Author: Thane Page 18 of 20

Pre-show green room, Denver Hard Rock Arena

The green room backstage was buzzing—half with excitement, half with fluorescent tube lights that flickered like they were trying to drop the beat. The venue smelled like anticipation, stale sweat, and Febreze sprayed over questionable decisions. Feral Eclipse had officially made it—they were opening for Spinal Muzzle, one of the most infamous hard rock bands of the past two decades. Tattooed, loud, legendary… and absolutely, unequivocally insane.

Gabriel had vanished the second their backstage passes were clipped.

Thane had been double-checking the rigging specs, clipboard in claw, barely holding it together after the clustertruck that was the broken van axle incident earlier. Mark was quietly nursing a giant bottle of soda like it was his only lifeline to sanity.

Then Rico wandered in, chewing half a granola bar and looking… worried.

“Hey, uh… Thane?” he said, voice low.

Thane didn’t even look up. “If this is about a missing mic stand, I swear I will—”

“It’s not that. It’s Gabe. I just walked by the other band’s green room. He’s in there. With them.”

Mark looked up. “Define ‘with them.’”

Rico scratched the back of his neck. “He was laughing. Real loud. And… I think they handed him something. White. Powdery. On a mirror.”

Mark blinked. “…Oh no.”

Thane dropped the clipboard. “He did not.”

Jonah poked his head in, eyes wide. “Uh… he did. He definitely did.”

---

By the time Thane made it down the hallway, the door to the Spinal Muzzle green room was wide open. Inside, the band’s frontman—Razor, who somehow looked both 45 and immortal—was doubled over laughing. Gabriel stood in the middle of the room, eyes way too wide, pacing in tight circles and talking faster than Thane could think.

“—and that’s why I think if we add strobes to the kick hits we could realign the crowd’s heartbeats with the rhythm and literally control time, guys, I mean—oh hey, Thane!”

Thane stared at him. “Gabriel. What. Did. You. Do?”

Gabriel beamed, nose twitching. “Made friends! And they gave me special friend powder!”

Rico facepalmed behind Thane.

Mark leaned in the doorway, sipping his soda. “Well. This should be fun.”

---

Fifteen minutes later

Back in the Feral Eclipse green room, Gabriel was upside-down on a folding chair, mumbling about sound waves and coffee flavor harmonics. Jonah had barricaded the door with a keyboard stand, and Rico was scouring the venue’s snack table for orange juice. Mark just stood silently in the corner, sipping and judging.

Thane crouched down in front of Gabriel. “Gabriel. Fucking focus. What did you take?”

Gabriel blinked, one ear twitching wildly. “It was like lightning! In my face! And then I was… faster than music, man.”

Thane sighed and looked at the others. “We’re not making it through this show unless we burn that powder stash and chain him to a bass amp.”

Mark didn’t even flinch. “He’s going to crash mid-set and take out half the drum kit.”

Jonah grinned. “So, normal show then?”

Gabriel suddenly sat bolt upright. “I JUST WROTE A BASS SOLO IN MY HEAD. IT’S MADE OF GEOMETRY.”

Thane rubbed his temples. “Okay. We’re going into damage control mode. Jonah—water. Rico—more water. Mark—remind me why I don’t just maul that other band.”

Mark shrugged. “Public relations?”

Just outside the venue loading bay, 30 minutes to showtime

The echo of slamming cases and tuning guitars faded behind the heavy service door. Outside, the alley behind the venue was dim and quiet, the only light coming from a flickering overhead bulb and the distant glow of a nearby gas station sign.

Thane sat on a concrete ledge by the dumpster, elbows on his knees, claws laced together. The night air was cooler here—damp with the scent of rain and alley grease. His chest still rose and fell just a little too quickly.

The door creaked open and closed again. Mark walked out, carrying two bottles of water. He handed one to Thane without saying a word and leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed.

They sat in silence for a long minute. Then Thane finally broke it.

“I almost lost it, Mark.”

Mark took a slow sip of water, then nodded. “Yeah. You almost did.”

“I hate that. That side of me.” His claws tightened around the bottle, the plastic crinkling. “I don’t want to be the guy everyone’s afraid of.”

“You’re not,” Mark said. “Not to us.”

