shoulders with firm pressure.

“Thane.”

“What?!”

“Stop.”

“Why?! So I can keep getting turned into a sparklewerewolf OC trading card by a bunch of giggling—”

Gabriel shoved him—not hard, but enough to interrupt the meltdown.

“Look at me.”

Thane froze.

Gabriel’s icy blue eyes locked onto his. No anger. Just… sincerity.

“This is what happens when you matter to people.”

Thane blinked. That wasn’t what he expected.

Gabriel kept going. “You gave them something real. Something raw. They’re dumb about it, yeah. But they love what you built. They’re trying to honor that—even if it comes out all wrong.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against Thane’s. “Don’t hate them for loving you the only way they know how. You’re not a joke to them. You’re a legend. Even if their legends wear glue-on tails.”

Thane stood there, fists trembling, breath heaving… and slowly let out a ragged sigh.

Mark cracked the door open. “Can I come back in, or is this still a war zone?”

Gabriel turned with a grin. “De-escalated.”

Thane muttered, “Barely.”

Mark stepped in, surveyed the broken chair and bent table. “Jesus. Looks like someone held an exorcism in here.”

Thane rubbed his face. “I’m gonna need six drinks, a shower, and maybe a ritual cleansing.”

Mark deadpanned, “If someone shows up in a fursuit next show, I’m setting myself on fire.”

Gabriel grinned, patting Thane’s back. “That’s the spirit.”

Evening showtime, meet-and-greet line, back of the venue

It started innocently enough. The venue had arranged a post-show meet-and-greet for fans who had splurged on VIP passes. Gabriel was still buzzing from his final solo and riding the caffeine high of two pre-show espresso shots and one disturbingly chunky energy drink labeled “Thermonuclear Howl.”

He was the first to take a seat at the folding table set up near the back of the venue. Mark and Thane followed, both clearly Not Having It™.

Then the first fan walked in.

Wearing ears. Sparkly pink werewolf ears. And a tail. That wagged.

Thane froze. Mark’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Gabriel blinked, looked left, looked right, and whispered, “Oh no.”

The next fan wore a hand-sewn hoodie with fur glued to the sleeves and what appeared to be actual meat bones dangling from the drawstrings. She growled theatrically and purred, “You guys awakened my inner beast.”

Mark made a face like he’d just bit into a hot dog and discovered a thumb.

Rico, already half-laughing behind a merch crate, whispered to Maya, “Ten bucks says Thane goes full aneurysm before this is over.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “I’m not betting on inevitability.”

Then came the real kicker.

A teenage fan—maybe seventeen—wearing a glittery silver cape, mismatched claw gloves, and makeup that made him look like a raccoon who’d been mugged. He proudly declared:

“I’m FERAL THANE.”

There was a beat of silence. Even Gabriel’s smile twitched.

“Excuse me?” Thane asked slowly, standing just a little taller.

“I made a whole OC based on you!” the fan beamed. “He’s, like, part arctic wolf, but also part dragon and his fur smells like—”

“Stop.”

The fan blinked. “Huh?”

Mark leaned forward, voice like a glacier scraping across asphalt. “Go home. Reconsider your life.”

The fan slunk away.

Then someone showed up with a shirtless Gabriel cosplay and a Sharpie, asking to “sign my chest like the alpha you are.”

Gabriel did it.

Thane looked like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest bass amp.

“You’re enabling them,” he hissed under his breath.

Gabriel just sipped his coffee and grinned, “I’m living my best life.”

Another fan waddled up in a onesie with painted abs, fangs made of Tic-Tacs, and a “Team Mark” pin.

Mark didn’t blink. “Get therapy.”

Behind the line, Jonah was filming everything.

Rico whispered, “I’m gonna meme the shit outta this.”

Maya just laughed and leaned on the wall. “We knew what this band was when we joined.”

Thane finally stood, hands flat on the table. “Okay. I am calling an emergency band meeting right now. This is not sustainable.”

Gabriel sipped his drink with a contented sigh. “You love it.”

