Author: Thane Page 4 of 22

It was three nights later at a smaller venue in Minneapolis—an intimate VIP-only event held in a converted warehouse with hanging Edison bulbs, velvet armchairs, and candlelit tables where superfans lounged with drinks in hand. The kind of show where nobody wore earplugs, and every lyric hit just a little closer.

The band had planned it as a stripped-down set—no pyro, no towering stacks, just warm lights and acoustic vibes. The kind of night meant to reconnect, to breathe.

About halfway through the show, after the usual acoustic versions of fan favorites and a few playful crowd interactions (including Gabriel making up a song about someone’s sparkly boots on the spot), Cassie glanced toward Thane, then back at the crowd.

“Alright,” she said into the mic, “we’ve got one more for you… and it’s not on any album. Not yet, anyway.”

The crowd buzzed.

“This one’s… a little different. We wrote it under the stars a few nights ago. No lights. No stage. Just us and a fire.” She looked at Jonah, who gave her a small nod and tapped his sticks gently together, four-counting into silence.

Thane dimmed the house lights from the soundboard. One soft spotlight glowed down on the stage.

Cassie began to play, her voice like the night wind.

“The world gets loud…
but stars don’t speak in screams.
They whisper like we’re worthy,
of forgotten little dreams…”

Every face in the crowd changed. Phones stayed down. Eyes softened. And from somewhere near the side curtain, unseen by the band, a young production intern who had helped set up cables earlier that evening was crouched behind a speaker, hands trembling as she held up her phone, recording every second—completely overwhelmed.

She hadn’t meant to record it. She just… had to.

Gabriel’s harmony curled under the chorus like smoke, and Jonah’s subtle taps on the rim gave it heartbeat. Mark’s lighting didn’t change once—just a gentle dusk-tone glow the entire time. The music hung in the room like a prayer.

“Field notes from the stars—
scribbled on napkins and scars…”

By the time the last note faded, more than a few fans were openly wiping their eyes. The band didn’t take a bow. They didn’t need to. They simply nodded, smiled, and walked offstage in near silence.

The moment had spoken for itself.

---

The next morning, the video was online.

The intern, still anonymous, posted it with no caption. Just the title:
“Field Notes From the Stars – Feral Eclipse (Unreleased)”

The clip was raw. Shaky. Recorded from backstage at an angle. You could barely see Gabriel’s face. The sound wasn’t perfect.

But it didn’t matter.

It spread like wildfire.

Fans reposted it with captions like:

“I didn’t know I needed this until I heard it.”
“This is what it feels like to fall asleep safely.”
“The most beautiful thing they’ve ever written. Please release this.”

Within twelve hours, it hit 2.3 million views.

By nightfall, #FieldNotesFromTheStars was trending globally.

Gabriel saw it first on the bus and screamed so loud he nearly knocked over the espresso machine. “WE’RE GOING VIRAL FOR THE CHILL SONG!”

Cassie pulled up the comments on her phone and just smiled, softly mouthing a thank-you to the unknown fan.

Thane reviewed the tour calendar quietly. “Might be time to record this one for real.”

Jonah, from his bunk, whispered into the quiet of the bus, “We wrote that for us. But maybe… maybe it belongs to them too.”

Mark, without looking up, muttered, “Victor would be proud.”

Everyone laughed.

The next evening found the band tucked backstage at a mid-size theater in Peoria, Illinois. Load-in had gone smooth, soundcheck was wrapped, and dinner was still a couple hours off. Outside, the crowd was already starting to line up. Inside, the green room was dim and quiet, lit mostly by a warm lamp in the corner and the faint glow of someone’s laptop left on standby.

Jonah sat cross-legged on the couch with a worn notebook in his lap, absently flipping through half-scribbled lyrics and snare exercises. Gabriel was curled up on a beanbag in the corner, barepaw and lazily twirling a Sharpie in one clawed hand, tail swaying with each slow breath.