Thane scoffed quietly. “Rico might disagree.”

Mark glanced at him. “Rico will get over it. He poked the wolf. You growled. That’s life. But you didn’t bite. That’s what matters.”

Thane stared down at the ground, then let out a breath. “I’ve worked so damn hard to stay in control. To not be that walking threat everyone expects. And then one dumb comment and I’m back on edge like it’s instinct.”

Mark’s tone softened, which was rare for him. “You’ve got every right to be tired. You pulled the van back from the grave, kept us from missing the gig, and still haven’t gotten a second to yourself.”

There was a pause, then:

“You’re not dangerous, Thane. You’re exhausted.”

Thane blinked and looked sideways at him. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Mark said with a shrug. “It’s supposed to make you go take five minutes and breathe before you turn into a cautionary tale in a backstage safety handbook.”

That actually got a soft laugh from Thane. He leaned back against the wall, letting his eyes close for a second.

“I appreciate you stepping in,” he said.

“You always step in for me when the world’s on fire,” Mark replied. “Figured I’d return the favor.”

Another beat of silence, warmer this time.

“Besides,” Mark added with a smirk, “I wasn’t about to carry your ass offstage in handcuffs. That’s Gabriel’s job.”

That earned a full-on laugh from Thane—tired but real.

“Remind me to write ‘Don’t kill the band’ on the setlist,” he muttered.

Mark deadpanned, “Already embroidered it on a pillow. It’s on your bunk.”

Backstage, 45 minutes to showtime

The backstage tension was thicker than the stage fog. Cables were being flung instead of coiled, doors closed a little too hard, and nobody made eye contact.

Rico had cracked the wrong joke at the worst possible time—some smug remark about Thane and the van repairs that sounded more like mockery than ribbing. Thane had gone from calm to apex predator in two seconds flat.

Now Rico stood, tense and pale, his hands spread like he was about to surrender to airport security. “I was just messing with you, man—”

Thane, muscles tight and hackles up, took a step forward, a low growl in his throat that made the air itself seem to retreat.

Mark’s arm shot out like a steel gate, planting himself firmly between the two.

“Thane,” he said calmly, “no murder before load-in. We talked about this.”

Thane didn’t look at Mark—his eyes were locked on Rico like crosshairs.

“Deep breath,” Mark continued, not budging. “I know you’re tired. I know what happened today sucked. But he’s not worth losing your temper over.”

“He disrespected me,” Thane snarled.

“He disrespected your van,” Mark corrected. “And I’ll remind you, it’s barely holding itself together. Unlike you, who can.”

There was a long pause. Thane’s claws flexed. He took a breath—shaky, but controlled—and stepped back.

Mark kept his eyes on Thane a moment longer, then turned to Rico.

“You,” he said dryly, “go tune something. Quietly. Somewhere far away from Thane’s claws.”

Rico blinked, nodded, and backed away like someone retreating from a live grenade. “Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

When he was gone, Thane exhaled hard and dropped onto a road case. His clawed hands rubbed over his face.

Mark crossed his arms. “You good?”

Thane gave a low, grumbling reply. “…Thanks.”

Mark just nodded. “That’s what I do. I prevent homicides.”

Thane chuckled, just a little. “You’re the real MVP.”

“Damn right I am,” Mark muttered, already walking off. “Next time, let Gabriel handle it. That one look of his could end wars.”

Still broken down. Still hot. Now everyone’s talking.

Thane was elbow-deep in the engine bay, grease streaked across his forearms, claws smudged with radiator fluid, and the unmistakable snarl of a werewolf slowly losing his grip echoing faintly in the back of his throat.

Gabriel crouched beside him, cheerfully unhelpful but loyally close—his tail lazily flicking in the dust while sipping the last of his now-warm coffee.

Behind them, the humans had given up pretending to be useful and were instead forming their own little shade-seeking think tank beneath the one sad excuse for a tree.

Maya, shirt tied up at the waist, already had her boots off and was fanning herself with a lyric sheet. “I’m just saying, maybe we wouldn’t be broken down in Hell’s Armpit if our fearless tech alpha would let a real mechanic touch the engine once in a while.”

Rico chuckled. “You know wolves and territory. That engine bay is basically his den.”

“I heard that,” Thane barked from under the hood.