“I don’t!”

“You love it.”

Mark stood next to Thane, arms crossed. “We’re burning the internet down after this.”

“Good.”

Meanwhile, another fan posed for a photo with Gabriel while holding a handmade sign that read:
“I HOWL FOR COFFEE AND CHAOS”

Thane turned and muttered, “That one might be our target demo.”

Same afternoon, merch table near the venue’s main concourse

The venue’s merch coordinator—a teenager named Kyle who looked like he got this gig because he once dated the assistant manager’s niece—stood proudly behind a folding table piled with freshly unpacked boxes. A banner above the booth read: FERAL ECLIPSE—WILD. RAW. HOWLIN’. (Yes, with an apostrophe.)

Gabriel was the first to wander over, lured by the smell of popcorn and curiosity. He stopped cold at the sight of the merch.

“Thane is gonna lose his entire mind,” he whispered, awestruck.

The T-shirts were… something. Bright neon pink and lime green tie-dye with “Stay Feral, Des Moines!” printed in Comic Sans across the chest. The “wolf” silhouette was clearly a clip art German Shepherd with sunglasses. One hoodie had a full moon with sparkles around it and the slogan “BITE ME, I’M LOCAL” in glittery puff paint.

There were also:

• Foam claws (all five-fingered, because of course),
• “Feral Eclipse” slap bracelets with paw prints,
• Stick-on glow-in-the-dark “fangs,”
• A limited edition tote bag with an anime-style werewolf in a crop top.

Gabriel picked one up and turned to Kyle. “Hey, man… where did you get these?”

Kyle beamed. “I designed them myself. I used AI, like… four whole times.”

“Oh,” Gabriel said, as if Kyle had just admitted to building a spaceship with hot glue and hope. “Oh, buddy.”

Thane arrived seconds later, Mark right behind him.

Thane’s ears immediately flattened. “What. The actual. Hell is this?”

Kyle, still beaming. “Custom merch for tonight! Wanna autograph some for the fans?”

Mark pointed at the foam claws. “These have five digits. We have four.”

Kyle blinked. “I mean, artist interpretation?”

“Is this glitter?” Thane asked, holding up the hoodie with two claws like it was contagious.

Gabriel whispered, “Please wear it. Please.”

“No.”

“Please just once.”

“Gabriel—”

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

“…Fine.”

Gabriel let out an unholy squeal of victory.

Mark wandered over to the tote bag. He held it up with two clawed fingers, deadpan. “I think this is fan art of us, but… anime.”

Jonah and Rico finally walked up, both with tacos. Jonah stopped mid-bite. “Okay. What the hell are we looking at?”

Rico raised a brow. “We get a cut of this?”

Kyle replied, “The venue keeps all merch proceeds.”

Mark: “I knew I hated this place.”

Thane looked ready to rip a foam claw in half, when Maya appeared behind them and loudly announced, “HEY! Who gave our drummer a Hello Kitty shirt with fangs?!”

All heads turned. Jonah froze. He looked down. Sure enough, someone had slipped a “Feral Kawaii” tee over his regular one. It had a chibi werewolf licking a moon like an ice cream cone.

Rico just gave him a thumbs-up. “Honestly, bro? You pull it off.”

Jonah groaned and walked into the nearest wall.

Thane turned back to the table and growled, “This is not us.”

Gabriel grinned and held up one of the pink glittery shirts. “Maybe not… but imagine the tour photo.”

Mark muttered, “I’m starting to think I’m the sane one.”

Mid-afternoon, backstage at the Ridge Rock Pavilion – a mid-sized amphitheater in Des Moines

The backstage area was… something. Someone had clearly Googled “werewolf hospitality” at 2 a.m. and gone way, way too far.

The green room smelled like raw meat, incense, and desperation. A small table in the corner held a mountain of bloody ribeye steaks—uncooked, sweating in the open air under the humming fluorescent lights. There was also a full jar of peanut butter, two cans of dog food (?!), and a pile of beef jerky shaped into a paw print.

