Category: Tour Life Page 16 of 40

The diner door creaked open with the kind of dramatic, aching slowness usually reserved for westerns or horror films.

In stumbled Feral Eclipse.

Not strutted. Not walked. Stumbled.

Thane, Gabriel, Cassie, Maya, Rico, Jonah, Emily, and even Diesel—dragging themselves in like a defeated circus, each moving like their bones had been replaced with hangover cement.

Mark trailed in last, perfectly upright and looking like he’d just returned from a casual morning jog instead of a night that ended with tequila-fueled firehouse war stories and an elderly woman drinking them under the table.

They flopped into a corner booth and nearby tables, limbs everywhere. Gabriel’s ears were at half-mast. Maya was wearing sunglasses inside, clutching a water glass like it was a holy relic. Jonah just slumped forward and let his face rest on a menu.

The waitress—a chipper twenty-something with a nametag that said TINA and a lot of emotional armor—raised an eyebrow and strolled over.

“Y’all okay?”

A muffled “define okay” emerged from Thane’s side of the table.

“Let’s start with coffee,” Mark said, sliding her a twenty without making eye contact. “Bring a lot.”

Gabriel mumbled, “Also hashbrowns. A mountain. Like… Everest, but with cheese.”

Jonah groaned, lifting his head slightly. “And maybe a side of forgiveness.”

Emily offered a small smile. “Sorry. Long night.”

Tina raised a brow. “Oh, I know who you are. You’re that werewolf band. Played the arena last night. I saw y’all trending with a seventy-year-old woman doing whiskey shots.”

Cassie croaked, “We don’t talk about the granny.”

“I liked the granny,” Diesel said proudly. “She gave me a shoulder rub and called me ‘handsome trouble.’”

Tina laughed, then nodded. “Well, you’re safe here. Fans won’t mob you. They mostly don’t show up until after ten.”

Right as she said that, the door chimed.

Two young fans walked in, stopped dead, and immediately gasped.

“Ohmygod,” one whispered. “That’s them. That’s them.”

The pack groaned collectively.

Cassie waved weakly. “Hi. We are the ghosts of last night’s concert.”

Gabriel attempted a smile, then accidentally hiccupped and bonked his head on the napkin dispenser.

Thane just raised one clawed hand without opening his eyes.

“Love you. Please… lower your voices.”

The fans approached like they were entering a sacred shrine.

“Could we… get a selfie?” one asked, reverently.

Maya lifted her sunglasses just enough to give her patented you’re-brave-but-I-respect-it squint. “Sure. But no flash. We might disintegrate.”

The selfie happened. It was blurry. Gabriel’s ears were crooked. Thane blinked at the wrong time. Cassie’s eyes weren’t even open. Jonah may have been unconscious.

The fans posted it anyway.

Caption:

“Met Feral Eclipse at a diner this morning. They’re literally dying. We stan true legends. 💀❤️🐺 #HangoverHowlers #ProtectThePack”

Back at the table, the food arrived—steaming, greasy, glorious. Hashbrowns, eggs, biscuits, regret.

Gabriel stabbed a sausage patty with the seriousness of a man dueling his past.

Cassie sipped coffee and whispered, “…Okay. I might live.”

Jonah blinked blearily. “Remind me to put ‘Granny-proof’ on our tour rider.”

Thane grunted, “Make it laminated.”

Mark took a peaceful bite of toast and said nothing.

Because he’d already won.

The bus was quiet.

Morning light bled through the cracked curtains. Someone was snoring. Someone else was groaning. A cowboy hat with glitter somehow made its way onto Jonah’s face. He didn’t seem to notice.

Mark sat at the tiny kitchenette, sipping his usual black coffee, utterly unfazed. His tail flicked once as he turned a page in an old paperback. He glanced toward the bunks and muttered:

“Amateurs.”

Gabriel finally stirred in the forward lounge—fur fluffed out, ears twitching, furrowed brow fighting the full-body rebellion known as “hangover from Granny’s personal stash.” He grunted and sat up slowly, rubbing the side of his muzzle.

“I feel like I drank a tire fire…”

“You did,” Mark said without looking up.

Gabriel blinked around blearily. “Thane?”

A muffled groan came from the bunk above. “M’not dead… yet…”

Gabriel dragged himself upright and reached for his bass case near the table, wanting to check it just as part of his usual morning habit.

Except when he opened it, something was different.

