Author: Thane Page 4 of 40

The studio was still.

A tension hung in the air — not the nervous kind, but the focused kind. The kind that came right before something honest was about to happen.

Darren Maxwell looked into the camera, then down at the notes in front of him. He didn’t read from the teleprompter. He didn’t fake the smile. He looked directly at the pack, and then out into the homes of every Oklahoman watching. And he spoke.

“I want to start today’s interview with something that should’ve been said a long time ago,” he began, voice steady, warm, and unapologetically human. “To Feral Eclipse… to your fans… and to every one of you sitting here — I’m sorry.”

He turned slightly toward the couch where the full pack was seated — Thane, Gabriel, Mark, Cassie, Rico, Maya, Jonah, Emily, and Diesel. The whole family.

“I watched the previous interview live, and I saw exactly what everyone else did. It wasn’t journalism. It wasn’t fair. And frankly, it didn’t reflect who we are at KFOR or what this team stands for. That’s on me. And I want to thank you for giving us the opportunity to do this properly.”

Thane gave a slow nod, but his ice-blue eyes didn’t blink. “We’re here because you owned it. Most wouldn’t.”

Gabriel, sitting beside him, was quiet. He was dressed a little more low-key than usual, but his claws still fidgeted with the hem of his jeans — clearly a little nervous. He gave Darren a small smile and said, “Okay. Hit us with the hard stuff.”

And Darren did.

But not like before.

He asked tough questions — about the airport incident, about social media, about fame, pressure, werewolves in the public eye, even about the emotional toll of being under such intense scrutiny.

But there were no tricks. No baited traps. He let the band answer in full.

Gabriel explained that yes, he knew it looked bad, but the cockpit moment was innocent. He got excited. He wanted a cool photo. He didn’t think about the consequences. He learned from it — and he was still learning.

Cassie spoke powerfully about how the band’s humanity — and wolfishness — was what made them real.

Jonah admitted he had cried in the airport because it was terrifying.

Maya flatly told the world that anyone who thought the pack was dangerous “should try arguing with Gabriel about pizza toppings at 3am if they want to see chaos.”

Mark, ever the quiet one, simply said: “We’re not monsters. We’re just tired. And doing our best.”

Emily shyly told the camera how proud she was to be part of this family. How she used to be just a fan with a dream… and now she was living it.

And Diesel leaned into the mic with a smirk and said, “Best damn passengers I’ve ever driven. Even if they howl in their sleep.”

Darren nodded through it all, genuinely engaged. No interruptions. No redirects. Just listening.

Finally, he turned to Thane.

“And what do you want people to know, Thane?”

Thane leaned forward. His claws rested on his knees. His voice was calm but firm.

“That we’re not just a story. We’re not just gossip fodder or some TikTok trend. We’re a family. We’ve been through hell together. We’ve made mistakes. We’ve grown. We love fiercely. We protect each other. And we give a damn about the people who believe in us.”

The silence afterward was heavy. But it wasn’t awkward. It was respected.

Darren closed his notepad.

“I think that’s exactly what Oklahoma needed to hear.”

Just as they began to wrap, a quiet commotion near the studio door drew everyone’s attention. A small figure — a girl of about nine — was hesitantly making her way toward the set, guided gently by the station owner himself.

She clutched a piece of folded construction paper to her chest.

Darren blinked in surprise. “Ah… this is Mia. She’s my boss’s daughter. Apparently, she has something she really wanted to do.”

Mia looked around the room, nervous but determined. Her eyes scanned the pack, wide with wonder at seeing them up close.

Then she walked right up to Mark.

He blinked, startled, looking down at the child in front of him. She held out the card with both hands.

“I made this for you,” she said, quietly. “Because you looked like you needed a smile today.”

Mark took the card, his claws barely brushing her tiny hands. He opened it slowly.

Inside was a crayon drawing of him with the words “Thank you for being brave.”

His eyes blinked fast. Then he nodded, folding the card carefully.

“…I did,” he said hoarsely.

The entire set fell silent for a beat.

Then Darren stood, offering a hand. “I think we can end the interview there.”

And when the broadcast cut, it was to the soft sound of cheers echoing from the street outside. Fans watching through phones. People applauding through the studio glass.

And nine hearts, a little fuller than they’d been an hour ago.

The next morning, the pack rolled up to KFOR’s gleaming new studio like a rock band arriving at a late-night talk show — because, well, they kind of were.

The tour bus — still coated in tour grime and social media stickers — rumbled into the parking lot with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm. Diesel threw it into park with a grin and leaned out the window, casually announcing, “Delivery for Channel Four. Contents may be loud, furry, and prone to spontaneous music.”

A few interns peeked out the front doors of the studio lobby and squeaked. One of them dropped her phone. Another ran to get her supervisor. All of them were visibly vibrating.

