The L.A. heat hadn’t let up, even as the sun slipped behind the skyline and the open-air venue swelled with thousands of fans screaming for Feral Eclipse. The stage lights bathed the crowd in strobes of electric color. Drums pounded like thunder. Strings howled like sirens. And in the center of it all stood Gabriel, bass slung low, grin wide, drenched in the joy of the moment.

Thane stood off to stage left, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The high was still riding strong from the earlier celebrity circus, but something in his instincts wouldn’t rest. His ears twitched beneath the roar of the crowd. Something felt… off.

Then it happened.

From the pit near the front rail—a sudden flash of movement. A figure shoved through the dense crowd, arm raised, something metal clutched in his hand.

Not a fan.
Not a camera.
A weapon.

The moment stretched.

The attacker’s aim locked on Gabriel’s chest.

And before the scream even left a single throat, Thane moved.

Faster than anyone could follow—one moment on the side of the stage, the next between the gun and Gabriel.

The sound cracked like a firework.
The pain hit like lightning.
And Thane didn’t fall.

He staggered a step, the heat of the wound blooming through his side. His black polo shirt torn, the smell of blood sharp and immediate. But he stayed upright. Clawed feet dug into the stage floor. Rage filled his chest like wildfire.

Gabriel turned, eyes wide in horror, but Thane had already leapt off the stage.

The attacker barely had time to register what hit him.

Thane tackled him straight to the concrete—hard—a growl like thunder erupting from deep in his throat. Clawed hands pinned the man with terrifying control, one set of claws pressed to the pavement an inch from the coward’s face, eyes glowing with pure, predatory fury.

“You picked the wrong damn night,” Thane growled.

Security arrived seconds later—though it felt like an eternity. They shouted. Fans screamed. Cell phones filmed.

But Thane didn’t move.

Not until Gabriel’s voice called out, steady but cracked with panic: “Thane. I’m okay.”

Only then did he breathe again.

He stood slowly. The attacker whimpered beneath him, sobbing as he was dragged off by venue security and two stunned LAPD officers. Blood soaked through Thane’s side, but he didn’t so much as flinch. He climbed back on stage like nothing had happened.

Gabriel rushed to him—eyes wide with pain, with guilt—but Thane only placed a clawed hand on his wolf’s shoulder and leaned in close.

“You good?” Thane asked, voice low, gravelly.

Gabriel nodded once, eyes burning. “You took a bullet for me.”

Thane gave a small, tight smile. “Would do it again tomorrow.”

He dug to his side with a claw — gripped something embedded in his ribs — and yanked it out with a grunt. A gleaming, twisted slug clinked onto the floor.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as Thane stared at the metal, then casually tossed it aside with a low growl.

🎥 The Aftermath

The internet erupted like a bomb.

Videos spread within minutes. Multiple angles. Some caught Thane leaping from the stage. Others focused on Gabriel screaming in panic. One slow-mo clip showed the bullet visibly hitting Thane, his body jolting back—but not falling.

And the moment he tossed the slug to the floor? That got slowed down, set to orchestral music, dubbed over with wolves howling. It trended for three straight days.

#ProtectThePack
#ThaneTookABullet
#AlphaEnergy
#FeralBond

Photos of Gabriel helping Thane offstage circled the globe. One journalist called it, “the most feral and devoted act of the decade.”

Gabriel’s post that night said only:

“He saved my life. I don’t deserve him. But I thank the moon every day that he’s mine. 💙🐺”

The band canceled the next two shows. Not because Thane couldn’t work — he was already healing the next day — but because Gabriel refused to leave his side. The pack came together. Stronger. Tighter. Bound in blood and brotherhood.