Cassie was the one who broke the silence. She looked up from her chair, where she’d been absentmindedly strumming Rico’s backup acoustic guitar.

“So,” she said. “That night in the clearing? I can’t stop thinking about it.”

Rico nodded from the floor, back against the wall, arms resting on his knees. “Same. I kept hearing this melody in my head last night. Been trying to figure out where it came from, and I think it was Mark humming.”

Mark, who had been pretending to nap with his arms crossed and one paw on the edge of the gear crate, opened one eye. “Wasn’t humming. Just breathing funny.”

Gabriel chuckled softly. “Well, your haunted breathing is inspiring as hell.”

You stood nearby with your tablet tucked under one arm, monitoring backstage comms, but listening with half an ear as the vibe shifted. Something was happening—slow, organic. The kind of shift that usually meant a song was about to be born.

Cassie started plucking a quiet progression in D major—bright but soft, warm and reflective. Jonah tapped gently on the couch cushion in time, mimicking kick-snare patterns without making a sound. Gabriel sat up a little straighter, his Sharpie forgotten as he watched the chords unfold.

Cassie sang, almost more to herself than anyone else.

“The world gets loud…
but stars don’t speak in screams.
They whisper like we’re worthy,
of forgotten little dreams…”

Jonah scribbled furiously. “Say that again—the stars don’t speak in screams.”

She smiled and kept playing.

“We chased our lives through city lights,
but found the truth in pine and flame.
The fire crackled, kept us warm,
and made us say our real names…”

Mark slowly sat up. “Bridge should drop to silence. No drums. Just layered harmonies and one guitar.”

Rico raised a brow. “You’re contributing lyrics now?”

Mark smirked. “I’m contributing vibe.”

Gabriel was next. He softly sang backup on the chorus as it began to form, his deep voice wrapping around Cassie’s lead like smoke curling through starlight.

“Field notes from the stars—
scribbled on napkins and scars.
We learned the sky’s not that far,
when you’ve got fire and hearts and guitars…”

Rico hummed a countermelody under it, and Jonah leaned forward to tap out a rimshot rhythm on the wooden armrest. Even Maya drifted in quietly from the hallway and sat on the floor, mouthing along, eyes bright.

Thane watched it all—their fingers, their faces, the way it just clicked. The chaos of the haunted show, the silence of the starlit night, the freedom of the road—it was all becoming something real. Something worth preserving.

At the end of the first full run-through, no one spoke. The last chord rang out and faded.

Gabriel finally whispered, “Okay, I’m obsessed.”

Mark grunted in agreement. “Let’s record it. Now. Before it vanishes.”

Thane hit STOP on his phone’s recorder, then backed it up immediately to cloud storage and two different thumb drives. “Already on it.”

Cassie looked around the room. “We’ll save the wild songs for the big crowds… but this one? This one’s ours.”

The night after the haunted theater show, the band found themselves with a rare off-day and no pressing schedule. Thane had spotted the campground while scanning routes on the bus map—a quiet, tree-lined state park nestled on a hill just outside of Bloomington, Indiana. No towns. No streetlights. Just a blanket of woods, a clearing big enough for the bus, and the kind of stillness you can’t buy backstage.

Diesel pulled the rig into the grass parking area and killed the engine with a sigh. “Y’all are gonna love this. Nothing out here but crickets, trees, and maybe a possum or two with attitude.”

Thane was already out of the bus, clawed feet in the grass, sniffing the air like it was better than coffee. “Perfect.”

The others trickled out, stretching, yawning, surprised by how good it felt to not have anywhere to be. Jonah immediately started pulling out a small folding fire pit and a lighter. Rico grabbed a cheap acoustic guitar from the gear trunk. Gabriel—armed with a thermal mug and an energy bar—wandered off a few yards to lay flat on the ground, arms out like he was trying to become one with the sky.