The studio itself was slick, modern, and surprisingly serene. White tile floors, soft LED lighting, giant panels of backlit glass. Clearly designed to impress. But the moment the doors opened and nine very-not-average rockstars walked in, serenity took a coffee break.

Gabriel was first through the door, adjusting his black tee with a smirk. “Smells like… TV and nerves.”

Emily followed close behind in her lavender hoodie, eyes wide at all the production tech humming quietly around her. “Oh my gosh, this place is so clean.”

Cassie, Rico, Maya, and Jonah spilled in behind them, already making snide remarks about how not rock and roll this place felt.

Then came Thane and Mark, bringing up the rear like the wolfish bouncers of a very well-behaved chaos brigade.

They were greeted instantly by a flustered studio coordinator, who seemed equal parts thrilled and terrified. “Um — hi! Welcome! Mr. Maxwell is just finishing a meeting, he’ll be right with you. Can I get anyone water? Coffee? Sparkling water? Bourbon?”

Thane arched an eyebrow. “Do you have Gabriel’s coffee?”

The coordinator’s face turned serious. “Yes. Triple espresso, splash of oat milk, two pumps cinnamon dolce, served at exactly 130 degrees.”

Gabriel gasped theatrically. “MARRY ME.”

While the coordinator scrambled to retrieve the sacred brew, the rest of the crew began exploring the studio. Jonah somehow found the boom mic rig and started spinning it around like a lightsaber until a stagehand tackled him with a desperate “Please no!”

Diesel — somehow already buddy-buddy with one of the camera ops — was leaning against a light stand and telling a story about how they once rewired an entire stage rig with a coat hanger.

Mark? He was off in the corner, staring down a high-end LED wall like he was pricing it for home installation.

Then Darren Maxwell himself strode out from behind a glass office partition. He looked composed, well-dressed, and — most importantly — genuinely relieved to see them.

“Good morning, everyone,” he said warmly. “You have no idea how grateful I am that you came.”

Thane gave a nod. “We came. Let’s see if it was a good idea.”

Gabriel leaned over and whispered, “That’s his friendly tone. If you hear the other one, duck.”

They were ushered toward the interview set — a sleek, clean platform bathed in neutral lighting. It looked like it belonged on a late-night panel show, with couches, chairs, and a central roundtable adorned with discreet microphones.

As they were mic’ed up, an eager young sound tech was shaking trying to clip Gabriel’s lav mic. Gabriel smirked. “Hey, deep breath, bud. I don’t bite.”

“Y-you’re just… really tall and have claws and — ”

“Fair.”

Cassie helped by adjusting her own mic and giving the nervous tech a wink. “Don’t worry. They’re the nice kind of rock wolves.”

They settled into their seats. Lights dimmed slightly. Cameras panned. Audio went live in the control room.

Darren took his place across from them with a deep breath.

“Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s get it right this time.”

And with a silent countdown from the floor director — five… four… three… two…

The lights came alive. The mics went hot. And the screen at home faded in from black to the most anticipated interview in the state of Oklahoma.

Feral Eclipse.

Live. Unfiltered.

And ready.

It was late morning, and the den had finally stopped vibrating from the aftershocks of last night’s impromptu block party. Empty water bottles lined the driveway. The air still smelled faintly of barbecue and hickory smoke. Inside, the pack was in full recovery mode — slouched on bean bags, sprawled across couches, and munching on leftover brisket like it was currency.

Thane was in the kitchen, sipping a dangerously strong cup of black coffee, when his phone rang. Not the tour phone. His actual phone.

He glanced at the screen.

KFOR News HQ

His ears tilted back slightly.

He stepped into the hallway, answered with a curt, “Thane.”

The voice on the other end was calm, older, and far more professional than the chaos-chasing reporter from the day before.
“This is Darren Maxwell, News Director over at KFOR.”

Thane didn’t answer right away. He let the silence hang just long enough for it to get uncomfortable.

“I wanted to personally apologize,” Darren said quickly. “I saw the live feed of yesterday’s segment. That was… not what we approved or intended.”

“Looked pretty intentional from where we were standing,” Thane growled.

“I know. I’m not making excuses. I just — ” Darren paused. “I saw Gabriel’s face. The way that question hit him. That wasn’t journalism. That was cheap clickbait theater, and it’s not what we want to be known for.”

Thane exhaled through his nose. He didn’t trust the media. Any of them. But… at least this guy sounded like he had a soul.

“I’m calling to ask if we could do a second interview. A proper one,” Darren continued. “In a controlled studio environment. I’ll personally conduct it. No surprises, no baiting. Just a chance for you and your pack to speak honestly and maybe even start to heal the damage yesterday caused.”