Gabriel stood in the doorway, frozen, just staring at the carnage. “What the hell?” he muttered.

Thane stepped up beside him, a clipboard of load-in notes tucked under one arm. He blinked at the absurd meat display, his jaw slightly slack.

Mark brushed past both of them, stopped mid-step, squinted at the tray, and said flatly, “Is this a threat?”

Enter Becky, the venue’s PR manager—a beaming, overly enthusiastic woman in her early thirties with bright eyes and the energy of a motivational speaker. “Hi, guys!! Welcome! I just want to say how excited we are to have Feral Eclipse performing tonight. And don’t worry—we totally did our research.”

Gabriel slowly turned toward her. “Research.”

Becky gestured proudly at the table. “We wanted you to feel at home! I read online that werewolves love red meat and strong scents, so we curated this special welcome spread just for you!”

Thane looked at Mark. Mark looked at Thane. Neither said a word. The air was thick with judgment.

Undeterred, Becky launched into her next proud announcement. “Also! We changed out all the signs on your dressing rooms to say ‘Pack Leader’ and ‘Beta Babe’—so fun, right?! Oh! And if you need a full moon backdrop for any of your Instas, we’ve got one set up by the side entrance!”

Thane dropped his clipboard.

Gabriel reached forward and gently pushed a dog biscuit off the tray like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Mark stared out into the void as if silently calculating the prison sentence for arson.

“I… don’t know whether to laugh or set this place on fire,” Thane finally muttered.

Mark offered a dry suggestion: “Can we do both?”

Just then, Maya stepped in, took one look at the raw steaks and Becky, and demanded, “Okay, what in the name of Latin rage is this?”

“Werewolf dinner!” Becky declared proudly.

Maya turned slowly to Thane. “If I kill her, do I still get paid?”

Meanwhile, Rico and Jonah entered behind her, pushing a massive amp through the hallway. Rico paused mid-roll and blinked at the bizarre meat altar.

“Yo,” he said, wide-eyed. “Are we doing a ritual tonight?”

Jonah, already backing up: “I told y’all we should’ve stayed in the van.”

Gabriel, ever the agent of chaos, stepped forward and raised a raw steak like a champagne toast. “To full moons and well-done misunderstandings.”

Before he could bite into it, Thane snatched the steak away.

“We’re eating at the taco truck across the street,” he said, already turning.

Gabriel pouted. “But—”

“Nope,” Thane cut in sharply.

Mark gave the meat tray one last glance and shook his head. “Someone’s gonna get salmonella just from standing near that thing.”

An Hour Later — Feral Eclipse Tour Van, Hotel Driveway

Jonah was the first to say it out loud.

“Okay, we’ve officially gone viral. Again.”

He was hunched in the back of the van, phone in hand, eyes wide as he read the comments scrolling past at lightning speed. “There’s already three TikToks with Riley’s blurry selfie, and one of them is set to our live version of ‘Blood Moon Promises.’ It’s got 40k views in the last half hour.”

Gabriel, lounging in the passenger seat with his feet on the dash and his coffee cup (now his third) in clawed hand, grinned. “She had a good angle. I looked damn heroic helping her up.”

“You looked like a caffeinated cryptid,” Mark muttered.

“I am a caffeinated cryptid.”

Thane was in the back with his laptop open, trying to settle the next venue’s load-in logistics, but he paused when Rico spoke up from the other bench.

“Uh, guys… the hotel just reposted it.”

Everyone froze.

Rico kept reading: “’We’re howlin’ with excitement! Feral Eclipse spotted at our breakfast buffet this morning! Thanks to fan @RileyEatsStars for the sweet clip. #FeralEclipse #WerewolfWakeup #HazelnutHospitality’”

Thane looked up, deadpan. “They hashtagged Hazelnut Hospitality?”

Gabriel leaned over to peek. “Wait, is that fan art?!”