Mark was the last out, holding a flashlight, which he promptly turned off once his eyes adjusted. “No light pollution,” he muttered. “Haven’t seen a sky this clear in years.”

They set up a little camp in the clearing—chairs in a rough circle, a few pillows from the bus tossed down, and a fire beginning to crackle in the center. The forest around them hummed gently, and the stars above stretched endless and quiet.

Cassie was the first to break the silence after they settled. “We don’t do this enough.”

“Sleep outside?” Rico asked, tuning his guitar.

“No. Stop.” She leaned back and stared at the stars. “Just… stop.”

Thane sat nearby, arms resting on his knees, eyes reflecting the fire. “Feels earned, doesn’t it?”

Jonah nodded from across the fire, poking at the flames with a stick. “We’ve been running non-stop for months. Big venues. Big noise. This?” He gestured around. “This feels real.”

Gabriel rolled onto his side and grinned. “We should do this more often. Camp out. Tell scary stories. Hunt cryptids. Interview a raccoon.”

Cassie tossed a pebble at him. “You are the cryptid, furball.”

They laughed. Easy. No stage. No pressure.

Mark sat still, eyes skyward. “When I was a kid, I used to sneak out just to stare at the stars. City light always drowned them out. But out here?” He pointed. “That’s Orion. And the Pleiades. And if you wait twenty minutes, you’ll see a satellite.”

Jonah leaned back, mouth twisting in a thoughtful smile. “We should write a song about this.”

Gabriel, ever the chaotic muse, sat up suddenly. “Field Notes From the Stars. That’s the title. No takebacks.”

Thane chuckled. “Only if the bridge has crickets in the background.”

Rico began picking a soft, drifting melody on the guitar. The notes carried through the trees like wind-blown sparks. Jonah joined in with subtle, rhythmic taps on a box drum he’d dragged from the gear bay. The others hummed, quiet, thoughtful. It wasn’t a rehearsal. It wasn’t a jam.

It was… peace.

And for a while, none of them spoke. They just played under the stars—firelight dancing off fur and skin, music drifting into the woods. A rare stillness, a shared breath.

Eventually, one by one, they drifted back into the bus, tired in the good kind of way.

Thane was last to head in, glancing up at the stars again, just to soak in one final moment of silence.

From behind him, Diesel spoke quietly, leaning on the bus railing. “Worth the detour?”

Thane nodded. “Yeah. One hundred percent.”

The door hissed shut behind them, and the night reclaimed the clearing—leaving only the cooling embers of a fire and a soft, fading melody on the breeze.

The Lyric Crown was long behind them now. The tour bus rolled quiet through the night, somewhere along a winding Kentucky backroad. City lights had faded into stars, and only the low hum of the wheels and the occasional yawn broke the silence inside.

The band was scattered around the lounge in a rare moment of calm—no caffeine-fueled antics, no cable coils being juggled, no thundering kick drum coming from the back lounge. Just the soft glow of the overhead LEDs and the flicker of the highway beneath them.

Jonah sat with his legs curled up on one of the couches, hoodie pulled halfway over his face, earbuds in but not playing anything. Cassie lounged across from him, lazily scrolling her phone.

“Victor is trending,” she said softly.

Gabriel perked up from where he was sitting crisscross on the floor, nursing a mug of espresso like it was soup. “Victor is trending? Please tell me it’s not because I tried to summon him onstage.”

Cassie smirked. “Fancam videos, Gabriel. That last bass drop? The strobe hit? People think you did summon him.”

Thane, seated at the table with his laptop open, glanced up. “To be fair, it did look rehearsed. Like… insanely rehearsed.”

“I didn’t even touch the cue,” Mark said from his usual spot in the corner, arms crossed, eyes closed. “It wasn’t mine.”

Gabriel leaned back, tail thumping the floor lightly. “I told you Victor was real. I felt a presence. Like stage manager energy, but with unfinished business and dramatic flair.”

Jonah chuckled under his breath. “If Victor had unfinished business, I think it was running our lights better than any of us could.”

