The den smelled like coffee, printer toner, and the slow simmer of big ideas.
Blueprints were taped to every flat surface. A corkboard in the living room bore hastily pinned sketches, zoning maps, fabric swatches, and at least two childlike renderings of a backstage arcade labeled “Gabriel’s Battle Den.” One of them included a churro machine. No one had the heart to take it down.
Thane sat cross-legged on the floor, stylus in one paw, tablet resting on his knee. He was crunching numbers—real ones. Ones that included tax districts, construction loans, and projected fan growth over five years. Rico was perched nearby, rattling off venue features as fast as Maya could scribble them down. Jonah shouted ideas from the kitchen while burning a grilled cheese.
Mark, surprisingly, said very little—but Thane could see the way his eyes lingered on the lighting schematics. He was thinking.
“Okay,” Thane said finally, setting the tablet down. “With our current assets and sponsorship returns… this is actually doable.”
That silenced the room.
Cassie looked up from the couch. “Like, build-a-venue doable?”
Thane nodded. “It’ll take permits, proposals, and probably some good old-fashioned bureaucratic arm wrestling… but yeah. We could do it. Here. In Edmond.”
Gabriel’s ears perked. “Like, build build? With our own loading dock? Real backstage lounges? Claw-friendly doors?”
Emily gasped. “We could design a whole museum wing for the fans!”
Diesel grunted from his usual spot in the corner. “And you’d better believe I’m parking the bus inside.”
Mark, still quiet, finally spoke. “What do we call it?”
Rico smiled slowly. “The Den.”
A City Hall Invasion
They arrived two days later like a tornado in band merch—three werewolves, six humans, and a portable projector they weren’t entirely sure they were allowed to use.
The mayor met them at the entrance to Edmond City Hall and offered a weary smile. “Let me guess. This is about that arena idea?”
Thane nodded. “It’s more than an idea. It’s a plan.”
He handed over a proposal packet so thick it required a binder clip and a sticker seal with the band logo. Gabriel may have added glitter.
They stepped into the main council chamber and were greeted with absolute mayhem.
It was standing room only. Every pew and chair filled with supporters, local business owners, curious residents—and fans. Dozens of them. Some wore light-up ears. Others had handmade signs. A couple in their sixties sat proudly with “HOWLING SINCE 2023” t-shirts.
Jonah whispered, “Did we accidentally throw a concert?”
Thane didn’t answer. He was already uploading his slideshow to the projector.
The presentation began with numbers. Employment. Economic boost. Parking plans. Acoustic design specs. Rico spoke about vision. Maya, about community outreach. Emily delivered an emotional speech about fan inclusion and the idea of building something permanent for the people who had helped lift them to this height.
Then the questions began.
“Where will all the traffic go?”
“Will the sound system disrupt neighborhoods?”
“Are mosh pits regulated by the city?”
Someone genuinely asked whether the building would be structurally rated for “werewolf-level jumping.”
Thane fielded every one with clarity and patience, occasionally deferring to Mark for technical specs. Diesel assured the council that crowd control, road use, and public safety had all been considered. Cassie smiled like a pro, wooed the media, and even managed to get a laugh out of a grumpy zoning commissioner.
But when a stern woman in a pearl necklace stood and asked, “Why Edmond? Why here of all places?”—the room went still.
Gabriel stepped forward, voice softer than usual.
“Because Edmond took us in. When we were broke. When we were busking on corners with broken gear. This town didn’t just tolerate us—it believed in us. Lifted us.”
He looked around at the crowd. “This isn’t just our home. It’s part of who we are.”
His voice cracked, just a little, but he kept going.
“We don’t want to build an empire. We want to build a gift.”
The Vote
It came down to a roll call.
One by one, the council members voted—yes, yes, yes… an abstain… another yes… one more abstain.
And finally—
“The City of Edmond approves the permit for the construction of the Feral Eclipse Arena.”
The roar that followed shook the rafters.
Fans leapt from their seats. Staff hugged. Gabriel did a lap around the chamber with a miniature shovel he’d apparently been hiding in his backpack.
The Aftermath
The Internet broke. Again.
#FeralArena, #EdmondEclipse, and #PackBuildsTheDen trended across five countries within an hour. Fan art poured in. Construction memes flooded social media. TikTok users started speculative blueprints based on leaked sketches.
The band posted a single photo: all of them standing on the steps of City Hall, blueprints in one hand, grins wide and unfiltered.
Caption:
“It’s happening. We’re building a home. Thank you, Edmond. 🐺❤️”