Jonah, still sitting on the flight case they’d dragged out for seating, smirked. “It’s true, man. We offered to take it to a shop last week and you looked at us like we’d just insulted your mate.”

“That’s because you did. This van’s gotten us through three tours and five near-deaths,” Thane snapped, standing up, claws glinting in the sun. “And I know it inside and out. The belt snapped because someone overpacked the rear and threw the weight balance off.”

“I packed the merch box,” Rico said with mock offense. “We need to sell shirts to pay for gas and Gatorade.”

“And I packed Gabriel’s pedal board,” Maya added, eyebrow raised.

Gabriel’s ears twitched. “Why am I catching strays over here? I’m not the one who threw the patch kit at the transmission.”

“You threw the patch kit?” Jonah asked, laughing.

“I placed it. Aggressively,” Thane growled.

Mark, who had been silent up to this point, finally chimed in from his perch on a folding chair, deadpan and bone-dry: “We’re going to die out here. If dehydration doesn’t get us, the werewolf rage kill will.”

“Say that again, I dare you,” Thane snarled, teeth bared, shoulders flexing as he took a slow step toward Mark and the others. The desert wind carried a hint of something feral, something primal—and for one tense moment, even the heat seemed to hold its breath.

Mark didn’t flinch. “I said, we’re going to—”

“Thane.” Gabriel’s voice sliced through the air, calm and steady. His hand was on Thane’s shoulder, claws brushing lightly through the matted fur. “Not worth it. They’ll taste like stress and irony.”

Thane growled low, nostrils flaring… then exhaled hard and rolled his neck with a crack. “Right. Right. I promised.”

Gabriel leaned in closer, voice softer. “Besides, I haven’t had dinner yet. Let’s not fill up on junk food.”

A reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of Thane’s muzzle. “Fine. I’ll finish rigging the belt. Someone find me water, duct tape, and an emotional support animal.”

“I’m the emotional support animal,” Gabriel said proudly, standing tall with his arms wide.

Jonah muttered, “We’re all gonna die petting the werewolf, aren’t we?”

Maya groaned. “Only after he eats us for mocking his spark plugs.”

Mark deadpanned again, “Call it ‘Death by Ignition Drama.’ I’ll write the song.”

Late morning. Blazing sun. A long stretch of West Texas highway with nothing but mirages and regret.

The Chevy tour van, affectionately named “Fangwagon,” was doing its best impression of a dying animal. The whole crew was inside—seven bodies and enough gear to rebuild a music store if it exploded.

Thane sat behind the wheel, one clawed hand adjusting the rearview mirror, the other tapping rhythmically on the wheel as if sheer force of will would keep the engine from quitting. Gabriel, in the passenger seat, was chugging a gas station iced coffee like it was going to give him wings. Spoiler: it didn’t.

In the back, Maya sat crisscross on a flight case, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Rico was dozing with his face against the window, Jonah had his earbuds in, and Mark sat silent, glaring at the rattling A/C vent like it owed him money.

Then—THUNK-KRCHHHH.

The van gave a lurch. The dashboard flickered. Thane’s ears snapped upright.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled, easing off the gas.

Gabriel looked over. “Did we hit something or just lose a piece of the van?”

“Do you smell smoke?” Maya asked sharply from the back.

“No, but I can smell our career dying,” Mark deadpanned.

The van shuddered again, then coasted silently for a second too long.

Thane pulled to the shoulder. “That was the serpentine belt, I’d bet anything on it.”

Everyone piled out, the dry heat slamming into them like a hairdryer to the face. Thane popped the hood, and a thin wisp of smoke curled up into the air like it had somewhere better to be.

Gabriel leaned in beside him. “So… we walk now?”

“We’re not walking anywhere,” Thane muttered, inspecting the mess. “I can fix this, but I need a belt. And duct tape. And about six fewer people asking me questions.”

Mark pulled out his phone. “No signal.”

Maya pulled out hers. “Same. Welcome to ‘We All Die in Texas,’ starring: Us.”

Jonah sighed. “I knew we should’ve taken the scenic route. Scenic routes have Walmarts.”

Rico pulled a lukewarm soda out of the cooler and cracked it open with a hiss. “Guess we’re camping. Anyone bring marshmallows?”

