The Feral Eclipse tour bus was parked behind the rickety main stage, now silent except for the distant clatter of churro wrappers rustling in the breeze and someone drunkenly singing the national anthem near the dunk tank.

Inside the dim glow of the bus lounge, the air was thick with exhaustion and cinnamon.

Mark had already disappeared into his bunk, muttering something about “churros and poor life decisions.”
Cassie and Maya were flopped on the couch, eyes half-lidded, slowly devouring the world’s soggiest fairground nachos.
Gabriel sat cross-legged on the carpet, bass on his lap, absentmindedly cleaning the churro sugar off his fretboard.

That’s when the bus door clicked open.

Thane, sitting closest, looked up immediately — ears twitching, nostrils flaring.

He caught the scent before the figure even stepped inside.

Vandal Saints. Bret’s scent. But… different. Quieter. Less rage, more… nerves.

It was Lance — the Saints’ bassist.

Soft-spoken, slightly hunched, and carrying himself like a guy who’d been shouted at a lot in the last 24 hours.

He took one step into the entry vestibule… and stopped.

Because Thane was already there.

Standing.
Staring.
Blocking the way.

One brow raised.

Lance froze like a rabbit who’d just realized it walked into the wrong den.

“I — uh. I’m not here to start anything.”

Thane didn’t blink.

Lance cleared his throat. “I just… wanted to talk to Gabriel. If that’s okay.”

A long pause.

Then Thane gave a slow nod — not approval, exactly, but not denial. A kind of conditional tolerance.

He stepped aside with a low grunt. “Don’t make me regret this.”

Lance swallowed hard and stepped through to the lounge.

Gabriel looked up, blinking. “…Woah. Didn’t expect to see you.”

Lance scratched the back of his neck, awkward. “Yeah. I know. I wouldn’t blame you if you told me to get lost. I just… I wanted to say sorry. For Bret. For, like, everything.”

Gabriel blinked, then gave a small smile. “Man, he’s a whole hurricane. Not your fault.”

Lance nodded, still shifting awkwardly. “Thanks. I just… I mean, I’ve been watching your playing. You’ve got this fluidity, this… groove. Even when things are insane, it’s like the notes don’t care. You anchor the sound.”

Gabriel grinned, ears perking up. “You notice that? That’s… yeah. Thanks, man. Means a lot coming from another bassist.”

Lance hesitated. “Also… I gotta ask. What’s it like? Being a werewolf, I mean. Does it change how you hear music? Or feel it?”

Gabriel’s grin softened. He looked over to Thane, who had quietly stepped closer again.

Thane answered first, voice quiet but firm. “You feel it deeper. Not just sound, but pressure. Tension. Pulse. It gets inside you.”

Gabriel nodded. “It’s like… every note you play, every vibration in your spine — it’s part of your body. Like music’s not something you make, it’s something you are.”

Lance just stared at both of them for a long beat, then exhaled slowly. “Man. I thought I loved bass before.”

Gabriel chuckled. “You still can. You don’t need fur for that part.”

Thane grunted softly. “But it helps.”

That earned a small laugh from Lance, nervous but genuine.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a pick with the Saints logo on it, and offered it to Gabriel. “It’s cheap merch plastic. But… thanks. For not ripping my throat out.”

Gabriel took it. “No promises next time.”

Lance laughed again — then backed toward the door, nodding at Thane. “Thanks for letting me through the wall.”

Thane gave him a faint, almost-smirk. “The goat still owes us rent.”

Lance left quietly, vanishing into the shadows of the midway.

Inside the bus, the mood settled again — comfortable, quiet.
Gabriel twirled the pick between his claws and muttered,

“See? Not all Saints suck.”

Thane didn’t reply. But he didn’t argue either.