The sky over Louisville was gray with fog by the time the Feral Eclipse tour bus pulled into the shadow of the Lyric Crown Theater. Once a grand opera house, the massive stone building loomed over the narrow street like a forgotten relic, all cracked columns, broken gargoyles, and ivy-strangled cornices. It looked less like a venue and more like something out of a fever dream—or a haunted movie set.

Diesel parked with a low grunt, cutting the engine and peering out over his sunglasses. “This place looks like a Scooby-Doo episode.”

Gabriel bounded off the bus with his usual caffeine-charged flair, claws clicking on the stone ramp. “YES. YES. THIS IS SO HAUNTED. I CAN FEEL THE GOTHIC DRAMA IN MY FUR.”

Cassie stepped out behind him, squinting up at the cracked gargoyle above the main entrance. “If that thing blinks, I’m leaving you all here.”

Rico adjusted his hoodie, taking in the ornate but crumbling architecture. “Looks cursed. Bet the acoustics are phenomenal.”

Thane was already moving gear toward the backstage door when the venue’s stage manager—Toni—approached, clutching a clipboard like a holy relic. She was young but looked exhausted, like she hadn’t slept since the Nixon administration.

“Hey, uh… heads up,” she said nervously. “This venue’s got some quirks. Don’t use dressing room four. Or the third stall in the basement bathroom. And… maybe don’t say the name ‘Victor.’”

Mark, who had just stepped down from the bus, raised a brow. “Victor?”

Toni paled instantly. “We don’t say that name here.”

Gabriel’s ears perked. “WE HAVE A NAME?! THIS IS OFFICIALLY A GHOST STORY!”

Backstage was dim and drafty. The load-in was slower than usual—not because the crew lacked energy, but because something about the building made every sound echo just a bit too long. The lights flickered in patterns Thane couldn’t replicate. The patch bay refused to save EQ curves, always sliding mysteriously to the left. Jonah’s snare head split right down the center during tuning, and Mark’s laptop restarted itself with a cue file labeled “VICTOR.WIP.” No one had created it.

Things escalated when Maya, fed up with the tension, marched straight to the forbidden dressing room and flung open the door.

It was already open.

No lights. No noise. Nothing inside except a dusty mirror with the words “Play it loud. Or else.” scrawled across it in lipstick.

Maya closed the door. “Nope.”

Still, when it came time to perform, the band did what they always did—they pushed through.

Gabriel swaggered onto the stage with his bass slung low, a smirk on his muzzle and no fear in his soul. “THIS ONE’S FOR OUR INVISIBLE VIP!” he shouted toward the balcony. “IF YOU’RE DEAD AND YOU KNOW IT, CLAP YOUR CHAINS!”

The house lights blinked. Twice. Perfectly timed.

Cassie shrieked, spinning in place. “ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!”

The crowd went ballistic.

The band poured everything into the set—Jonah hammering the drums like he was trying to summon fire, Rico shredding through the weird electrical interference, Cassie belting like she was holding back the afterlife. Thane worked the mix board like a battlefield medic, compensating for phantom flickers and voltage dips. Even Mark, ever the stoic, cracked a smile when his lighting cues began syncing to something he hadn’t programmed—but that looked good.

When the last note rang out and the band staggered backstage, flushed and breathless, they collapsed into the green room chairs, laughing through the residual adrenaline.

“Victor’s got rhythm,” Jonah panted.

“I think he likes you,” Gabriel added with a grin.

Mark didn’t say anything right away. He stayed behind a few minutes to check his lighting laptop.

He had entered five cues during the final track.

There were six in the log.

The last one, labeled “Encore_Victor,” had fired a full strobe burst across the house, perfectly timed with Gabriel’s final bass drop and the entire venue illuminated in red-and-white.

Mark stared at the screen for a moment, then closed the laptop with a shake of his head.

“Victor’s got taste,” he muttered.