The crew was still loading out under the arena’s harsh dock lights when a knock echoed on the tour bus door.
Diesel raised an eyebrow and popped it open—only to blink in surprise as Eli Masters himself stood there, guitar case slung over one shoulder and a slightly nervous smile behind his sunglasses.
“Evenin’. That fuzzy bass beast of yours in?”
Diesel snorted. “Sure is. Come on in, rock god.”
Inside, the lights were dim and cozy—quiet hum of road fans, the scent of post-show sweat and leftover pizza. Gabriel was curled sideways on the couch in a half-dried towel and a fresh hoodie, sipping cold brew straight from the bottle. His ears perked up at the sound of boots on the stairs.
He looked up—and froze.
“…You came here,” he said, stunned.
Eli grinned. “You dragged me on stage. Thought I’d return the favor and drag you into a conversation.”
Gabriel jumped to his paws, tail swishing wildly. “DUDE. I grew up on Skyfire and Sand! You’re, like—you’re it. Your tone, your stage presence, those harmonics—man, you shaped my whole idea of what power onstage looks like.”
Eli raised an eyebrow, grinning. “I thought you played guitar first?”
Gabriel laughed. “I did. And then I realized I didn’t wanna chase your solos—I wanted to anchor ’em. You showed me what a real lead sounds like… and made me want to hold that down from the low end.”
Eli leaned back with a low whistle. “You know… a lotta guitarists never learn to respect the anchor. But you? You’re the kind of bassist I always wished I had behind me. Solid. Loud. Makes the whole damn room feel the note, not just hear it.”
“Players like you? You’re the spine of the song, kid. The rest of us are just decoration.”
Gabriel froze for half a second, ears twitching… then tried to play it cool while absolutely beaming.
Thane, walking by again, deadpanned, “Great. Now his ego’s gonna need its own bunk.”
Gabriel actually looked like he might melt into the couch. His claws flexed nervously on the cold brew bottle.
Thane poked his head in from the kitchenette, raised an eyebrow, and casually offered a cold can to Eli. “He’s not gonna shut up about this for days. You just wrecked our peace.”
“Good,” Eli said with a grin, cracking the can. “He deserves to be loud.”
The two sat down across from each other — Gabriel on the edge of his seat, tail curled tightly, Eli kicking off his boots and setting his guitar case between them.
“Hey,” Gabriel asked suddenly, lowering his voice. “Was I… okay? Like, did I hold my own up there?”
Eli blinked. “Okay? Kid, you dragged me onstage in the middle of your set, didn’t blink, didn’t flinch, didn’t miss. You knew the song. You adapted. And you didn’t step on my solo — which is more than I can say for some of my own bandmates.”
Gabriel’s ears tilted back in a bashful smile.
“I’ve been doing this for decades,” Eli said, softer now. “And tonight? That was the first time in a long time I remembered why I started.”
The room went quiet for a second.
Then Gabriel — never one to stay in his feels too long — grinned and blurted, “You wanna sign my tail?”
Eli blinked. “Wait, what?”
Gabriel laughed and snorted at the same time. “Kidding. Kidding. Mostly.”
The two dissolved into laughter as Thane rolled his eyes, walking past them with a muttered, “I will mute both of you during line check tomorrow.”
Eli raised his can in a toast.
“To new wolves. Old roads. And the night we burned El Paso down.”
Gabriel raised his bottle to meet it with a clink.
“Hell yeah, old man. Let’s do it again sometime.”
Eli reached down beside his guitar case and pulled out a worn, slightly scuffed vintage guitar pick—black, with a faded gold Iron Reign logo printed across the front and “Tour ‘94” hand-scratched into the back with a knife or key.
He held it out to Gabriel between two fingers. “This one’s been through hell. First stadium tour I ever played. It’s yours now.”
Gabriel’s jaw dropped. “You serious?”
“As a heart attack,” Eli said with a grin. “You’ve earned it.”
Gabriel took it carefully, like it might melt in his claws if he wasn’t gentle. His eyes flicked over the worn edges, the history etched into it. “I’m framing this. And guarding it with my life.”
Eli stood, slinging his case over his shoulder. “Then we’re good. Just don’t let me catch you auctioning it on some werewolf merch site.”
“Only if I’m broke and need new strings,” Gabriel joked.
Eli chuckled and made his way toward the bus stairs.
Just as he was about to step down, a sudden squeal erupted from the stairwell—high-pitched, frantic, and very human.
“Oh. My. GOD. I KNEW he was still in here — GABRIEL SIGN MY FACE!!”
A rabid fan had somehow snuck onto the bus. Mid-twenties, wearing half of a thrifted wolf onesie, waving a Sharpie like a battle flag. She launched forward, arms outstretched, eyes locked on Gabriel like a guided missile.
Before anyone else could move, Thane stepped forward, expression instantly deadpan, and scooped her up by the waist like he was lifting a grocery bag.
“Nope.”
She flailed dramatically. “Wait! WAIT! This is destiny!! He needs to sign my hair!!”
“Nope.”
He carried her calmly down the stairs—her arms windmilling, her howls muffled only by sheer bafflement—straight back out the bus door, past Diesel, and deposited her gently just outside the barricade.
As she blinked in disbelief, Thane simply growled, “Outside. Stay.”
Then turned on his heel and walked calmly back aboard like nothing had happened.
Inside the bus, the room was silent.
Eli raised both eyebrows. “…Do I get an escort like that too, or…?”
Gabriel was doubled over, laughing so hard he had to clutch the table.
Thane returned to his spot by the fridge, cracked open a new can, and muttered:
“Some of y’all forget I don’t have security. I am security.”
