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.”