Nestled next to the straps inside was a small, worn leather pouch—firehouse red, with a silver button snap. A folded note was tucked beneath it.

Gabriel blinked, then unfolded the note slowly, fangs catching the corner for a second.

“Wolves gotta howl with heart. Keep yours loud.
—Dolly Rigsby (Chief, Station 8, Ret.)”

Inside the pouch?

A silver flask.
Engraved on the back:
“Tucson Fire Station 8 – ‘Don’t start nothin’, won’t need a hose.’”

On the front:
A tiny etched paw print… and underneath, one word:
“Family.”

Gabriel stared at it, completely speechless for once.

“Hey…” he whispered, glancing back at Mark. “She gave me… her flask.”

Mark looked up just long enough to raise a brow. “That’s not just a flask. That’s her baptism tool. I think you’ve been claimed.”

Thane dragged himself from the bunk, fur a disaster, and peeked over Gabriel’s shoulder.

“That better not be full.”

Gabriel sniffed it.

“…It’s full.”

Jonah, still face-down on the lounge floor, raised a hand without looking. “Can I be adopted too?”

Cassie groaned from the back. “Only if you survive breakfast…”

Diesel finally shuffled out of the driver’s cab, took one look at the scene, and said:

“Y’all realize you were just wrecked by a seventy-year-old woman who wore rhinestones and saved a burning horse once, right?”

Gabriel looked back at the flask.

And smiled.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “And she’s officially cooler than all of us.”

Post-show glow still radiated off the pack like low-level static, but the buzz was shifting from onstage electricity to where the hell are we drinking tonight.

Jonah, still slightly damp from his Gatorade shower, leaned over and grinned.

“I got a place,” he said. “Super local. Real grimy. Sawdust-on-the-floor kinda deal. Probably plays country. Probably full of cowboys who think werewolves are a metaphor.”

Gabriel raised a brow. “You sayin’ we’ll blend in?”

“I’m sayin’ they’ll either ignore us… or we’ll be on the news by morning.”

“Sold,” Thane muttered.

---

They rolled into a battered-looking bar on the outskirts of Tucson — “The Broken Spur.”
The neon sign flickered. There was a taxidermy coyote nailed above the door. Inside: country music, low ceilings, cheap beer smell, and a whole lotta cowboys.

Real ones.
Hats. Boots. Belt buckles that could double as riot shields.

Most patrons just looked up briefly as the pack entered — then went back to drinking. A few narrowed their eyes. One guy leaned over and muttered something to his buddy while clearly sizing up Gabriel.

Jonah headed for the pool table. Cassie snagged a table near the jukebox. Gabriel and Thane took the bar.

Then the tension started.

A group of three broad-shouldered locals stood up, slowly making their way over.
The biggest one pointed at Gabriel’s tail.

“Don’t much like you folks struttin’ around like you own the place,” he muttered.

Gabriel straightened up. “Good news, man — I’m not strutting. This is just how I walk.”

The guy stepped closer. “You got a smart mouth. Might be someone needs to fix that.”

Jonah appeared on Gabriel’s other side, casually sipping from a mug. “That’s adorable. You got a dentist lined up for after?”

The cowboy shoved his chest forward — and that’s when Thane stood up.

Everything in the room changed.

Six foot two, all claws, calm fury radiating from every inch. His ice-blue stare cut across the distance like a laser. If he’d taken one more step, someone was going to need stitches, minimum.

And then —

“DARRELL JAMES RIGSBY, YOU SIT YOUR SORRY ASS BACK DOWN RIGHT NOW!”

A voice rang out like thunder in a whiskey glass.

Everyone turned as Granny stomped in from the far side of the bar, hands on her hips, wearing a Feral Eclipse shirt bedazzled within an inch of its life.
Her purse looked like it could double as a weapon.
Her eyes sparkled with fire and absolute command.

“Shut your damn mouth and leave my wolves alone.”

He blinked hard. “…Aunt Dolly?”

She marched up, grabbed his beer, took a sip, then shoved him onto the stool.

“That’s Granny, to the wolves. And don’t make me tell your mother how close you just got to being a barstool pancake.”

“These boys are mine. They brought a better show than this place has seen since Garth Brooks had a mullet. Now drink your beer, Darrell, and shut up.”

He did. Instantly. Everyone did.

The pack stood frozen. In awe. Slightly afraid.

“…Did she just alpha the whole bar?” Maya whispered.

---

What followed was pure legendary status.