Sure enough, someone on Instagram had already sketched a pastel-styled drawing of Gabriel handing Riley the tiny Nutella jar like it was a holy relic. Thane was in the background, looking confused and vaguely annoyed, and Mark was photobombing with a raised eyebrow and a fork full of bacon.

Gabriel snorted. “I look like a breakfast saint. That’s going on my next T-shirt.”

Mark groaned. “We’re never gonna have a quiet hotel breakfast again, are we?”

“Nope,” Jonah said. “Also… uh… the hotel’s other guests are now tagging us too. Apparently, a dad with a hangover got mad about the ‘wolf boys’ scaring his kid, and now he’s in the comments arguing with fans.”

Thane shut the laptop slowly and sighed. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Maya chimed in from the back bench, tapping her phone. “We’ve been on Instagram for two hours and you’re already trending on three platforms. I can’t decide if I’m proud or worried.”

Rico held up his phone. “Oh, and look—someone just uploaded AI fan art of all of us eating breakfast shirtless. Mark, you’re oddly shredded.”

Mark blinked. “…That’s unsettling.”

“Flattering, though,” Gabriel added, sipping his coffee. “I say we lean into it.”

Thane chuckled under his breath, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his muzzle. “You lean into it. I’m going to get us to the next gig without being mobbed by children holding Nutella jars.”

As the van pulled away from the curb, Mark pulled his hood up and muttered, “Calling it now—next time, someone’s gonna ask me to autograph a bagel.”

Still Morning – Fancy Hotel Dining Room

Most of the Feral Eclipse crew had migrated into a food coma.

Thane was slouched in his chair with his claws wrapped around a third cup of coffee, gaze fixed on a point somewhere past the glass windows and into the void. Gabriel was quietly humming to himself between bites of croissant-stuffed eggs, feet swinging under the table. Mark, still grumbling about “banana textures,” was calculating how much longer it would take the espresso machine to break down if Gabriel hit it one more time.

Then, she appeared.

A teenaged girl, maybe sixteen, in a soft hoodie and sneakers, was sitting with her mom a few tables over. She’d been “sneaking glances” for ten minutes straight—trying to act casual while very much not being casual.

She had the look of someone internally screaming the entire time. Phone clutched tightly in both hands. Eyes wide. Hands twitching.

Gabriel was the first to notice.

He tilted his head, ears perking, and whispered across the table, “We’ve been spotted.”

Thane sighed, “You sure?”

“She’s wearing a tour hoodie from Tulsa,” Gabriel replied, nodding toward the girl. “Second row. That’s definitely her. She was the one who tossed a glow stick at Jonah during his solo.”

Jonah blinked. “That was her? That thing nailed me in the temple.”

Gabriel grinned. “Direct hit. Five stars.”

Rico leaned in. “She gonna ask for a pic?”

“Nope,” said Mark, still sipping his black coffee, “She’s about to pretend she’s not freaking out. Then she’ll try to casually pass by us with her phone recording, trip over a chair, and we’ll all pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ten seconds later… she tripped over a chair.

“Called it,” Mark muttered.

Her mom looked up in alarm, but the girl waved it off like she meant to do that. She walked by their table, phone in hand, held at an angle so unnatural it could only be the “I’m definitely not filming you right now” position.

Thane, deadpan, without looking up: “Smile, boys. We’re going viral again.”

Gabriel leaned toward the girl, flashing his most charming fang-filled grin. “Morning!”

She stopped dead.

Her phone hit the floor with a clatter.

“I—I—Hi! Oh my god, hi!!” she squeaked.

Mark blinked slowly. “Nailed it.”

Gabriel stood up slowly and extended a clawed hand to help her pick up her phone. “You okay?”

She nodded frantically. “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt! I just—I’m such a huge fan—my name’s Riley—I saw you in Tulsa and the light show was so—”

Thane smiled softly and reached for his coffee. “Appreciate the love, Riley.”

Maya gave a mock glare from across the room. “Make it quick, guys. We’re on the road again in twenty.”

Riley’s mom had now walked up, equal parts embarrassed and trying to play it cool. “Sorry about that—she’s just really excited.”

