The stage had barely cooled down. The house still thrummed with the ghosts of echoing bass and crowd roars. Outside the venue, a long line curled through the parking lot—fans buzzing, makeup smudged, voices hoarse, hearts wide open.

The meet and greet was already in full swing, held inside a small conference hall at the side of the venue. Cassie was signing setlists, Jonah was showing off his drumsticks, and Gabriel had a pile of gifted bracelets draped around one furry wrist.

Thane, as always, stood half a step behind the table, arms folded, ice-blue eyes sweeping the room like a silent bouncer with very visible claws.

The vibe was joyful. Loud. Healing.

Until it wasn’t.

Three people in the back of the line—two older women and a man with a heavy scowl and a sign shoved under his arm—started muttering loud enough to be heard. Something about sin and false idols and wolves in human clothing.

Someone tried to shush them.

They just got louder.

Cassie blinked and leaned sideways toward Thane. “Uh-oh. Do we still have law enforcement on site?”

Thane didn’t answer.

Because he didn’t need to.

Chief Ron Callister, in full casual dad mode — standing proudly next to his grinning son in a patched-up Feral Eclipse hoodie — raised his handheld police radio to his mouth like he was ordering fast food.

“Unit three, five, and seven — remove the three loudmouths disrupting this line. And if they resist, I want ‘em helping sanitation detail until sun-up.”

“10-4, Chief,” came the reply.

Seconds later, three uniformed officers swept in, calm but firm, and escorted the protestors out to the roaring approval of the crowd. The chief just winked at his son and said, “Told ya we were staying for the whole show.”

Later, during load-out:

The adrenaline had mostly worn off. Gear cases thumped down ramps. Emily cataloged damage with a clipboard and a tired smile. Diesel leaned against the bus door, sipping a well-earned root beer like it was holy water.

Thane coiled cables with practiced precision. Mark stacked lighting crates. Gabriel was halfway into his bunk when he heard soft knocking on the side of the bus.

He blinked. Opened the door.

There, in full Feral Eclipse merch from head to toe — hat, hoodie, even wristbands — stood a young boy, maybe 11, his arm in a bright blue cast already covered in sharpied lyrics and paw prints from earlier.

“Hi,” the kid whispered. “Can you… sign this? You’re my favorite.”

Gabriel grinned and crouched low, claws careful. “Of course, little wolf.”

As he signed the cast with slow, careful strokes, the boy’s eyes went wide with awe. “I got all your songs on my phone,” he said quickly. “Even the ones not on Spotify. I found the B-sides on a forum. I burned a CD.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Old school. I like it.”

He paused. Then reached up and tugged off his venue all-access lanyard and slipped it over the kid’s head.

The boy gasped.

That’s when Gabriel heard the shouting.

The boy’s parents — standing at the edge of the parking lot with the same protest signs from earlier — were barreling toward the bus, panic on their faces like he was about to devour their son whole.

They stopped short as the boy turned and ran back to them, beaming. “LOOK WHAT HE GAVE ME!”

They just stood there — speechless.

The dad’s jaw worked silently. The mom dropped her sign.

Gabriel simply gave them a lazy, bright smile, one long fang showing like a badge of honor — and waved.

This wasn’t about them.
It was never about them.

It was about the kid. The moment. The music. The love.

And that was enough.

Back inside the bus, Thane watched through the window, arms folded, saying nothing.

Gabriel climbed in, flopped onto the couch, tail flopping over the edge, grinning from ear to pointed ear.

“Totally worth the cast-cramp,” he muttered.

Cassie passed with her tea in hand, smiling softly. “You’ve got a real gift, you know that?”