The sun had vanished behind the mountains by the time the crowd started pulsing.

The arena was packed to the rafters—sold out. The air buzzed with that pre-show electricity that made your fur stand on end, like the entire building was holding its breath. Fans stomped on the risers, chanting in waves. Dozens wore bootleg “Mopping Mark” shirts, others had painted their faces like Gabriel or stitched claw marks into their sleeves.

From Thane’s position at front-of-house, the view was glorious.

The stage loomed ahead, flanked by trusses armed to the teeth—12 VariLite VL2600s, freshly mounted and glowing crimson through haze that drifted in lazy spirals. The LED wall played a loop of swirling moons and scratch-mark overlays. Road crew bustled, running last checks, taping down cables, triple-securing mic stands.

And right in Thane’s zone?
A black stage cable box.
Taped to the raised mixer lid above it—Javi’s crayon drawing, flattened out, proudly displayed like a backstage shrine.

It was a burst of color in a world of wires and grit.

Cassie walked by, sipping tea with her in-ear monitors looped around her neck. She slowed as she spotted the drawing, smiled faintly… then caught Thane’s glare mid-step.

Her lips twitched. “Not saying anything,” she murmured, hands up.

“Good,” Thane growled low, tail twitching once.

Later, Jonah wandered past chewing gum, stopped, tilted his head.

“Whoa, who drew that—?”

Thane’s icy stare cut him off instantly.

“Cool. Awesome. I said nothing. I saw nothing,” Jonah nodded, eyes forward, backing away like a man defusing a landmine.

Mark never said a word—but when he passed by, he gave a small grunt and very deliberately set his backup flashlight just below the drawing like an offering. Thane didn’t even look up, but the corner of his muzzle curled in a half-smile.

Backstage, the rest of the pack gathered. Final tuning. Huddled hand stacks. Last swigs of water. Gabriel was practically bouncing out of his fur, tail lashing behind him.

“Y’all ready to shake El Paso to its foundations?” he howled.

Fans outside the curtain screamed like they heard him.

Cassie cracked her knuckles. “Let’s make ‘em forget how to blink.”

Lights dimmed. A hush dropped.

Then—

BOOM.

A pyro blast kicked off the set like thunder cracking through steel.
The crowd ERUPTED.

Red beams tore through the fog as the band launched into their opening song. Gabriel’s bass snarled through the arena, thick and heavy. Rico’s guitar split the air like a blade. Cassie hit the first verse with pure, feral fire. Jonah slammed his kit like it owed him money.

And above it all, in the glow of consoles and cables, Thane stood at his mixer—muscles taut, claws poised, ice-blue eyes scanning the levels. The pack’s guardian. The wall behind the wall.

And above his board, steady as the beat itself, Javi’s drawing fluttered slightly in the low-frequency rumble.

Thane didn’t touch it. Didn’t need to. It was exactly where it belonged.