Thane stared at the far wall for a moment. The silence from the den was eerie — no shouting, no Gabriel air guitaring on the table, no Jonah setting something on fire by accident. Just quiet. Reflective quiet.

He thought about Gabriel’s face — so damn open — and the way it had folded inward when that question was tossed like a grenade.

“Why should I believe you?” Thane said finally.

“Because if you come in and we do try to pull anything,” Darren said calmly, “you’ll have a hot mic and a live camera to destroy us. And I’ll deserve it.”

That… was a ballsy thing to say.

Thane rubbed the back of his neck. Then he nodded, even though the man couldn’t see it. “Fine. We’ll come in.”

A pause.

“But if one single syllable comes out of your mouth that smells like spin or clickbait — I will ruin your entire newsroom. We’re werewolves. We can outlast your advertisers.”

There was a faint chuckle on the other end. “Understood. I’ll have coffee ready. And Gabriel’s favorite pastries. I did my homework.”

Thane smirked. “You’d better have his exact coffee order. If you get it wrong, he’ll talk about it on air.”

Darren laughed. “Deal.”

They hung up.

Thane stepped back into the living room, where the pack looked up at him like sleepy wolves in a den. Gabriel tilted his head, still chewing the last bite of his fourth sandwich.

“What’s up?”

Thane just looked at him and said, “You’re getting your interview redo.”

Gabriel blinked. “Wait — seriously?”

“They want to make it right.”

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like you threatened to maul someone?”

“I didn’t threaten to maul anyone.”

Mark raised an eyebrow.

Thane shrugged. “Okay, maybe light mauling. But only if they screw it up again.”

Cassie leaned back and grinned. “Well then… let’s give Oklahoma a second helping of truth.”

And somewhere, a very nervous news director was already triple-checking his camera angles.

The sun was relentless, baking the sidewalks and shimmering off the hood of the giant black tour bus like a mirage. Inside the den, it was cool and dim — until Thane pulled back the curtain and narrowed his eyes at the hundreds of fans still camped out on the street, some with handmade signs, others with parasols and folding chairs, and all of them glistening with sweat but still stubbornly smiling.

“They’re still here,” he muttered.

Cassie leaned in behind him. “You think they’re expecting another porch performance?”

“They’ve earned something more than that,” Thane said, already pulling out his phone. “We should give them merch. All of them.”

Cassie grinned. “And water! If someone faints in our front yard, we’ll trend for all the wrong reasons.”

Thane gave her a look. “Good point.”

Five minutes later, he was on the phone with a local bottled water distributor. “Yeah, full pallet. Today. Right now. Just drop the whole thing in front of my house and I’ll make it worth your while.”
They didn’t even hesitate.

Next, he dialed Rudy’s Bar-B-Q — the smell of their brisket alone could start a stampede. “Can you cater a couple hundred barbecue sandwiches and picnic sides? Today? I’ll cut you a check for $20,000 when you get here.”

The guy on the other end nearly dropped the phone with excitement. “We’re on it!”

Thane hung up, turned back to the room, and raised an eyebrow. “We’ve got about an hour. Let’s make this happen.”

The den exploded into action.

Jonah and Emily started boxing up spare merch from the closet under the stairs. Shirts, stickers, wristbands, a few signed posters — if it had the band’s logo, it was going outside. Mark grabbed his work tablet and started quietly coordinating the crowd logistics like he was running a battlefield.

Cassie commandeered the band’s socials. “Block party happening now! Free food. Free water. Free merch. Because we love you weirdos. Bring sunscreen.”

Thane, meanwhile, was trying to convince the HOA president that this wasn’t technically a “gathering” because the crowd was already there before they started giving things away.

But Gabriel?

Gabriel had other plans.

He grabbed Rico and Cassie, a couple small battery-powered amps, and the mini PA system they used for promo appearances. The trio slipped around the side of the house and appeared on the driveway like street performers. Gabriel didn’t even speak — he just slung on a guitar, plugged it in, and started playing a smooth, stripped-down instrumental version of one of Feral Eclipse’s most beloved hits.

By the third note, the entire crowd surged toward the yard like moths to flame.

Cassie picked up the mic and grinned. “Hey Edmond! Y’all look hot out there. Guess what? You’re about to get fed, hydrated, and spoiled.”

Cheers erupted.

“And it’s all free. Because this — ” she gestured to the mass of fans, now whooping like they’d won the lottery, “ — is what family looks like.”

As if summoned by a spell, the water distributor’s box truck came rattling around the corner, narrowly avoiding the tour bus and skimming the neighbor’s flowerbed. Behind it, Rudy’s catering van screeched in like the cavalry, trailing the scent of brisket, pulled pork, and smoked sausage like a dream.