Thane stood up, wiping grease onto his jeans. “Alright. This is fixable. I’ve got a patch kit, and if I can jerry-rig the belt with zip ties, we can limp to the next town.”

Gabriel looked skeptical. “How many zip ties?”

“Enough to qualify as an engineering degree,” Thane replied.

Mark stared at the van. “I’m not dying in this van. If this is how I go out, I demand a better soundtrack than ‘loose fanbelt in A minor.’”

“Rico,” Thane snapped, “check the back bin. Should be a repair roll and extra fluid.”

“On it.”

“Jonah, Maya—watch the road. Just in case anyone comes by who isn’t planning to murder us.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “And me?”

“You,” Thane sighed, “stand there and look pretty.”

Gabriel saluted with his coffee cup. “Mission accepted.”

8:17 AM – Lobby Breakfast Area, Sunrise View Lodge

The smell hit first: burnt coffee, rubbery eggs, and the vague sorrow of powdered orange juice. The complimentary breakfast area looked like a crime scene designed by a cereal mascot—stale pastries under plastic domes, a toaster older than Thane, and one very overwhelmed waffle machine coughing batter.

Thane shuffled in first, fur fluffed and still damp from the world’s most aggressive showerhead. His black Feral Eclipse shirt was only half-tucked into his jeans, and his claws clicked faintly on the linoleum floor as he grabbed a paper cup of coffee with the same reverence as a relic.

He passed Mark, who was already seated in a booth with one half-toasted bagel, staring into space like he was experiencing war flashbacks.

“No coffee yet?” Thane asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Mark didn’t blink. “There was one cup left. The machine screamed. I took it as a warning.”

Thane slid into the booth across from him. “You look like you were mauled by dreams.”

“I was,” Mark said flatly. “You tried to eat my tail in your sleep.”

A moment later, the front door opened with a squeak and in bounded Gabriel—fur neat, tail wagging, coffee in hand, and acting way too chipper for someone who spent the night half-curled on a questionably clean motel bedspread.

“MORNING, LOBBY DWELLERS!” he sang, spinning into the booth next to Thane and almost sloshing coffee on his fur. “Guess who found a box of Fruity Dino-Pebbles in the cereal cabinet?”

Thane raised his mug. “Guess who doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to guess?”

Gabriel took a huge slurp of coffee, then grinned. “Spoiler: it’s me.”

Behind them, Maya stormed in wearing sunglasses, a hoodie, and murder in her stride. She grabbed a paper plate and tossed three mystery danishes onto it like she was challenging fate.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t breathe my air until I’ve had four cups of coffee and a victory pastry.”

Rico and Jonah stumbled in shortly after—Rico with pillow creases on his face, Jonah carrying a plate of hotel sausage links like they were treasure.

Jonah dropped into the seat next to Mark. “These taste like despair and meat glue. I love them.”

Rico sat beside Maya and muttered, “Someone in the next room was playing polka covers of Kesha until 4 AM.”

“Polka should be illegal after midnight,” Maya said, deadpan.

Gabriel leaned into Thane. “You snored so hard last night the lamp fell off the nightstand.”

Thane nodded solemnly. “Good. That means I’m still alive.”

They sat in silence for a few beats, sipping bad coffee, eating worse breakfast, and watching the single waffle machine sputter like it wanted to be put out of its misery.

Eventually, Mark broke the quiet with a sigh. “So… what time is load-in?”

Thane checked the time and winced. “We need to be rolling out in ten.”

Gabriel stood up, still clutching his coffee. “LET’S GOOOOOO!”

Maya didn’t move. “I dare someone to try to make me leave this booth.”

Rico groaned. “Do they make tour insurance for emotional damage?”

Jonah, still chewing: “I think that’s called tequila.”

As the team slowly rose and shuffled toward the door—bags dragging, breakfast regrets mounting—Gabriel was already halfway to the van, tail high and singing some off-key pop song with alarming confidence.

Mark took one last swig of his lukewarm coffee, sighed, and muttered, “Day two of the chaos parade.”

Thane gave him a sideways grin. “We march with claws.”