Rico wandered in with a half-eaten bag of chips. “I watched a video someone uploaded from the balcony. There’s this weird shadow in the background when the lights hit red. Right where Toni said he used to sit.”

Everyone went quiet for a moment.

Even Diesel, still up front behind the wheel, called back over his shoulder. “All I’m saying is, if the ghost wants a roadie slot, he better not mess with my coffee maker.”

Gabriel sipped dramatically from his mug. “Victor would never mess with the coffee. He respects the grind.”

Mark, without opening his eyes, added, “If he wires his own DMX cues again, I’m going to start charging him union rates.”

Thane laughed softly, then leaned back in his seat. “It was weird. But it worked. That show was electric. One of the best we’ve ever done.”

“Because of Victor?” Jonah asked.

Thane paused, then shrugged. “Maybe. Or maybe we just believed something special was happening. And that made us play like it was.”

Silence settled over the group again. Outside, the trees blurred past like soft shadows in the moonlight.

Then Gabriel whispered, “Do you think if we say his name again, he’ll follow us?”

Cassie threw a pillow at him. “Gabriel. No.”

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.

Two days after the EchoRidge miracle show, the bus rolled into Des Moines with something a little different on the itinerary.

No sold-out venue. No press junkets. No surprise concert chaos.

Just a quiet, unannounced afternoon at the Midtown Community Arts Center, a small space tucked behind a strip mall that smelled like paint, old folding chairs, and possibility.

The idea had come from Gabriel, unsurprisingly. He’d been scrolling through the avalanche of fan messages after the surprise festival gig when one caught his eye: a high school drumline kid from the south side who said, “I wish I could see you guys live, but I can’t afford tickets. Just watching your videos keeps me playing.”

It hit him like a thunderclap.

That same night, Thane and Gabriel made a few calls. Thane handled the logistics. Cassie pinged a nonprofit music ed group in Iowa. Jonah sent a message to a local school’s band teacher. And within 24 hours, it was on.

Feral Eclipse wasn’t just passing through Des Moines.

They were showing up.

---

That afternoon, fifty kids—ranging from shy middle schoolers to cocky high school seniors—stood nervously in the front lobby of the arts center, not quite sure what to expect.

Then the doors opened.

And Gabriel bounded in like a caffeinated freight train. “ALRIGHT, YOU LITTLE ROCKSTARS! WHO’S READY TO BLOW OUT SOME EARDRUMS?!”

The place exploded.

The rest of the band filtered in behind him, all dressed casually, no stagewear, no spotlights—just the crew, sleeves rolled up and ready to hang. Jonah was instantly mobbed by five kids with makeshift drumsticks who wanted to know if he really learned on trash cans. (“Yes, and yes, they make awesome snares if you tape ’em right.”)

Mark drifted to the back row of the group and knelt beside a quiet kid eyeing the lighting truss. “You ever run a board before?”

The boy shook his head.

“You’re about to.”

Cassie hosted a Q&A, fielding questions like, “Do you get nervous?” and “What if my parents don’t think music’s a real career?” Her answers were honest, fierce, and comforting all at once. (“You show them it is. Or do it anyway. Sometimes it’s both.”)

Thane ran a mini masterclass in sound tech basics, letting a few eager teens try adjusting the monitor mix as Gabriel and Rico jammed a stripped-down version of Into the Fire. He even printed out copies of a stage patch layout and let them rearrange it “as if they were running the show.”

One girl—barely twelve—asked Gabriel if she could touch his bass. He knelt down, handed it to her, and said, “Only if you promise to show me up someday.”

She held it like a holy relic.

---

By the end of the afternoon, everyone had autographs, selfies, and that wide-eyed buzz that only happens when dreams seem suddenly real.

As the band posed for a giant group photo in front of a paper banner that read “Feral Eclipse Welcome to Des Moines!”, one of the kids looked up at Jonah and whispered, “I didn’t think people like you came back for people like us.”