Fans parted to make room, and volunteers leapt from the crowd to help unload the water bottles and picnic setups.

Then the real chaos began.

One table after another filled the driveway, the lawn, and most of the street. Giant trays of sandwiches and slaw. Piles of merch bags. Boxes of water bottles stacked higher than Mark’s patience level. The air filled with music, smoke, and the scent of barbecue sauce as the sun dipped low and social media went nuclear.

Hashtags trended in every state.

#FeralFeast
#BlockPartyOfTheCentury
#GabrielPlaysBBQ
#OklahomaEatsGoodTonight
#FeralEclipseDidWhat

Thane stood off to the side, arms folded, surveying the sea of happiness spilling across his entire front yard. Kids were dancing. Fans were crying again. The Rudy’s guy asked for three autographs and a photo with Cassie. And not a single drone got taken out of the sky this time.

Gabriel bounded over, eyes wide, cheeks puffed out from yet another brisket sandwich. “We should do this every week.”

Thane snorted. “We’d go broke in a year.”

“We’re already broke. Emotionally.” Gabriel grinned. “But worth it.”

And as dusk settled over Edmond, the den behind them glowed like the heart of something powerful and wild and good.

Just a band. Just a pack.

Just another backyard party that set the internet on fire.

The porch had never seen this much attention.

Thane wasn’t even sure the porch could handle this much attention. It creaked under the weight of nine band and crew members, three camera operators, one overzealous reporter, and at least two fans who had somehow snuck into the hedges and were now live-streaming the event on Instagram with handmade “I ❤️ GABRIEL” signs.

The crowd beyond the sidewalk was utterly silent. Waiting.

The KFOR reporter — perfectly made up, her blouse immaculate and her expression dangerously focused — held the mic like it was a dagger.

“First of all,” she began with a dazzling, camera-ready smile, “thank you to the members of Feral Eclipse for agreeing to speak with us directly from your front porch, no less!”

Thane stood to the left of Gabriel, arms crossed, jaw tense. His ice-blue eyes scanned the crowd like a hawk on a battlefield.

Gabriel, by contrast, waved with both hands like he was the mayor of Chaosville. “Hellooooo, Oklahoma!”

A wave of cheering rippled through the crowd before quiet fell again.

The reporter leaned in. “Let’s begin with the obvious. Your European tour was… intense. Viral videos, sold-out shows, unhinged afterparties, a pirate ship — ” (she side-eyed Mark, who raised a brow and didn’t deny it) “ — but what most of Oklahoma wants to know… what exactly happened at the airport?”

A ripple of whispers moved through the crowd.

Gabriel visibly tensed beside Thane. His ears flattened a little.

Thane stepped forward half an inch.

Cassie beat him to it, her smile razor sharp. “You mean the part where our bassist was detained for smiling too hard in a cockpit?”

The crowd laughed.

The reporter didn’t.

She pushed. “There were serious concerns from the FAA. Were there intentions to impersonate a pilot? Were you aware how dangerous it is to allow unauthorized access to the flight deck?”

Gabriel winced.

Thane’s voice dropped low, deadly calm. “He sat in the co-pilot’s seat. For one photo. At the captain’s invitation.”

“But the handcuffs —”

Cassie cut in, “You mean the ones he snapped like a breadstick when he stood up too fast?”

More laughter from the crowd. The reporter flushed slightly.

Jonah chimed in, “Y’all act like we hijacked a plane. We literally just flew home.”

The reporter licked her lips, regrouping.

“Some critics have suggested the band is reckless. That you’ve gone from musical success stories to dangerous influences. That the ‘werewolf image’ — ”

Rico raised a hand. “Ma’am. It’s not an image.”

Gabriel finally spoke, voice quiet but firm. “You don’t have to like us. You don’t have to believe we deserve the love we get. But if you think I’d ever hurt someone — ever endanger people I care about — just for a photo op?” His voice cracked a little. “Then you don’t know anything about us.”

That silence was no longer respectful.

It was electric.

The reporter opened her mouth again —

But Thane had had enough.

“Interview’s over.”

The crowd gasped. The camera guy panicked.

The reporter blinked. “I—I still have several —”

“No,” Thane growled, stepping between her and Gabriel. “You had your chance. You made your angle clear. You’re not getting another soundbite to twist.”

“But —”

Thane turned slightly and let out one short, commanding growl.

It wasn’t loud.

It didn’t need to be.

The crowd roared.

The pack turned and filed back inside the den one by one, high-fiving fans as they went, leaving the flustered reporter stammering on live TV while social media exploded.

By the time the front door slammed shut behind Mark — who turned just long enough to wave cheekily at the camera — the hashtags were already trending:

#PorchGate
#ThaneShutItDown
#LetGabrielFly
#KFORGetsClawed

Inside the den, the pack collapsed into the living room.