10:02 PM – Sleepy inn on the edge of town

The van rolled into the cracked parking lot of the Sunrise View Lodge—a bold name for a squat, two-story motor inn surrounded by chain-link fencing and exactly one half-lit palm tree. The only view here was the Waffle Depot across the street and a dumpster large enough to be haunted.

“Why does this place look like it’s been condemned twice and is trying for a third?” Mark asked, clutching his soda like a protective talisman.

“They had a group rate,” Thane grunted, stepping out with a clipboard still in hand. “And they don’t ask questions.”

Gabriel grabbed his duffel, tail flicking behind him. “Perfect. I’m gonna take a four-hour shower and cry.”

Cassie, Maya, Rico, and Jonah piled out of the van in various states of road-worn disarray, dragging cases and backpacks across the pothole-laced parking lot like a pack of exhausted cats. Rico dropped his duffel and muttered, “I will give my soul for a towel that doesn’t smell like armpit.”

Inside the lobby—which was 50% ficus plants and 50% outdated regional brochures—a lone front desk clerk blinked at the approaching wall of band.

She was maybe 22, clearly underpaid, wearing a name tag that said “HAYLEY :)” in a font that tried too hard to be friendly.

Her smile faded the instant she saw Gabriel’s clawed hand resting on the counter. Then her eyes traveled to Thane’s clipboard, Mark’s permanent scowl, and Maya—who was glaring at the decorative moose painting like it owed her money.

“Um… can I help you?”

Thane leaned forward. “Feral Eclipse. Three rooms under Thane. Two doubles, one single.”

Hayley tapped at the keyboard like it had insulted her. “Right… I have you in 102, 103, and… 205?”

Maya stepped up. “No. No stairs. Not with this amp. If I have to carry this up a flight I will set the building on fire with my mind.”

Hayley looked panicked. “We don’t have an elevator.”

“Then swap with Jonah. He’s like, four ounces and lives in the floor tom anyway,” Maya snapped.

Jonah, still yawning, held up a hand. “I’ll allow it.”

Thane pinched the bridge of his muzzle. “Everyone just go inside. I’ll figure out the keycards.”

Gabriel slid over and offered a charming, toothy smile to Hayley. “Sorry. We’re a little… road-cooked.”

Hayley, unblinking: “Do you have a pet deposit form for… um… that?”

Gabriel blinked. “For what?”

She pointed. “You’re… I mean… claws?”

Gabriel’s smile went full fang. “Oh. Right. Sorry. I’ll try not to shed in the ice machine.”

Hayley backed away slowly and handed over the room keys without another word.

Outside, Rico had given up and was now laying on his duffel in the parking lot. “This is where I live now. My spirit has left my body.”

Mark walked by, sipping a second soda. “Don’t leave a forwarding address.”

By the time everyone had their keys and semi-agreed on roommate arrangements (Maya demanded her own room with a “do not disturb ever” policy), the band trickled toward their rooms like migrating zombies.

Gabriel flopped onto the bed in 102, still fully clothed, tail twitching once before going still.

Thane followed, dropping his rigging notes on the table with a grunt and flopping down beside Gabriel, stretching out his clawed toes with a tired sigh. “I swear, if the AC unit growls at me again like last time, I’m just throwing it out the window.”

Mark opened the door, stood there for a beat, looked at the ugly painting on the wall, and muttered, “I’ve made worse choices.”

From somewhere down the hall, Maya’s voice echoed: “If the water pressure in this shower is weak, I will scream.”

Jonah answered, “Please do. I want to sample it.”

9:17 PM – Post-show, post-fog, halfway to the hotel

The Feral Eclipse tour van rattled down a dimly lit Oklahoma backroad with the hum of overworked tires and the soft rattle of empty Red Bull cans somewhere under the bench seat. The scent inside was a cocktail of dried sweat, fog fluid, string polish, and just a hint of nacho cheese. Everyone was either comatose or vibrating from leftover adrenaline.

Gabriel was at the wheel, all sleek black fur and hyper-focus, one clawed hand gripping a giant coffee he somehow hadn’t let go of since the green room. The bass player was still riding high—singing along to whatever was playing on the radio, drumming on the steering wheel like he wasn’t the one doing 67 in a 55.

Thane sat shotgun, arms crossed, trying to unwind. A fresh coil of cable rested on his lap like a service animal. His fur was matted with sweat and smoke, and he looked half-dead but proud. “Gabriel, you missed the turn.”