Jonah smiled, that same soft, proud look he’d worn in Columbus.

“Always,” he said. “We never forget where we came from.”

The next morning, as the sun rose over the EchoRidge backroads, the Feral Eclipse tour bus was already humming down the highway again—half the crew still asleep in their bunks, the other half groggy from too much firepit storytelling and not enough rest.

Gabriel, however, was wide awake. Naturally.

He sat cross-legged on the couch with a laptop balanced on his knees, hair still a mess, sipping espresso out of a mismatched diner mug that said “Don’t Talk to Me Until I’ve Soundchecked.” He clacked away at the keyboard, then turned the screen toward Thane and Jonah, who sat nearby.

“Okay. This is either too sappy… or just sappy enough. Tell me what you think.”

---

[Official Feral Eclipse Post – Shared to Instagram, Facebook, Twitter, TikTok, the tour blog, and a flyer someone taped to Diesel’s bunk door]

🖤🎸 To everyone who came to EchoRidge… 🥁🐾

We found out the festival was canceled just before we arrived. Permits pulled, vendors gone, half the stage left half-built.

But when we looked up and saw you still showing up—still driving in, still wearing our shirts, still bringing that pack energy—we realized something:

A stage isn’t what makes a show.
The fans do.
You did.

You turned an empty field into the loudest, wildest, most unforgettable gig we’ve ever played. With folding chairs and car batteries. With passion and mud and some kid waving a tail-shaped flag like it was a battle cry.

You reminded us why we do this.

From the first downbeat to the last howl, we weren’t just performing—we were home.

Thank you for believing in us, even when the power went out.
Thank you for showing up, even when the stage fell through.
And thank you for being the kind of people who hear a cancellation and think, Nah—we’re going anyway.

The festival didn’t happen.
But the music?
Oh, it happened.

See you again soon.

🖤
– Thane, Gabriel, Mark, Jonah, Cassie, Maya, Rico, Diesel, and the ever-hungry coffee machine

#EchoRidgeUnplugged #FromThePack #FeralEclipseLiveAnyway #WeBuiltThatStageWithSpiteAndLove

The Feral Eclipse tour bus rumbled off the highway onto a dusty county road, rolling past hand-painted signs that read “EchoRidge Festival – This Way!” in bright neon colors. They were somewhere in the middle of Iowa—near the edge of a town so small the welcome sign literally said “Welcome to EchoRidge – Population: Depends Who’s Home.”

The crew was in great spirits, still riding the high from Columbus.

Gabriel was bouncing from seat to seat, pulling out outfits from the “absolutely necessary stage flair” drawer. “I swear the flannel looks more grunge than country—Thane, back me up!”

Mark deadpanned from behind his lighting console. “You could wear a trash bag and the crowd would still love you.”

Diesel leaned forward slightly from the driver’s seat as the first sign of the venue came into view—a big open field with a half-assembled stage… and a whole lot of nothing.

No food trucks. No vendors. No crowds.

No festival.

He slowed the bus to a stop and tilted his sunglasses down. “Uh… guys? We might have a situation.”

The crew poured out, fanning across the grassy lot as Thane walked up to the only person in sight—a frantic guy in a headset pacing by the stage scaffolding and muttering into a phone.

“Hey, man,” Thane called. “We’re Feral Eclipse. Load-in was supposed to be an hour ago?”

The guy nearly dropped his phone. “Oh—no no no. You didn’t get the email? The whole thing was canceled. City pulled the permits. Noise complaints, parking problems, you name it. We tried to get word out but…”

He gestured helplessly at the field.

“We didn’t think anyone would still show up.”

Cue the low rumble of an engine. Then another. Then ten more. Cars and beat-up pickups started rolling in, parking on the grass. Teenagers piled out wearing homemade Feral Eclipse shirts. Someone dragged out a camp chair and a cooler. A kid unfolded a cardboard sign that said “WEREWOLVES FOREVER.”