Granny pulled a barstool up to the center of the crew’s table and proceeded to regale them with stories of her firefighter days —
the time she rappelled off a burning hardware store to save a parrot
the night she stole an engine to beat her chief to a call
how she once kicked down a door in heels because it was her birthday and “hell if I’m changing shoes”

She drank like a machine. Shot after shot. Beer chaser. Shot again.

Gabriel? Slumped sideways in a booth, one arm around Jonah, muttering something about wanting to marry her liquor tolerance.
Cassie? Gone. Laying under the table, arm over her eyes.
Maya and Rico? Propped against each other on a bench seat, laughing at nothing.
Thane? One elbow on the table, holding his drink, eyes glazed. A quiet “…how…?” was the most he could get out.

Only Mark remained upright. Silent. Impressed.

Even Diesel, who showed up late and took one look at the chaos, simply nodded.

“Damn. She really did it.”

---

At the end of the night, Granny stood proudly in the doorway, waving her empty glass like a war banner.

“Any time you pups are back in Tucson — you call Granny. I’ll bring the whiskey. And the bail money.”

Then she turned, slapped Darrell on the shoulder, and barked, “You’re drivin’. Let’s go, slug.”

He didn’t even argue.

As the door shut behind her, silence settled in the wrecked little booth.

Gabriel finally mumbled:

“…we were just bested by a seventy-year-old.”

Thane muttered, “Next tour shirt: Granny is my alpha now.”

No one disagreed.

The lights had faded, the last echoes of the crowd’s howling still vibrating somewhere in the canyon air. Backstage, it smelled like fog fluid, adrenaline, and triumph. Everyone was drenched, exhausted, and glowing like they’d just walked away from the best storm of their lives.

Guitar cases were leaned against folding chairs. Cassie collapsed on the couch and kicked her boots off. Jonah chugged half a bottle of Gatorade, then dumped the rest over his head like he’d won the Super Bowl.

Gabriel paced back and forth near the drink cooler, still riding the aftershock—tail swishing behind him, claws twitching to the ghost of the last note. Mark was in his usual chair, arms crossed, eyes closed like he wasn’t listening—but totally was.

And Thane?

He was over by his rig, slowly packing down the console, deliberate as always. Calm. Controlled. Every motion helping him bleed off the pulse still rattling in his chest.

That’s when Rico walked in, towel around his shoulders, brows furrowed slightly.

“Hey… I gotta ask,” he said, looking around at the group. “That spotlight at the top of the show… the one that hit Thane?”

Mark’s eyes opened, just barely. Cassie froze, halfway through peeling off her wrist tape.

Even Maya, who was scrolling through fan posts on her phone, stopped.

It got quiet.

Rico looked between them, caught the shift, and immediately sensed he’d stepped on something… weird.

“I mean, no offense or anything,” he added quickly. “It just—he’s always offstage. It surprised me, that’s all.”

Mark’s lips pressed together in a flat line.

Before he could say a word, Gabriel turned around.

“No,” he said gently. “It’s a fair question.”

He walked over and leaned against the table near Rico, tail resting still for once.

“That light?” Gabriel said. “That wasn’t for show. That was us saying ‘you don’t see him — but he’s why you see us.’”

Rico blinked. “But he never —”

“He doesn’t need to be onstage to lead,” Gabriel cut in. “He doesn’t chase the spotlight. That’s not his way. But tonight? He earned that beam. Every second of it.”

Gabriel glanced over at Thane, who hadn’t turned around. Still working. Still calm.

Then he looked back at Rico.

“He holds the walls up while the rest of us scream from the top of ‘em. You shine a light on that… just once… so everyone knows he’s there.”

Mark grunted softly. “That’s more words than I would’ve used.”

Cassie finally smiled, low and tired. “You say it best when you say nothing, Mark.”

Rico nodded slowly. “Alright. I get it now.”

Gabriel patted his shoulder. “Good. But don’t bring it up again. Seriously. That glare from Thane has permanent side effects.”

From the far end of the room, Thane quietly snapped the lid closed on the mixer case—and did not say a word.

But he did give Gabriel a sideways glance.

And just the slightest nod.

I was in the third row, stage left, right in front of the subs — and I knew the second the house lights dipped that my life was about to be ruined in the best way possible.

The amphitheater fell into a hush for half a heartbeat — just enough to catch your breath — and then the crowd erupted into a deafening scream. The massive LED wall behind the stage blinked to black.

