The van rolled through Kansas City under a steel-gray sky, tires humming over the interstate as towers and train yards slid past the windows. In the front seat, Gabriel drummed his clawed fingers on the dash in a relentless rhythm, tail wagging like a metronome on espresso.

“Gabriel,” Thane muttered from behind the passenger seat, “if you tap one more thing, I’m hot-gluing your paws to the headliner.”

“But we’re almost there,” Gabriel grinned. “Do you feel that? That’s history about to happen. That’s electricity, baby.”

Mark, wedged in the back with a tangled pile of gear and road snacks, grunted. “That’s indigestion. You had three gas station burritos.”

“I regret nothing.”

Jonah chuckled from the third row. “Y’know, for once, I’m with Gabriel. I’m kinda hyped to see how this all sounds when we’re not recording on a phone duct-taped to a water bottle.”

Maya glanced up from her phone. “I swear, if this place looks like someone’s creepy basement again, I’m walking.”

Rico strummed a muted chord from his lap. “Don’t worry. Thane vetted it.”

“I audited their board layout and mic locker before I even called,” Thane said flatly. “They’ve got a Neve console, a pair of U87s, and a live room big enough for a small orchestra. It’s legit.”

Cassie leaned forward from the back row, eyes sparkling. “Do they have a tea kettle?”

Everyone turned.

“What? I sing better when I’m warm and hydrated.”

Mark muttered, “I’m gonna need whiskey.”

As the GPS chirped their final turn, the van pulled into a cracked parking lot lined with faded murals of saxophones and vinyl records. Ahead, Moonrise Soundworks stood tall, a brick-faced building with a hand-painted sign and mismatched window blinds. The front door creaked as they stepped out into a space that smelled like old wood, ozone, and history.

The place looked like a time capsule from the ’70s: wood-paneled walls, faded shag carpeting, and a lava lamp bubbling away in the control room. The walls were lined with photos of forgotten legends and platinum records that hadn’t been dusted in decades.

As they filed in, an old man with silver hair and aviators stepped out from behind the mixing desk. “You the werewolf band?”

Thane raised a brow. “We prefer Feral Eclipse.”

The engineer shrugged. “As long as you don’t scratch my floors, we’re good.”

The session kicked off with chaos, as expected.

Gabriel was a blur of motion in the tracking room, thumping out heavy bass lines while dancing, jumping, and at one point, nearly knocking over a mic stand. Rico and Maya argued over harmonics and chord voicings until Cassie made them take a break. Jonah drummed like a caffeinated octopus, forcing Thane to repeatedly recalibrate the kick mic.

But somewhere in the noise, it clicked.

Cassie stood in the vocal booth, headphones on, bathed in a warm spotlight. She closed her eyes — then let out a soul-tearing note that left everyone stunned. Even Mark, slouched in a chair in the back, gave an approving grunt.

Thane sat behind the massive analog console, eyes locked on the meters. His claws danced over the faders, riding the sound like a seasoned pro. He hadn’t looked that at peace in weeks.

Gabriel came up behind him, draping his arms around Thane’s shoulders and resting his chin on top of his head. “Told you. You were made for this.”

Thane didn’t even pretend to fight the grin.

Outside, the sun began to set, casting golden light through the dusty studio windows. Inside, the pack howled through a track called “No Chains Left” — their anthem, recorded for real, with all the grit and glory they had earned.