Gabriel posed for a quick selfie with Riley (who was shaking so hard the picture ended up hilariously blurry), then gave her one of the little hotel Nutella jars from his pocket.

“Emergency werewolf gift,” he said with a wink.

As they walked away, Jonah shook his head. “You keep giving out hotel condiments, and we’re gonna get blacklisted.”

Gabriel beamed. “Worth it.”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “She’s totally posting that video before we check out.”

Mark leaned back, already dreading the inevitable. “Can’t wait to read the headline: ‘Feral Eclipse Guitarist Gives Me Hazelnut Trauma’.”

Morning after the chaos – Upscale Hotel, Somewhere Fancy

The Feral Eclipse crew wandered into the gleaming breakfast buffet like a pack of under-slept rockstars who had no business being near breakable tableware. The hotel had clearly not prepared for werewolves.

The dining area was an elegant spread of marble floors, glass carafes of artisan juices, and waitstaff in pressed uniforms who wore the same expression as people trying not to acknowledge an oncoming tornado.

Thane led the pack, still wearing yesterday’s jeans and a “Coffee or Crying” T-shirt he’d found in a merch box. His ice-blue eyes scanned the offerings like a general evaluating a battlefield. One clawed hand gripped a tray; the other already held a heaping plate of bacon.

Mark followed behind with a slow, measured pace, fur slightly fluffed from sleep. He looked around the room like he was trying to spot which waffle iron would betray them first. He mumbled, “I give this five minutes before we’re asked to leave.”

Gabriel bounded in behind them with an energy level that should’ve been illegal. Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. Steam rising from the massive hotel-branded coffee cup in his claws.

“OHHHHH they have croissants! I’m gonna put scrambled eggs in them. Gourmet werewolf breakfast taco, baby!”

A child at a nearby table pointed and whispered, “Mommy, look! Furry superheroes!”

Thane gave the kid a wink. Mark muttered, “If one more person calls me Chewbacca, I’m burning this place down.”

Maya strolled in, fully human and fully amused, wearing shades and a tank top that read I don’t tour with amateurs, I just babysit them. She glanced at Gabriel’s third trip to the omelet bar.

“I swear, you burn more calories thinking than performing,” she teased.

“Brain fuel,” Gabriel replied, mouth full of melon. “Also this hotel has tiny Nutella jars and I am now their god.”

Jonah and Rico joined them, plates balanced high with pastries and suspiciously fancy meats. Jonah gestured to a dish labeled “local artisanal sausage” and asked, “Think it’s real meat?”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “You gonna tell the werewolves if it isn’t?”

Thane set his tray down at the far end of the long table and started organizing his food into tactical quadrants. “Don’t care. It’s protein. As long as it’s not tofu shaped like bacon, we’re good.”

Mark, two seats down, peeled a banana like it had personally insulted him. “Tofu tries to be bacon one more time, I’m staging a coup.”

A server arrived with fresh juice and a practiced smile. “If there’s anything else you need, please let us know.”

Gabriel, suddenly very interested, leaned in. “Do you have a chocolate fountain?”

The server blinked. “Sir, it’s eight-thirty in the morning.”

Gabriel didn’t break eye contact. “So… that’s a no?”

Thane sighed, gesturing at Gabriel with a fork. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Eventually, the band settled into a lopsided but functional breakfast rhythm—coffee, muttered insults, and a near fight over the last muffin.

But for a few brief moments, in the golden glow of morning sun and maple syrup, they looked like any other weird little family just trying to get through one more day on the road.

Hotel balcony, just before dawn

The city was still sleeping. Even the traffic sounded like it had hit the snooze button. Pale lavender hues tinged the skyline as the sun began to rise, casting a soft gold light over rooftops and quiet intersections.

Thane leaned on the hotel balcony railing, elbows resting on the cool concrete, a can of diet Mountain Dew cracked open beside him. The chaos of the previous night still echoed faintly in his ears—the lights, the roar of the crowd, the crash afterward—but now, it felt like he was watching it all from a distance.