Then one single white spotlight cut through the fog…

…illuminating Thane, crouched over his soundboard at front-of-house like a war general with claws. His ice-blue eyes glinted like they could see through walls. And taped inside his mixer lid? That fan drawing. Everyone knew about it by now. People had started bringing their own crayon art to shows hoping he’d glance at it.

Another light snapped on—far side of the stage.

Cassie. Mic in hand. Chin lifted. Entire presence screaming, You are not ready.

A third beam—center stage.

Gabriel. Tail low, eyes locked dead ahead, black fur shimmering under the mist. The crowd howled as he raised his bass.

A heartbeat.

A breath.

And then the entire place EXPLODED.

Lights burst into full color. A blast of fog punched forward. And the opening chords of “Black Sky Reign” ripped out of the speakers like the world was ending gloriously in 4/4 time.

The floor shook. No exaggeration.

Cassie’s vocals hit like a stormfront. Maya and Rico flanked her on rhythm and lead, trading riffs like they were dueling with blades. Jonah was back there slaying the drums—sticks flying, head banging, sweat flying like shrapnel.

And Gabriel — holy hell. He played like the bass was an extension of his spine, like every note came from somewhere primal. The dude growled into his mic during the breakdown and the woman next to me fainted.

People were sobbing. Howling. Jumping so hard the pit felt like an earthquake. Someone had a plush mop on a stick waving above the crowd. I’m not even joking.

They rolled straight into “Teeth On the Wire” and the entire pit went feral.

And then — mid-song — Gabriel stepped out to the edge of the stage and made eye contact with someone in the front row. Not just a glance. A real look. A lock. And the kid? They dropped their phone. Just dropped it. Didn’t even care.

And when he threw them a pick after the solo? They collapsed.

People were screaming “FERAL! FERAL!” so loud, it echoed through the canyon behind the stage.

Halfway through the set, Cassie held up a sign someone made that read “PACK IS FAMILY.” She didn’t say anything. Just nodded. The crowd understood.

Then — during the final chorus of “Field Notes From the Stars” — the whole venue lit up with phones, lighters, glowy wristbands… whatever people had. It looked like a galaxy exploded in the crowd.

And right at the end — when the final note rang out, and the fog was thick, and the lights hit that blinding white…

Thane stood up from his board behind the curtains stage left, claws still on the faders, and lifted a single fist.

And we all lost it.

The sun was dipping behind the canyon walls as twilight settled over the venue. The pre-show hustle had wound down into a lull — gear was in place, lights were programmed, mics checked, and crowd noise was rising like a low tide just beyond the stage curtain.

Backstage, most of the crew was off grabbing food or chugging last-minute caffeine.

Thane was crouched behind the main rack near the wings, triple-checking cable runs like he hadn’t already done it twice. His ears flicked once when he heard footsteps approaching— soft ones. Familiar weight. A scent he always picked out of the crowd, no matter how many bodies were packed around him.

Gabriel.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stood nearby, fidgeting slightly with his in-ear cable. His tail was curled low—not tucked, but definitely not wagging.

“Hey,” Gabriel finally said, his voice lower than usual.

Thane didn’t look up right away, but his ears turned toward him. “You good?”

Gabriel exhaled a shaky breath and sat on a nearby flight case. “Getting there.”

There was a long pause—comfortable, but heavy.

“I, uh…” Gabriel picked at a Velcro strap on his wireless pack. “Didn’t think I’d freeze like that. I’m not usually scared of stuff.”

Thane finally looked over at him. His ice-blue eyes were steady, unreadable for a second. Then he spoke, quiet and even.

“Height hits different when it sways.”

Gabriel snorted a weak laugh. “Yeah. That’ll do it.”

Another pause.

“I thought I was gonna be cool,” Gabriel said, tail flicking a little in self-directed frustration. “Like, ‘oh hey Kyle, don’t worry, your local support werewolf has arrived.’ Instead I locked up like a damn deer in the headlights.”

“You still went up,” Thane said simply, turning back to the rack.

Gabriel blinked. “What?”

“You knew it was stupid. And you went anyway. For someone else.” Thane shrugged one shoulder. “Can’t teach that.”

Gabriel stared at the floor for a second. Then nodded. “…Thanks for coming after me.”

Thane didn’t respond right away. He adjusted a cable, locked it into place, and stood. As he passed Gabriel, he reached out and gave his shoulder a firm, grounding squeeze. Clawed fingers warm through the fabric.

