The diner was bursting at the seams.
People were crammed into booths, lined up against walls, squeezed between pie displays and window sills. Phones were everywhere—live streams, selfies, shaky videos with captions like “HE’S REAL—THANE IS REAL” and “MARK MOPPED. I REPEAT. MARK. MOPPED.”
Outside, the crowd had only grown. Fans who’d never even made it to the radio station were now holding handmade signs, waving foam claws, and chanting things like “WE LOVE YOU, GABRIEL!” and “HASH BROWNS FOR HOWLERS!”
Inside, the pack tried to carry on their “normal” breakfast. Plates clinked. Laughter bounced off the walls. Gabriel had somehow convinced Lindsay the waitress to try sitting down with them (“You’re on break now, new pack rule”). Emily was in the corner showing a young fan how to take a proper concert photo on her phone.
But then…
The flash of red and white emergency lights hit the front windows.
A fully loaded fire truck screeched to a stop outside Ruby’s, followed by a black SUV with “DALLAS FIRE MARSHAL” in bold white text. The crowd parted with a mix of excitement and confusion. Sirens shut off, but the tension didn’t.
The diner door slammed open with a clang, and in strode the fire marshal—mid-40s, sharp crew cut, crisp navy-blue uniform jacket, tablet clutched tight under his arm. Behind him, five full firefighters in bunker gear and helmets followed like backup dancers with axes.
“Alright, everyone! This place is officially over occupancy by a lot!” the marshal barked over the noise.
Booing erupted immediately. Loud, unfiltered, passionate booing. Someone shouted, “DON’T BREAK UP THE PACK!” Another waved a paper napkin with “#FeralFreedom” scribbled on it.
Gabriel stood slowly, then—with fluid, athletic grace—leapt up onto the table, tail flicking for balance as he raised both clawed hands for quiet. The room hushed instantly.
“Okay, okay, everyone chill!” he called out, his deep voice cutting through the din like a bassline. “He’s right. This isn’t safe. I mean… we’ve got paws, claws, fans sitting in the plants, and I’m pretty sure Jonah just tried to use a pie tin as a drum.”
“That’s a cowbell,” Jonah mumbled, holding up the tin in question.
Gabriel smiled, then looked the fire marshal square in the eye. “But we’ll cooperate. Totally. Just… please don’t make everyone leave. It’s been a long road for all of us to get here. We’re not just a band. This is our pack. These people? They’re family.”
The room held its breath.
The fire marshal blinked, looked around at the sea of hopeful faces—then finally, slowly, his stern expression cracked. “…You’re the werewolf bassist, right?”
Gabriel nodded. “Guilty.”
The marshal exhaled. “Would you, uh… mind signing my fire coat?”
That was all it took.
The five fully-geared firefighters surged forward, grinning like kids at Comic-Con, each holding out a helmet, a sleeve, or a clipboard. Thane grinned and obliged, sketching a fang-shaped ‘T’ over a shoulder patch. Cassie added a heart next to the department’s logo. Mark, still holding the mop, signed “Stay flammable – Mark” on one guy’s boot.
Rico slapped a sticker that said “Feral Approved” onto the ladder truck parked outside.
After a few selfies (including one where Jonah climbed into the driver’s seat of the truck and honked the horn to mass applause), the fire marshal raised his voice again.
“Alright, folks! Here’s what we’re gonna do: We’ll stay here, keep the exits clear, monitor the crowd. No one else comes in, but no one has to leave. Deal?”
The diner exploded.
Cheers, applause, whoops, howls—someone even fired up a portable Bluetooth speaker and started blasting the band’s latest single. Emily jumped up and down in the corner, overwhelmed with joy. Lindsay high-fived a firefighter. Gabriel leapt down from the table and immediately got mobbed for photos.
Outside, fans chanted, “Fire fam! Fire fam!” while a firefighter hoisted a little kid onto his shoulders for a better view.
Thane leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching it all with a slow shake of his head.
“Breakfast,” he murmured, “is wildly overrated.”
Mark stood beside him, handing the mop back to a shell-shocked employee. “At least no one’s bleeding.”
“Yet,” Thane muttered.
Gabriel popped up between them, fur fluffed and grinning. “Best eggs I’ve ever had.”