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.”