“Always will, my wolf,” he murmured.

Gabriel closed his eyes for a second, breathing through the leftover adrenaline.

“Hey, uh…” he said, voice sheepish, “if I ever go up there again—”

“You won’t,” Thane said, dead serious.

Gabriel grinned despite himself. “Right. Copy that.”

From out front, a sudden roar erupted as the crowd saw the lights dim.

Thane looked toward the stage.

“Let’s go remind them who owns this canyon.”

Gabriel stood and cracked his knuckles. “Time to shake the mountains.”

“KYLE, JUST SIT STILL!” Emily shouted upward. “Help is on the way!”

“I AM STILL! I’M LITERALLY HANGING!” Kyle shrieked, spinning slowly like a sad disco ball.

Gabriel stood at the base of the ladder leading up to the catwalk, looking way too confident for someone about to make deeply questionable life choices.

“I got this,” he said, adjusting the straps on his bass-rig utility harness.

Cassie raised an eyebrow. “Do you even climb?”

“I have paws,” Gabriel replied, as if that were the same as OSHA certification.

Thane, still half-buried in power distro cables, slowly lifted his head.

“No,” he said flatly. “No. You’re not going up there.”

But Gabriel was already halfway up the ladder, calling back over his shoulder, “Don’t worry, my wolf! I’ve got balance for days!”

He made it halfway across the suspended catwalk before realizing something important:

It was very, very high.

“OH NOPE,” he said loudly. “OH NO. I DON’T LIKE THIS.”

Kyle, still dangling a few feet ahead, turned slightly and waved. “Hey, welcome to my nightmare! You stuck too?”

Gabriel had frozen—claws clenched around the railing, tail puffed, ears back. “WHY IS THIS MOVING? WHY IS THE CATWALK MOVING.”

“It’s… it’s supposed to do that,” Kyle offered. “I think.”

From below, the entire crew had stopped what they were doing. Maya facepalmed. Mark didn’t even look up. Jonah was openly placing bets with a local crew guy.

Cassie cupped her hands and shouted, “Thane, your boy is stuck on the ceiling!”

Thane let out the slowest exhale known to werewolf-kind, stood up, dusted his paws off on his jeans, and muttered, “If he cries, I’m logging this as emotional labor.”

He grabbed a proper harness, clipped it like he’d been doing this for years—because he had — and ascended the ladder with grim, quiet efficiency.

From above came:

Gabriel: “Thane I’m fine I’m totally fine THIS IS NOT FINE —”

Kyle: “Oh hey! Now you’re stuck too! We can start a club!”

Two minutes later, the crew below watched in awe as Thane calmly navigated the catwalk, hooked his arm through Gabriel’s harness, gripped Kyle’s rig with the other, and dragged both of them back like luggage.

Gabriel muttered the whole way down. “Not my finest moment. Still brave though. Definitely brave.”

“You’re not allowed near ladders anymore,” Thane grunted.

“Counterpoint: maybe just slightly taller stages next time—”

“Banned.”

Once on the ground, Thane unclipped them both with a single practiced motion, then glared at Kyle.

“You. Down. No climbing. No donuts. You’re on case stacking until further notice.”

Kyle saluted. “Yessir. Respect the wolf.”

As Gabriel slumped into a chair and tried to look cool while still shaking slightly, Mark walked by and said flatly:

“Wow. Really nailed that rescue attempt.”

Gabriel flashed him a weak thumbs-up. “I rescued his morale. That counts.”

Everything was going fine.

Which is exactly when things decided not to.

Gabriel had just balanced a stack of bass amp heads like a very proud werewolf Jenga champion when the lights in the venue flickered… once… twice…

Then the entire power grid went dead with a bone-deep ka-CHUNK sound that could only mean one thing:

“We blew a breaker,” Mark muttered from the back of the truck, not even surprised.

From somewhere inside the stage bay, a crew member’s voice echoed, “Uhh… I think Kyle’s stuck on the catwalk??”

Thane looked up from coiling XLR cables, ears slowly swiveling toward the chaos like radar dishes zeroing in on doom. “Who is Kyle?”

Gabriel poked his head out from behind a speaker stack, still mid-lift. “I think Kyle’s the lighting guy that brought donuts.”

“Wait, no,” Emily said, skimming the contact sheet on her tablet. “Kyle’s the guy who was bragging about getting ‘certified in roof climbing’ on YouTube.”

