Next night, backstage at the new venue, two hours before showtime

The venue was a serious step up from the last one—high ceilings, clean dressing rooms, freshly waxed floors, and stage rigging that didn’t look like it might fall apart with a strong gust of bass. Thane was perched up on a catwalk above stage left, fine-tuning a stubborn lighting anchor while the crew buzzed below like caffeinated ants.

Mark had been uncharacteristically quiet during load-in. Not the good kind of quiet either—the intentional kind. Thane had noticed, of course, but with all the tech checks and patch corrections going on, he hadn’t had time to dig into it.

Then Gabriel’s voice crackled over comms.

“Thane? Uh… did you mess with the dressing room?”

Thane furrowed his brow. “No, I’ve been up here the whole time. Why?”

“Then… you should probably come see this.”

Thane climbed down and made his way to the dressing room, passing through the familiar backstage maze of cables, dim light, and low conversation. As he stepped into the doorway, he stopped cold.

The entire room was plastered—plastered—with Rocket Gator stickers.

They were everywhere: on the walls, the mirrors, the ceiling tiles, the backs of chairs. Even Gabriel’s prized guitar case had stickers inside it, including one right over the logo that read “RIDE THE ROCKET, COWARD.” Another one near the coffee station simply said “GATOR SEES ALL.”

Gabriel stood in the middle of the chaos, holding up one of the stickers between two claws like it was radioactive. His fur bristled as he scanned the carnage, wide-eyed.

“This is a hate crime,” he muttered.

Thane stared in awe, then slowly broke into a grin. It was beautiful. It was unhinged. It was exactly the kind of calculated, spite-fueled vengeance Mark specialized in.

And then he saw it—the crown jewel of the scene.

A framed poster, lit perfectly by a soft white spotlight, hung dead center on the wall. It showed all three of them on the Rocket Chomp Coaster, snapped mid-scream by the on-ride camera. Gabriel’s ears were pinned back. Thane looked mid-howl. And Mark?

Mark looked dead into the camera.

Expressionless. Unbothered. Like the gator ride was a business meeting he didn’t schedule but had shown up to anyway.

That broke Thane. He doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

Just then, Mark walked in, clipboard under one arm, casual as ever.

“Sound check’s in twenty,” he said, brushing past them. “Oh—and Gabriel, I added Rocket Gator charms to your guitar strings. Gotta keep the theme consistent.”

Gabriel sputtered. “You touched my guitar?!”

“I wore gloves.”

Thane leaned on the wall, tears in his eyes. “You magnificent bastard…”

Mark glanced over, tail flicking once. “That’ll teach you both to drag me to a cursed neon gator hellscape.”

Gabriel pointed at him, incredulous. “This means war.”

Mark simply nodded, already turning to leave. “I look forward to it.”