The sliding door opened behind him with a quiet whoosh.

Gabriel padded out barepaw, still in his band T-shirt, fur sticking up on one side like he’d been battling the pillow and lost. He looked groggy but grounded. No trace of the whirlwind from before. Just him, raw and real.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside Thane and leaned in with a quiet sigh, both clawed hands wrapped around a cup of coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

After a few beats of silence, he murmured, “So… that happened.”

Thane chuckled softly. “Yeah. Sure did.”

“Still vibrating a little.”

“You’re not. But your tail twitched like four times.”

Gabriel gave a tired laugh, sipping his coffee. “I just wanted to impress them, you know? Like… we’re the new guys. And I didn’t want them thinking we were just the gimmick with claws.”

Thane turned to him, resting a forearm on the railing. “You don’t need to impress anyone, my wolf. You already are impressive. You’ve got talent, heart, and a terrifying relationship with caffeine. That’s more than enough.”

Gabriel gave him a side-eye and a crooked grin. “Terrifying?”

“Truly. Like, OSHA should be notified.”

They stood there for a while, watching the sun come up in companionable quiet. The air was crisp, the city slowly waking below. Somewhere in a room across the way, a curtain twitched, and a dog barked once, as if to confirm that yes, the day had officially begun.

Gabriel shifted closer, shoulder brushing Thane’s. “Thanks for being there last night.”

“Always.”

“You really mean that?”

Thane gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Even if you dive off the deep end, I’ll be the one swimming after you. With a rope. And a fire extinguisher. And probably Mark yelling in the background.”

Gabriel chuckled again. “I’m really lucky, you know.”

Thane finally turned toward him and met his eyes. “We both are.”

They stayed there as the sun rose higher, casting long, golden rays across the world—and just for a moment, it felt like everything was exactly where it needed to be.

Post-show, backstage hallway

The roar of the crowd was still echoing off the walls, but back here, it felt like the world had come to a screeching halt.

The set had gone off surprisingly well—shockingly well, considering Gabriel had played the entire first half like his claws were being powered by a nuclear reactor and a gallon of espresso. His bass solos had been tight, maybe even a little too tight, like he’d transcended normal rhythm and entered some higher plane of cosmic groove.

But now… now, reality was dragging him back down like a cinderblock on a bungee cord.

Gabriel stumbled through the stage-left curtain and sagged against the cinderblock wall, fur soaked with sweat, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

“Water…” he croaked. “Is… is water a thing? Still legal? Am I… am I vibrating?”

Mark was the first to reach him, eyes wide but calm, gently easing the bass from Gabriel’s hands before it could be dropped or turned into a hallucinated helicopter.

Thane was second. He didn’t say a word. Just crouched low in front of him, icy blue eyes locked on Gabriel’s glazed ones. The panic, the sheer velocity that had been pushing Gabriel forward for hours… it was gone. All that remained was a trembling werewolf whose whole body looked like it was trying to shut down in alphabetical order.

“I can’t… feel my ears,” Gabriel whispered, blinking slowly. “Did we play yet?”

Thane exhaled through his nose and eased his arms under Gabriel’s to hold him steady. “Yeah, my wolf. We played. You crushed it. And now you’re crashing.”

Gabriel nodded once, then slumped forward, his forehead resting against Thane’s shoulder. “Sorry…” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to. I just thought it’d be fun. They were cool guys. And the powder made the air make music.”

“I know,” Thane said softly, one clawed hand gently resting against the back of Gabriel’s neck. “You don’t have to explain. You’re okay now.”

Jonah appeared with a bottle of water, holding it out like he was defusing a bomb. “Uh. Should I…?”

“Yeah,” Thane said, accepting it without looking. “Thanks.”

Mark stood nearby, arms crossed, brow furrowed in the way he did when he was balancing concern with the urge to yell. “I’ll go find the tour manager. Tell him we need a later checkout tomorrow. And maybe a forklift.”