Jonah was already laughing.

Gabriel looked over at Thane, eyes shining with pure admiration.

“That,” he said, “was so awesome.”

Thane just exhaled and muttered, “We are never doing porch press again.”

But deep down?

They all kind of knew they absolutely would.

The den was humming with the usual brand of post-chaos calm — coffee brewing, Jonah playing a random beat on his knees, Mark grumbling about someone adjusting his thermostat again.

Then the doorbell rang.

Not a knock.

Not the frantic pounding of rabid fans.

Just a calm, deliberate ding-dong.

Thane set down his coffee and sighed, already pulling up the porch cam on his phone out of habit. What he saw made him squint.

“Uh… guys?”

He stood and crossed to the door slowly, but not before muttering, “If this is another delivery drone, I’m feeding it to Mark.”

He cracked the door —

And immediately regretted not bracing himself.

Because standing right there, prim and poised with her hair practically laminated to perfection, was a live KFOR-TV reporter, flanked by a full camera crew — and beyond them?

Hundreds of people.

Fans. Neighbors. Reporters. Police officers. Random people holding signs like “OKLAHOMA LOVES WOLVES” and “I DROVE FROM AMARILLO FOR THIS.” Drones buzzed in every direction like curious mechanical gnats. Even the mayor was somewhere in the back waving a Feral Eclipse t-shirt.

Thane blinked.

The reporter cleared her throat, clearly unsure whether to speak first or run for her life.

That hesitation was fatal.

Because from somewhere inside the house, a black-furred blur shot past Thane, nearly knocking him flat against the doorframe.

Gabriel.

He skidded to a dramatic stop right in front of the mic, barepaw claws clicking on the porch wood, fangs bared in a feral grin. “LADIES. GENTLEMEN. AND ALL YOU WILD CREATURES OUT THERE…”

He raised both arms like a victorious fighter.

“I AM READY.”

The crowd erupted.

Cheers. Screams. Chants. Several people passed out.

Thane just stood there in the doorway, expression blank. “…Ready for what, exactly?”

Gabriel turned to him with a flash of teeth. “Whatever comes next!”

“Oh gods,” Thane muttered.

By then, the rest of the pack had poured out. Cassie, Maya, Jonah, and Rico emerged like some bizarre suburban fashion show. Emily stepped out clutching a clipboard like it might save her. Even Mark shoved open the door, coffee in hand and a look of pure why is this my life on his face.

“Is this the porch now?” he grumbled. “Are we porch people?”

The KFOR reporter, wide-eyed but to her credit still standing, held out the mic again.

“I’m — uh — live with the full Feral Eclipse crew on what appears to be their front porch. Gabriel, can you tell us what the fans can expect next after the whirlwind European tour?”

Gabriel leaned in like he was giving away national secrets. “Chaos, my friend. Beautiful. Ferocious. Chaos.”

Another cheer.

Someone screamed, “WE LOVE YOU, GABRIEL!”

Thane stepped next to him, deadpan to the mic. “Please stop climbing our backyard fence.”

Laughter.

Emily gave a sheepish wave. Jonah dabbed. Rico winked at someone in the crowd who dropped their phone.

Mark just sipped his coffee and shook his head. “If this turns into a block party again, I’m buying a flamethrower.”

Behind them, police cruisers pulled up slowly — not in any official capacity, just to lend moral support and maybe enjoy the show. One officer leaned out the window and gave a peace sign to Maya, who flashed him devil horns in return.

The whole thing devolved into a pop-up concert atmosphere again. People were chanting. Someone had already set up a makeshift merch table. A local bakery dropped off free cupcakes. Drones captured it all — front yard fame in real time.

And there, in the middle of it, Gabriel grabbed Thane’s paw with a big, toothy grin.

“Told you I was ready.”

Thane groaned. “I really need a nap.”

Too late.

Because the chaos had returned.

And they were right at the center of it.

The lights stayed dim, but the screens? Blinding.

Phones, tablets, laptops — every glowing rectangle in the house was active and overloaded as the entire pack huddled into a den-wide social media deep dive. For the first time since the airport chaos, everyone was talking again. Laughing. Gasping. Shouting across rooms with, “You have GOT to see this one!”

They were sprawled everywhere — on couches, on floors, on pillows and beanbags and sleeping bags that had mysteriously appeared again. Gabriel had reclaimed his perch wedged between Thane and Mark on the big sectional, curled up with a phone in one paw and a pillow hugged tightly to his chest. He scrolled, eyes wide, tail twitching with every post.

Maya shouted from the kitchen. “Y’all. There’s a guy who got a tattoo of Gabriel’s mugshot. Like, not a joke — an actual mugshot from the security camera feed.”