And the best part? Someone had already set up a tiny merch tent beside the porta-potties. With your faces hand-painted on a banner strung between two hockey sticks.

Jonah jogged up, breathless. “Uh… there’s like two hundred people coming down the road.”

Gabriel’s eyes lit up. “Thane. Permission to go feral.”

You looked at the empty stage frame, the crowd forming, the fans who showed up anyway.

You nodded. “Let’s make a festival.”

Mark grabbed a power tap and started tracing the nearest panel. “We’ve got enough juice from the bus to run half the rig.”

Thane was already hauling cables. “Good. Then we run it dirty.”

Cassie shouted to the scattered techs and volunteers, “If you can lift a mic stand or plug in a monitor, we need you! Let’s build this!”

Within thirty minutes, the parking lot turned into a festival.

The Feral Eclipse crew pulled out every trick in the book: mobile rigging from the bus, powered speaker towers lashed to folding scaff, a backup lighting sequence Mark loaded on a spare laptop, and Jonah’s kit set up directly on the flatbed trailer they towed behind the bus.

And then… it happened.

The downbeat hit. The crowd screamed. EchoRidge Unplugged was born.

Thane ran sound from the bus, cigarette lighter inverter powering the mixer. Mark’s lights cut through the early dusk like wildfire. Jonah pounded the drums like he was exorcising every canceled gig from the past year. Cassie’s vocals soared across the cornfields. Gabriel flung himself into the crowd, barepaw, tail swishing like a flag of victory.

It was chaos. It was raw.

It was perfect.

Later that night, as the sun dipped below the trees and the last echoes of feedback faded into the evening air, the band sat in lawn chairs beside a smoking fire pit someone built out of bricks and a traffic cone.

Gabriel raised a bottle of soda. “To canceled festivals.”

Jonah clinked his bottle back. “And bus generators.”

Thane looked out across the field, where exhausted fans were still lingering near the merch tent, too happy to leave. “We made something out of nothing.”

Mark nodded, arms crossed. “We made Feral Eclipse out of nothing. This is just another gig in the legend.”

The tour bus rumbled lazily through the quiet neighborhood streets of Columbus, just a few blocks from where last night’s surprise concert had rocked the rec center. The morning sun painted the modest homes in warm gold, each one with neatly trimmed yards, old trees, and the occasional porch swing still swaying from the early breeze.

Jonah stood near the front of the bus, shifting from foot to foot, clearly trying to figure out how to ask something without sounding awkward. You were at your usual spot by the front, going over routing with Diesel.

“Hey, Thane?” Jonah finally asked, hesitating. “Do you think we could… maybe swing by my folks’ place before we head out? It’s literally just a few streets over. My mom texted earlier and said she made those cookies I used to obsess over. She wants to meet you guys.”

He didn’t even get a full breath in before Gabriel’s voice tore through the bus.

“YES. YES. COOKIES. YES.“

He appeared in the stairwell like he’d teleported, black fur fluffed out from too much caffeine, holding two mugs of espresso like they were holy relics. “Thane says yes. Thane loves cookies. We all love cookies. THIS IS HAPPENING.”

Thane gave Jonah a long, knowing look. “Apparently it is.”

Diesel chuckled from the driver’s seat, already flipping the turn signal. “Alright, drummer boy. What’s the address?”

Jonah scribbled it on the back of a laminated backstage pass and handed it up. “It’s on Verner Street. Beige house, green trim, tire swing in the yard.”

Diesel grinned. “Got it. Somebody prep the cookie tray. I’m calling dibs.”

The bus crept along narrow streets, the massive vehicle drawing a few curious glances from residents sipping morning coffee on porches. Jonah’s heart raced as they turned onto Verner. The house was exactly how he remembered it—modest, two-story, old siding, flower pots on the front steps, and the faded tire swing hanging from the maple tree where he used to practice his fills with sticks and a busted trash can lid.