Gabriel blinked. “No I didn’t. There’s a mini-mart up ahead. I saw the sign.”

“Mini-mart?” Mark’s voice croaked from the middle seat. “If they don’t have ibuprofen and soda, we leave Jonah behind.”

“Rude,” Jonah mumbled from the back. “Also fair.”

The van squeaked into the lot of a run-down combo gas station and liquor store. The neon sign buzzed like it had a grudge. A flickering “OPEN” sign clung to one window like it owed someone rent. Inside, the building looked like a time capsule for 1998 and a tax write-off for whoever ran it.

Gabriel leapt out first, still in performance gear, and made a beeline for the cooler wall like a caffeinated cryptid. “I need sparkling water. Or sugar. Or both.”

Thane followed, slower, dragging a clipboard to jot down gear failures and set notes as he walked—still in tech mode. “If they’ve got batteries, grab some. Half the in-ears crapped out again.”

Rico stepped into the liquor store next door with all the quiet reverence of a man entering a chapel. “Do not follow me. This is sacred time.”

Cassie and Maya stayed in the van arguing about whether it was too late for pizza while Mark stiffly unfolded himself from the backseat and muttered, “This is how I die. Not onstage. Not in a blaze of glory. In the snack cake aisle of a Chevron.”

Jonah, half-asleep, didn’t even leave the van. He just cracked one eye open and said, “If anyone finds sour gummy worms, I’ll trade you a cymbal.”

Inside the mini-mart, fluorescent lights hummed with the existential despair of overworked ceiling panels. Gabriel, now armed with an armful of random energy drinks and a suspiciously purple snack cake, turned and nearly bumped into Thane, who was standing by the batteries… and holding a banana.

Gabriel blinked. “Why the banana?”

Thane: “No idea. My brain said ‘potassium.’”

Gabriel just nodded. “That tracks.”

Meanwhile, in the liquor store next door, Rico triumphantly held up a bottle of Platinum 7X like a knight presenting a holy relic. “I summon thee—party juice!”

Maya, having changed her mind, stormed in behind him. “You better have Fireball in there, Rico, or I swear—”

Mark stood outside between both doors, sipping a soda and staring into the parking lot like he was reevaluating every life choice that led him to this moment. “Rock and roll,” he muttered. “All glamour. All the time.”

Eventually, everyone filtered back into the van—some with sugar, some with alcohol, and one (Thane) with a banana and a pack of guitar strings that weren’t even the right gauge.

As they rolled away, Gabriel cranked the volume again. “Next stop: Hotel Chaos.”

Mark leaned his head back and groaned. “Wake me when we crash into the pool.”

8:03 PM – Somewhere between adrenaline, chaos, and a badly dented nacho tray

The green room wasn’t a room so much as a warzone with carpet. The scent of sweat, string lubricant, and the world’s most questionable veggie platter hung thick in the air. Someone — probably Rico — had turned the volume on the little Bluetooth speaker way too high, blasting classic hip-hop while the band exploded in every direction at once.

Cassie was sprawled across the old leather sofa like a starfish, eyeliner smudged, shirt half-untucked. “I just found a chicken nugget in my bra. Not sure how long it’s been there.”

Maya, rhythm guitar slung over one shoulder, was rifling through the catering table with the intensity of a treasure hunter. “If none of this is spicy, I’m flipping the table.”

Jonah, the drummer, stood in the corner with a towel around his neck and two sticks still clenched in one fist like he forgot to let go after the set. “I think my snare stand is possessed. It moved. During the last song. While I was playing it.”

Mark, arms crossed by the door, offered helpfully: “Or you’re hallucinating from dehydration. Both are on-brand.”

Jonah blinked. “Oh. Cool. Just checking.”

Rico, meanwhile, was mid-argument with Thane near the rack of empty guitar cases. “I’m just saying — again — it’d be awesome if someone labeled these by instrument and not ‘Rico’s Shiny One’ and ‘Don’t Touch, It’s Maya’s.’”

Thane, coiled audio cable looped in one clawed hand like a lasso of logic, shrugged. “We tried that. Then Maya yelled at me for touching her ‘vibe.’ I don’t even know what that means.”