Gabriel blinked. “I didn’t even have a mugshot!”

“Doesn’t matter. He made one. You look kinda hot, honestly.”

Cassie howled laughing from the armchair. “Look at this tweet! ‘Feral Eclipse may be breaking laws, sound barriers, and HOA regulations, but they’re healing my heart.’ Oh my god, I’m framing this.”

Jonah, sitting crisscross on the floor, held up his iPad. “Someone did a video edit of Gabriel walking into the airport security office with the Avengers theme playing in the background. It’s like… dramatic and weirdly touching.”

Mark, deadpan from the hallway doorway, added, “Someone photoshopped me into the cockpit of a plane with the caption, ‘Mark flew Spirit once and that’s why he’s like this.’”

Thane burst out laughing.

“Send me that one,” he said.

Emily was quietly wiping tears from her eyes from something she’d just read. When Gabriel looked over, concerned, she handed him her phone without a word.

The post was simple: a handwritten letter scanned and uploaded by a fan.

Dear Gabriel,

I’ve always been scared to be myself. People at my school think being different makes you wrong. But when I saw you on that plane, smiling even after everything, it made me feel like maybe it’s okay to be who I am.

You’re my hero. Thank you for being brave. Thank you for not hiding.

—Jordan, age 14

Gabriel didn’t say anything.

He just quietly passed the phone to Thane, then buried his face against his shoulder with a long, shaky breath.

Rico, lounging with his legs up on the ottoman, held up his phone. “Yo, can we talk about this one though?” He turned it to show a poorly photoshopped image of the pack standing in front of the White House, except they’d all been given sunglasses, Secret Service earpieces, and were holding briefcases.

The caption read: ‘Feral Eclipse returns to the US to fix everything.’

Jonah cackled. “They think we’re Batman.”

“They think we’re insane,” Cassie corrected.

Mark grumbled, “They’re not wrong.”

There were posts that made them laugh until their ribs hurt.

There were videos that made them pause with goosebumps.

There were comments that stung — cruel things said by people who didn’t understand or refused to. The ones about werewolves being dangerous. Monsters. Fakes. A few of those made Gabriel’s ears twitch, but he didn’t react much. He was in the middle of his pack. Safe. Grounded.

By late afternoon, the house looked like a tech graveyard. Chargers ran everywhere. Half-eaten snacks littered every surface. Jonah had built a fort of throw pillows and was narrating Instagram comments like a war historian.

“This guy thinks the whole thing was an elaborate marketing stunt and we’re all AI-generated characters. He even has a whole video series breaking it down like a conspiracy doc.”

Cassie chuckled. “Can’t lie, that’s kind of flattering.”

“I like the one that says I’m a government psyop,” Gabriel said.

“You would.” Thane nudged him.

As night crept in, the posts kept flowing.

And somewhere between a fan’s emotional tribute reel and a clip of Maya shouting at airport security (edited with dubstep), something strange happened.

They all felt normal again.

Not rock stars.

Not social media cautionary tales.

Not chaos wolves on the run from internet hysteria.

Just the pack.

Back in their den.

Together.

Still laughing. Still snarking. Still very much themselves.

The chaos had come for them again.

But this time, they didn’t just survive it.

They owned it.

No one had moved. Not a single one of them.

The den, normally full of music and light and chaotic werewolf energy, had gone dark and quiet for two straight days. Every blind was drawn. Every curtain was shut.

The outside world was losing its mind.

Thousands of fans had descended on the quiet suburban street in Edmond like it was the site of a holy pilgrimage. The drone count was in the dozens — some zooming, some hovering, some even attempting to peek through the cracks in the window blinds. They never got much. The band had kept a strict “no peeking, no posting, no public” policy. And it held. For forty-eight hours.

Inside, it was a bubble of willful ignorance.

Gabriel had not left the couch, curled under a blanket like a big black-furred anxiety burrito. He was calm now, finally. But every time a knock echoed through the den or someone’s phone vibrated too close to him, he flinched like he was being hunted.

Cassie and Maya had taken over the downstairs living room TV with a rotation of movies and reality shows. Jonah was camped out on the beanbag pile with a controller in his hands, completely engrossed in some PS5 chaos.

Rico was in the kitchen, making a sandwich that was roughly the size of a car battery.

Mark hadn’t left his office upstairs except to grumble about the power bill or ask who left the back door cracked. He was fully immersed in Microsoft Flight Simulator, taking his quad-screen setup and absurdly realistic flight controls very seriously. At some point during day two, he’d landed a simulated A320 at Heathrow and muttered, “See? No airport drama there.”

The front door had been knocked on fourteen times.

Thane hadn’t answered a single one.

Until the fifteenth.