Gabriel groaned into Thane’s shoulder. “I think my organs are trying to swap jobs.”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Thane murmured. “Just ride it out. We’ve got you.”

A pause.

“…You still love me even though I’m an idiot?” Gabriel whispered.

Thane’s arms tightened just slightly around him. “I love you especially because you’re an idiot.”

From down the hall, Maya shouted, “Tell him to puke before he hits the hotel carpet!”

Mark deadpanned, “Now that’s leadership.”

Pre-show green room, Denver Hard Rock Arena

The green room backstage was buzzing—half with excitement, half with fluorescent tube lights that flickered like they were trying to drop the beat. The venue smelled like anticipation, stale sweat, and Febreze sprayed over questionable decisions. Feral Eclipse had officially made it—they were opening for Spinal Muzzle, one of the most infamous hard rock bands of the past two decades. Tattooed, loud, legendary… and absolutely, unequivocally insane.

Gabriel had vanished the second their backstage passes were clipped.

Thane had been double-checking the rigging specs, clipboard in claw, barely holding it together after the clustertruck that was the broken van axle incident earlier. Mark was quietly nursing a giant bottle of soda like it was his only lifeline to sanity.

Then Rico wandered in, chewing half a granola bar and looking… worried.

“Hey, uh… Thane?” he said, voice low.

Thane didn’t even look up. “If this is about a missing mic stand, I swear I will—”

“It’s not that. It’s Gabe. I just walked by the other band’s green room. He’s in there. With them.”

Mark looked up. “Define ‘with them.’”

Rico scratched the back of his neck. “He was laughing. Real loud. And… I think they handed him something. White. Powdery. On a mirror.”

Mark blinked. “…Oh no.”

Thane dropped the clipboard. “He did not.”

Jonah poked his head in, eyes wide. “Uh… he did. He definitely did.”

---

By the time Thane made it down the hallway, the door to the Spinal Muzzle green room was wide open. Inside, the band’s frontman—Razor, who somehow looked both 45 and immortal—was doubled over laughing. Gabriel stood in the middle of the room, eyes way too wide, pacing in tight circles and talking faster than Thane could think.

“—and that’s why I think if we add strobes to the kick hits we could realign the crowd’s heartbeats with the rhythm and literally control time, guys, I mean—oh hey, Thane!”

Thane stared at him. “Gabriel. What. Did. You. Do?”

Gabriel beamed, nose twitching. “Made friends! And they gave me special friend powder!”

Rico facepalmed behind Thane.

Mark leaned in the doorway, sipping his soda. “Well. This should be fun.”

---

Fifteen minutes later

Back in the Feral Eclipse green room, Gabriel was upside-down on a folding chair, mumbling about sound waves and coffee flavor harmonics. Jonah had barricaded the door with a keyboard stand, and Rico was scouring the venue’s snack table for orange juice. Mark just stood silently in the corner, sipping and judging.

Thane crouched down in front of Gabriel. “Gabriel. Fucking focus. What did you take?”

Gabriel blinked, one ear twitching wildly. “It was like lightning! In my face! And then I was… faster than music, man.”

Thane sighed and looked at the others. “We’re not making it through this show unless we burn that powder stash and chain him to a bass amp.”

Mark didn’t even flinch. “He’s going to crash mid-set and take out half the drum kit.”

Jonah grinned. “So, normal show then?”

Gabriel suddenly sat bolt upright. “I JUST WROTE A BASS SOLO IN MY HEAD. IT’S MADE OF GEOMETRY.”

Thane rubbed his temples. “Okay. We’re going into damage control mode. Jonah—water. Rico—more water. Mark—remind me why I don’t just maul that other band.”

Mark shrugged. “Public relations?”

Just outside the venue loading bay, 30 minutes to showtime

The echo of slamming cases and tuning guitars faded behind the heavy service door. Outside, the alley behind the venue was dim and quiet, the only light coming from a flickering overhead bulb and the distant glow of a nearby gas station sign.

