The venue in San Diego was legendary. Brick walls, floor-to-ceiling rigged lighting, and a crowd capacity of nearly 2,000. Sold out.

Feral Eclipse was topping the bill.

And in the opening slot?

Vandal Saints.

When the Saints arrived for load-in and soundcheck, the air in the venue shifted. They were tense. Bitter. Hungover on ego. The lead singer — the same one who had tried to heckle Gabriel at Rocklahoma — strutted in with a chip on his shoulder and a tattered flyer from Rolling Rock Magazine in his hand.

He slapped it against the green room wall.

“Wolves Eclipsed Us All, huh?” he muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Gabriel was lounging across a riser case with his legs kicked up. “Well, I mean… they aren’t wrong.”

Cassie cracked open a bottle of water. “You guys are still playing first, right? Just making sure we don’t run long over your bedtime.”

The Saints didn’t answer. But their glares said everything.

Thane watched it all from the corner of the room, calm, calculating. He leaned slightly toward Gabriel.

“They’re gonna be a problem tonight.”

“Nah,” Gabriel said with a grin. “They’ll be gone before our first bridge.”

Soundcheck was its own mess.

Vandal Saints insisted on a full-volume test, pushed the opening slot’s time limit, and tried to monopolize the monitors.

When Mark asked politely for five minutes to program a lighting cue, the Saints’ drummer scoffed, “Who the hell still uses manual lighting?”

Mark simply stared at him and said, “People who still earn their audience.”

It got quiet after that.

When the doors opened, the room buzzed with anticipation. The merch booth already had a line, and it wasn’t for the opening act. By the time Vandal Saints were announced onstage, the crowd inside numbered maybe… forty? Fifty at best?

They played their first song to scattered claps, empty railings, and the distant hum of fans still out in the parking lot tailgating in Feral Eclipse shirts.

By their third track, people were just starting to filter in — but only because they wanted good spots for the real show.

The Saints kept playing, bitter and stiff. You could see the fury bubbling on their faces every time someone entered mid-song, didn’t cheer, and immediately made their way toward center stage… wearing clawed makeup or wolf-themed jackets.

The final straw was near the end of their set — a fan near the front yelled “TWO SONGS TIL ECLIPSE!”

Even Gabriel, backstage and watching the monitors, nearly fell out of his chair laughing.

By the time Vandal Saints finished, the room had tripled in size — but no one clapped louder than polite.

They left the stage in silence.

Backstage, they stormed past the pack in the hallway — hot with sweat and shame. Their frontman growled under his breath, “Enjoy it while it lasts. You’re just a trend.”

Gabriel looked him up and down and smiled like a wolf with a secret.

“Funny,” he said, “people said the same thing about fire. And we all still use that.”

The rival singer didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Just kept walking, shoulders hunched, tail tucked metaphorically between his legs.

Thane shook his head slowly. “You’d think they’d learn by now.”

Mark sipped from his soda can. “They don’t. That’s why we headline.”