The ring of the doorbell echoed through the den, crisp and deliberate. It was followed by a ping from the Ring cam in the living room.

Thane, half-dozing with his head on the arm of the couch, lifted his phone and tapped it open.

Three police officers stood on the porch — two uniformed, one in a button-down and badge: the Edmond Chief of Police.

Thane sat up, groaning as his spine popped. “Okay. That one I gotta answer.”

Gabriel bolted upright, wide-eyed. “Police?”

“They’re not here to arrest you, my wolf,” Thane said gently, reaching down to ruffle Gabriel’s fur. “They’re not even holding zip ties.”

But Gabriel didn’t relax. He sat rigid, clutching Mark’s yellow couch pillow in his lap like a lifeline while Thane made his way to the door.

He cracked it open with cautious eyes — and was immediately met with the kindest smiles you could imagine.

The Chief raised a hand in a small wave. “Hey there. Sorry to bug you.”

Thane stepped fully into view, one hand braced on the doorframe. “You’re not bugging. We’re just… decompressing.”

“We figured as much,” said one of the officers. “We saw what happened. That whole airport situation has gone viral six ways from Sunday. Half the city thinks you were thrown in Guantanamo.”

The Chief chuckled. “We just wanted to stop by and check in. See if you needed anything. Groceries, security detail… a tactical drone jammer?”

Thane cracked a smile for the first time in days. “Tempting on that last one.”

They all chuckled.

“We’re good,” Thane said sincerely. “Everyone’s safe. Just… taking a beat.”

The Chief nodded, respectful. “Well, we’re fans too. If you need anything, just call.”

As they turned to go, Thane paused and looked past them — his eyes catching on what lay just beyond the curb.

Hundreds of fans.

Quiet.

Still.

They weren’t shouting. They weren’t pushing. They weren’t waving signs or cell phones. They just were. Sitting cross-legged on the grass. Standing with candles. Silent. Waiting. Hoping. Holding space.

Something cracked in Thane’s chest. The good kind.

He thanked the officers again, shut the door gently, and walked back into the den.

Gabriel immediately looked up, eyes searching.

“Just a wellness check,” Thane said, sitting beside him again. “They’re fans too. Everyone’s just worried.”

Gabriel exhaled for what felt like the first time in days and let his head drop against Thane’s shoulder.

“We good?” Cassie asked.

Thane nodded. “Yeah.”

Jonah stood and stretched. “Screw it. I wanna know what the internet’s saying.”

That was the cue.

Phones were unlocked.

Apps reopened.

And a flood of chaos came crashing through like a tidal wave of pixels.

There were memes, tributes, angry TikToks, emotional reels, conspiracy theories, duets, fan edits, breaking news headlines, blurry zoom-ins from the Ring camera, and at least one incredibly well-edited video titled “Free Gabriel” with dramatic music and wolf howls.

Gabriel, still nestled against Thane, blinked down at his phone and whispered, “I… think I love them.”

Thane scritched the top of his head. “We all do.”

The den stayed dark.

But the heart of the pack?

Still beating.

The steady hum of the road was the only thing keeping Gabriel calm. He sat curled up on the long bench of the tour bus, pressed so tightly against Thane’s side it was like he was trying to physically merge into him. His arms clung to Thane’s, claws twitching involuntarily every time the bus jostled. His ears were pinned, and his glassy blue eyes stared ahead, unfocused, as though he was still in that security office.

No one dared tease him for it.

The rest of the band sat around in uncharacteristic silence, the full gravity of what had happened finally setting in now that the adrenaline was gone. Mark was the first to speak.

“I knew airports were bad, but I didn’t think they were that bad.”

Cassie nodded. “I thought they were gonna haul him off for real. He was in handcuffs, for crying out loud.”

Gabriel flinched at the word, and Thane instinctively curled a protective arm tighter around him, murmuring something low and soothing into his ear. Gabriel didn’t respond, just buried his muzzle into Thane’s shoulder.

Rico shifted awkwardly. “The guy was asking for a selfie five minutes later. It’s like… how does that even make sense?”

Jonah, sprawled backward with his feet on the coffee table, added, “Dude signed a clipboard. Like, who signs a clipboard? I don’t even know what that means.”

Then Emily’s phone buzzed.

And kept buzzing.

Then Jonah’s.

Then Cassie’s, Maya’s, and Rico’s.

The tour phone on the wall lit up next. Thane sighed, pulled it from the holder, and glanced at the caller ID.

“KFOR,” he muttered.

Everyone groaned. Before the ringtone could finish its second cycle, Thane hit decline and powered the phone off entirely with a sharp, low growl that silenced any debate before it started.