Thane sat on a concrete ledge by the dumpster, elbows on his knees, claws laced together. The night air was cooler here—damp with the scent of rain and alley grease. His chest still rose and fell just a little too quickly.

The door creaked open and closed again. Mark walked out, carrying two bottles of water. He handed one to Thane without saying a word and leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed.

They sat in silence for a long minute. Then Thane finally broke it.

“I almost lost it, Mark.”

Mark took a slow sip of water, then nodded. “Yeah. You almost did.”

“I hate that. That side of me.” His claws tightened around the bottle, the plastic crinkling. “I don’t want to be the guy everyone’s afraid of.”

“You’re not,” Mark said. “Not to us.”

Thane scoffed quietly. “Rico might disagree.”

Mark glanced at him. “Rico will get over it. He poked the wolf. You growled. That’s life. But you didn’t bite. That’s what matters.”

Thane stared down at the ground, then let out a breath. “I’ve worked so damn hard to stay in control. To not be that walking threat everyone expects. And then one dumb comment and I’m back on edge like it’s instinct.”

Mark’s tone softened, which was rare for him. “You’ve got every right to be tired. You pulled the van back from the grave, kept us from missing the gig, and still haven’t gotten a second to yourself.”

There was a pause, then:

“You’re not dangerous, Thane. You’re exhausted.”

Thane blinked and looked sideways at him. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Mark said with a shrug. “It’s supposed to make you go take five minutes and breathe before you turn into a cautionary tale in a backstage safety handbook.”

That actually got a soft laugh from Thane. He leaned back against the wall, letting his eyes close for a second.

“I appreciate you stepping in,” he said.

“You always step in for me when the world’s on fire,” Mark replied. “Figured I’d return the favor.”

Another beat of silence, warmer this time.

“Besides,” Mark added with a smirk, “I wasn’t about to carry your ass offstage in handcuffs. That’s Gabriel’s job.”

That earned a full-on laugh from Thane—tired but real.

“Remind me to write ‘Don’t kill the band’ on the setlist,” he muttered.

Mark deadpanned, “Already embroidered it on a pillow. It’s on your bunk.”

Backstage, 45 minutes to showtime

The backstage tension was thicker than the stage fog. Cables were being flung instead of coiled, doors closed a little too hard, and nobody made eye contact.

Rico had cracked the wrong joke at the worst possible time—some smug remark about Thane and the van repairs that sounded more like mockery than ribbing. Thane had gone from calm to apex predator in two seconds flat.

Now Rico stood, tense and pale, his hands spread like he was about to surrender to airport security. “I was just messing with you, man—”

Thane, muscles tight and hackles up, took a step forward, a low growl in his throat that made the air itself seem to retreat.

Mark’s arm shot out like a steel gate, planting himself firmly between the two.

“Thane,” he said calmly, “no murder before load-in. We talked about this.”

Thane didn’t look at Mark—his eyes were locked on Rico like crosshairs.

“Deep breath,” Mark continued, not budging. “I know you’re tired. I know what happened today sucked. But he’s not worth losing your temper over.”

“He disrespected me,” Thane snarled.

“He disrespected your van,” Mark corrected. “And I’ll remind you, it’s barely holding itself together. Unlike you, who can.”

There was a long pause. Thane’s claws flexed. He took a breath—shaky, but controlled—and stepped back.

Mark kept his eyes on Thane a moment longer, then turned to Rico.

“You,” he said dryly, “go tune something. Quietly. Somewhere far away from Thane’s claws.”

Rico blinked, nodded, and backed away like someone retreating from a live grenade. “Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

When he was gone, Thane exhaled hard and dropped onto a road case. His clawed hands rubbed over his face.

Mark crossed his arms. “You good?”

Thane gave a low, grumbling reply. “…Thanks.”

Mark just nodded. “That’s what I do. I prevent homicides.”

Thane chuckled, just a little. “You’re the real MVP.”

“Damn right I am,” Mark muttered, already walking off. “Next time, let Gabriel handle it. That one look of his could end wars.”