The show was over.

Not just done — over in the way a lightning storm ends: thunder still echoing, the crowd still stunned, and the static clinging to everything. Feral Eclipse had walked offstage thirty minutes ago to a wall of sound so thick, the house audio guy forgot to mute the board and blew a monitor.

Backstage, the band was drenched in sweat, flushed with adrenaline, and barely able to string together sentences. Jonah was lying flat on the floor, clutching a bottle of Gatorade like it owed him rent. Cassie had her boots off and her legs up on an amp case, humming under her breath. Rico and Maya were high-fiving every stagehand in sight.

Gabriel had one arm draped over Thane’s shoulder, panting, grinning, claws twitching like they weren’t done yet.

That’s when the chant started.

From out in the crowd — not fading, but rising. Louder. Unified.

“ONE MORE SONG! ONE MORE SONG! ONE MORE SONG!”

Thane looked at the others. “We already did three encores.”

Cassie raised a brow. “Yeah, but we’ve never done four.”

Gabriel’s eyes lit up. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

“Oh hell no,” Mark said from across the room, already sensing the chaos.

“Oh hell yes,” Gabriel answered.

Five minutes later, security was trying to hold back two hundred fans still gathered outside the venue in the back alley parking lot — crowding under a flickering streetlight, some standing on crates, others hanging out of car windows, still chanting.

And then…

The van door slid open.

Gabriel emerged first, bass slung low, followed by Maya with an unplugged guitar, Jonah with a single snare drum and a cracked hi-hat, Cassie with a mic taped to a battery-powered speaker, and Thane holding a tablet running a mobile mix interface.

“YOU ASKED FOR IT!” Gabriel shouted.

The crowd erupted.

No stage. No lights. No fog. Just the pavement, the moonlight, and pure werewolf-powered rock.

They launched into a stripped-down, fire-bright acoustic version of “Ashes and Iron,” the fans singing every line like their lives depended on it. One guy collapsed to his knees mid-chorus, hands over his heart. A girl near the front actually fainted and was gently caught by a stranger who screamed the rest of the song over her unconscious form.

Phones were everywhere. People were going live on every platform. Comments were flying.

“Is this really happening??”
“They’re doing a parking lot encore?!”
“NO OTHER BAND WOULD EVER.”
“I was there. I was THERE.”

As the last chorus hit, Thane triggered a soft delay effect that bounced Cassie’s voice into the night. Gabriel lifted his bass over his head like a trophy. Jonah flung a drumstick skyward that never came down (rumors later said a fan caught it with their teeth).

When it ended, the crowd howled.

The venue manager peeked out the side door, stunned, phone in hand, whispering “We’re already on TikTok’s front page…”

Later that night, sitting on top of the van with Gabriel, Thane scrolled through the feeds. One post had already hit half a million likes. It was a grainy photo of the band surrounded by fans, Gabriel mid-howl, the caption reading:

“This isn’t a band. This is a movement.”

Gabriel leaned over and bumped Thane’s shoulder.

“You think Vandal Saints are still here?”

Thane chuckled. “If they are, they’re definitely not outside.”

Gabriel stretched his arms to the sky and exhaled. “My wolf… we’re gonna need bigger venues.”