The rest of the phones, however, kept buzzing like they’d been plugged into the electrical grid. Notifications exploded across every screen — Twitter threads, TikToks, Instagram lives, Facebook theories, and at least three different YouTube thumbnails of Gabriel looking like a sad, handcuffed puppy.

“Social media found out,” Mark said dryly, not even glancing up from his phone.

Cassie nodded. “And they’re doing what they do best.”

“Which is absolutely losing their minds,” Rico muttered as a video started autoplaying of the airport security officer asking for a selfie.

Despite himself, Gabriel whimpered.

But then — at long, long last — the familiar suburbs of Edmond rolled past the tinted windows. Gabriel sat up just slightly when he recognized their street, muscles still tense. Thane kept an arm around him. The tension lifted only when they rounded the last corner and spotted their home.

Diesel pulled up to the curb in front of the modest four-bedroom den, ignoring the fire hydrant and the faded “No Parking — Tow Zone” sign like the absolute legend he was. The tour bus let out a long sigh of compressed air as the doors opened.

And right on cue… the front door of the two-story house three doors down slammed open.

“Oh for —” Mark started, already stepping off the bus.

There she was. The HOA monarch herself. Dressed in high-waisted khakis, a floral print blouse, and the sort of expression typically reserved for discovering a raccoon in the pantry, she marched down the sidewalk toward the weary, road-worn pack like she meant to issue a citizen’s arrest.

Mark intercepted her with all the energy of a grumpy bouncer outside a dive bar.

“No.” He pointed a clawed finger in her direction, brown eyes flat. “Not today.”

She opened her mouth.

He tilted his head, unmoving. “Go back inside, Linda.”

It wasn’t even a shout. It was just a statement. A low, dangerous growl curled beneath the words like thunder behind a distant hill.

Linda stopped cold.

And for the first time in HOA history, she turned around and walked straight back into her house without another word.

The rest of the band and crew shuffled off the bus without a word, too exhausted to laugh, too stunned to process any more nonsense.

The front door opened. The Edmond den was waiting.

Shoes, bags, guitars, hoodies, shirts, and snacks were shed like scales behind them as each member of the pack collapsed into whatever furniture or floor space they could claim. Gabriel found his way to the den couch and wrapped himself in the throw blanket Thane always kept there, eyes fluttering closed before he’d even settled in.

Cassie sat cross-legged on the floor with her back against the wall.

Rico sprawled across the kitchen counter like he’d been shot.

Mark took his place in the recliner like the throne it was, arms crossed, eyes already closed.

And Thane? He sat down beside Gabriel on the couch, leaned his head back, and let out a long sigh as he stared up at the ceiling of their very own den.

Quiet.

Peace.

Home.

…at least until the next chaos.

Gabriel was still trembling, pressed so close to Thane it was like they’d been fused at the ribs. His tail hung low, ears pinned back, claws twitching with lingering nerves. Even his fur seemed puffed out with adrenaline, and his usually cocky swagger was nowhere to be seen.

Thane didn’t say a word as they walked, just kept one arm around his packmate’s back and the other gripping Gabriel’s duffel. Every time someone looked at them funny in the terminal, he shot them a glare so fierce even the most curious fans backed off immediately.

Outside, the humid Oklahoma air hit like a blanket soaked in nostalgia and jet lag. It was early evening, the sun casting long shadows over the pickup zone — and there, like a vision from a long-forgotten road trip dream, stood their old friend Diesel.

He leaned against the side of the tour bus, arms crossed, toothpick in his mouth and aviators reflecting the chaos of baggage carts and honking taxis. And then he whistled — a sound so loud, so sharp, it cut through the airport noise like a blade.

The whole pack snapped their heads up.

“There’s my favorite wolves!” Diesel called, his grin wide enough to rival the bus itself. “Y’all look like you went to Europe, played a million shows, and nearly got arrested.”

“We did,” Jonah said flatly, dragging his suitcase behind him.

Everyone filed into the waiting bus, one by one offering Diesel the kind of hug you give family. Even Mark, grumbling something about “too many damn hours in the air,” clapped the man’s back with rare affection.

Gabriel lingered at the bottom step, eyes still a little glassy. Diesel looked him over, then nodded solemnly.

“You good, pup?”

Gabriel gave a tiny nod. “Almost went to jail.”

“Yeah, well.” Diesel tilted his head. “If you hadn’t, I’d be disappointed. C’mon. Bus is cold. Snacks are stocked. And I’m parked illegally, so let’s move it.”

Gabriel finally cracked a shaky grin and bounded up into the doorway, still not letting go of Thane’s paw.

The doors hissed shut. The engine rumbled. And as Diesel pulled out of the chaos of Will Rogers World Airport and onto the open highway toward Edmond, the tension slowly melted from every shoulder and muzzle.

They were home.

And they were never getting on another plane again.