His mother was already standing on the porch, hands on her hips, apron still dusted with flour, and a wide smile spreading across her face.

The second Jonah stepped off the bus, she was down the stairs in a flash, arms outstretched.

“Jonah! Look at you!”

They hugged tight, Jonah practically folding in on himself like he was ten years old again. “Hi, Mom…”

“You’re too skinny,” she said immediately, fussing with his hoodie. “You need to eat more. You better bring all those nice people in this house. I baked three batches!”

Gabriel had already disembarked, bouncing like a puppy. “HELLO, I AM THE COOKIE ENTHUSIAST. I WILL BE RESPECTFUL, BUT ALSO I AM HERE FOR SUGAR AND LOVE.”

Jonah’s mom blinked at him for two seconds, then beamed. “You must be Gabriel.”

“I am, ma’am, and I love your son like my own family.”

She clasped both his clawed hands. “You come in. You sit down. You’re getting the first plate.”

Thane followed them down the steps, smiling warmly. “Mrs. Hanson, I’m Thane. I’m the band’s tech and sound engineer.”

“Ohhhh you’re the one who knows how to fix things,” she said with a wink. “You’re getting extra cookies.”

Behind him, Mark stepped down with his usual quiet presence.

She gave him a once-over and smiled gently. “You must be the one with the calm eyes.”

Mark blinked. “…Uh. Yes, ma’am.”

She waved them all into the cozy living room, where the scent of cinnamon, peanut butter, and chocolate filled the air like some kind of magical welcome spell. Plates of fresh, soft cookies were already stacked on the table, and mugs of hot coffee sat waiting.

Jonah sat on the couch beside his dad—who said little, but pulled him into a shoulder hug that said everything. They watched as the pack filled their house with noise and laughter. Gabriel dramatically praised every bite like a food critic. Cassie tried (and failed) to steal a cookie without getting caught. Diesel posted up in the kitchen doorway with a warm mug and said, “These cookies alone are worth the mileage.”

And Jonah… just sat there, soaking it all in.

His world. His people. His home.

It wasn’t just about being famous. It wasn’t about the article or the music.

It was this.

His mom, his dad, his friends, and his pack—were all in one place, laughing and eating and just being.

And for Jonah Hanson, the drummer from the block who never gave up…

It was perfect.

Meanwhile—back in the land of internet chaos—Dee’s TikTok post had officially detonated.

The video, simply captioned “When your hometown drummer makes it big and his werewolf friend corners your high school bully…”, opened with shaky camera footage of Travis yelling, followed by Thane stepping into frame like a boss out of a video game.

The audio was overlaid with dramatic violin and a bold subtitle:

“When the pack rolls in…”

Cut to Travis backpedaling, stumbling, and Thane crouching like an apex predator delivering a verbal warning so intense it might’ve scared the shadows off the sidewalk.

The final frame was Jonah walking off with his friends, mid-high five, and Thane in the background cracking his knuckles.

Within six hours, it had over 900,000 views and was climbing fast.

Comments flooded in:

🐺 “THANE IS A WHOLE VIBE. WHERE DO I APPLY FOR WEREWOLF PROTECTION???”

🥁 “Protect drummers at all costs.”

🔥 “This band is chaotic good and I would die for all of them.”

💀 “Not the ‘stage lights and headlines’ line… I CHOKED.”

And one commenter simply wrote:

“I didn’t know I needed a band of werewolves and humans who fight bullies and rock stages… but here we are.”

The Feral Eclipse official account reposted it with the comment:

“Don’t mess with the drummer. Or his wolf.”

Gabriel was howling with laughter by the time he saw it, tears in his eyes. “Thane, we’re gonna break the internet.”

Jonah just shook his head, blushing but grinning from ear to ear. “This is so ridiculous.”

Mark, watching from across the lounge, deadpanned, “Good. Now we know what to call the biopic.”