From across the room, Maya didn’t look up. “It means don’t touch my vibe, wolfman.”

Gabriel was leaning against the drinks cooler with a fresh shirt and a towel draped around his neck like a pro wrestler. He looked like the only one not actively malfunctioning. He took a sip of his coffee and grinned. “Well, I think it went great.”

Mark deadpanned: “You broke a monitor, two foggers, and screamed into the wrong mic during intros.”

Gabriel pointed with his cup. “Exactly. Rock and roll, baby.”

Cassie groaned from the couch. “Can we just acknowledge that the crowd went feral? Like I legit thought someone was gonna jump the barricade.”

Rico nodded. “That one guy with the glowing shirt? Yeah. He barked.”

Jonah: “Wasn’t that Thane?”

Everyone looked at Thane, who was now casually rewinding cable.

“…Yeah,” he said after a pause. “That one was me.”

A round of exhausted laughter erupted. Even Mark cracked a half-smile.

At that moment, Ruby—the venue’s overworked backstage coordinator—poked her head in. “Y’all good? Need anything?”

Maya: “A blowtorch and nachos.”

Thane: “Gaffer tape and maybe a chiropractor.”

Gabriel: “Coffee. Always coffee.”

Ruby just blinked. “…Right. So… no?”

As she backed out slowly, Rico grabbed a half-broken chair and flopped down next to Jonah. “Next show’s gonna top this one. I can feel it.”

Jonah gave a long, dramatic nod. “Yeah, but first — I gotta find out if that snare stand follows me home.”

7:12 PM – Backstage, Immediately After Opening Set

The backstage hallway was chaos flavored with sweat, fog juice, and celebratory profanity. Sound crew sprinted past with rolls of gaff tape and half-dead DI boxes. One of the monitor techs looked like he’d been electrocuted by enthusiasm alone.

Thane stood in the corner, one hand braced against the wall, still panting like he’d sprinted a marathon carrying an amp rack. His other hand gripped a half-empty water bottle that may or may not have originally belonged to someone else. Possibly even someone human.

“Okay,” he wheezed, “who the hell decided to trigger both foggers at once?”

From down the hall, Mark strode in calmly with a clipboard in one hand and a rag over his shoulder like a jaded kitchen manager. “Fog unit two glitched. Reassigned its function to ‘panic sprinkler.’ You’re welcome.”

“You mean you set off a cloud bomb during Gabriel’s solo.”

Mark didn’t blink. “I call it dramatic enhancement.”

Gabriel burst in next, still glowing—literally glowing—under a film of sweat, fog, and sheer ego. His bass was slung lazily over his back, and his mouth curled in a wolfish grin.

“That. Was. AWESOME.” He leaned against a crate of mic stands and dramatically wiped his brow with the edge of his shirt. “Did you see the look on that one dude in the front row when I snarled the chorus? He backed up like I was gonna bite him.”

Thane huffed. “You were gonna bite him.”

Gabriel shrugged. “Yeah, but he didn’t know that.”

Maya came stomping in behind him, a busted string still dangling from her guitar like a war trophy. She threw her jacket on a nearby stool and grabbed a towel off the crate.

“I need duct tape and a new A-string,” she growled. “That was the best solo I’ve ever done while internally screaming.”

Cassie appeared next, sweaty curls plastered to her forehead, still breathing hard like she’d just finished her third workout of the day. “That was incredible,” she beamed, flopping dramatically into a folding chair. “Also, pretty sure I kicked a monitor into a different time zone.”

Mark held up his clipboard. “It’s in Kansas now.”

Cassie gave him a thumbs-up. “Good. They need better monitors anyway.”

For a moment, the group just stood there—some leaning, some sitting, everyone dripping.

No words. Just that shared, electric post-battle silence.

Then Thane chuckled low in his chest. “Okay… that was loud, stupid, half-on-fire, and barely held together.”

Gabriel raised his coffee thermos high. “Just the way we like it.”

Mark raised his clipboard in a deadpan toast. “To chaos.”

Everyone clinked with whatever they had—thermos, water bottle, wrench, drumstick.

The war was only beginning. But the first blow had landed hard—and judging by the audience’s deafening reaction, it hit exactly where it needed to.