“Oh no,” Cassie said flatly. “That was Derek. Kyle was the one who called the fog machine a ‘vape cannon.’”

“Wait—” Maya squinted. “Wasn’t that the same guy who tripped over the power distro and yelled, ‘That’s not on me!’ before it blew?”

Everyone slowly turned to look up at the dimly lit catwalks above the stage.

And sure enough—there was Kyle.
Dangling by his harness. Spinning slowly. Face lit only by the glow of his phone screen.
Yelling, “I’M OKAY! BUT MY LEFT SHOE ISN’T!”

Thane dropped his clipboard and rubbed his face with both clawed hands. “I swear, if one more amateur tries to climb something I haven’t approved…”

Diesel wandered in holding a half-eaten sandwich. “Anyone want me to just reset the whole venue? I saw a switch out back labeled ‘MAIN’ and some duct tape on it.”

“Please don’t touch anything labeled with duct tape,” Emily pleaded.

Jonah, completely unbothered, climbed on top of a subwoofer and shouted up, “KYLE! IF YOU DIE, CAN I HAVE YOUR DONUTS?”

“Kyle’s not dead,” Thane growled. “Yet.”

The sun was already punishing by the time the Feral Eclipse crew began unloading the trailer behind the tour bus. The venue’s staff had promised “plenty of shade” in their email. That had apparently meant one small tree. Everyone ignored it.

Thane stood at the tailgate, clipboard in one paw, ears back in full “don’t test me today” mode.

Gabriel popped open the trailer’s main door and immediately winced. “Oh wow. Yep. That gear is definitely cooked. Can we get fireproof cases next time?”

Diesel grunted from the cab. “Y’all want fireproof, you better start headlining in igloos.”

Mark walked past with a coil of DMX cable slung over one shoulder, muttering, “Heatwave’s already made this a hostile work environment.”

The ramp groaned as it hit the concrete, and the pack got to work. Racks, lights, pedalboards, cases—every piece had its place. Even Jonah helped, which was unusual, though it mostly consisted of him wheeling one cymbal bag and announcing, “Look! I’m contributing!”

Maya had her guitar cases open like sacred relics, and Rico was already tuning while walking, multitasking like a pro. Emily sprinted past with her tablet, reading off the day’s checklist and nearly tripping over a cable.

Thane ducked into the trailer’s belly, pulled the fog machines forward, and called back, “If I see one more person step over a cable without taping it, I will turn this load-in into a group trust exercise with zip ties.”

Cassie walked past with a mic stand, smirking. “You keep threatening that, but I’ve never seen it happen.”

Gabriel poked his head into the trailer. “Thane, serious question: do you think if I climbed in there and just laid down among the drum cases, I could pass as cargo?”

Thane didn’t even look up. “Only if you stop talking.”

The sun was barely clearing the hills when the Feral Eclipse bus rumbled into Tucson. The venue was an open-air amphitheater tucked just outside the city—stonework seating, cactus-lined walkways, and a sound booth that looked like it had been carved into the side of a canyon.

The band stretched their legs after the drive, most of them bleary-eyed and in hoodies. Gabriel was halfway through his first cup of coffee, and Mark was already muttering something about dry heat and aggressive birds.

Thane stepped off the bus last, sunglasses already on, fur ruffled, tail flicking once as his clawed feet hit the concrete. He took a slow breath, scanning the space.

Quiet.

Too quiet.

Then, a golf cart zipped around the corner at full speed.

“Um… Thane?” Emily called from beside the loading dock. “We’ve got incoming.”

The golf cart skidded to a stop right in front of them, and the driver—an absolutely fearless, silver-haired woman in a homemade Feral Eclipse tour shirt—hopped out with the kind of spry bounce usually reserved for twenty-year-olds at a music festival.

She looked about seventy. Maybe older. White sneakers. Big rhinestone sunglasses. A button that read “Team Gabriel (Since 2022)” pinned to her shirt.

“Hello, boys,” she said sweetly. “You must be the pack.”

Thane blinked. “Ma’am… can we help you?”

“Oh, I don’t need help,” she said brightly. “I need a selfie.”

Then she pulled a phone the size of a paperback out of her purse and tried to climb Thane like a jungle gym.

“Ma’am —!”

“I’m a retired firefighter! I’m very spry!”

Thane instinctively caught her mid-scramble by the waist and lowered her back down like a toddler being redirected from the cookie jar.

Gabriel was wheezing from behind a speaker stack. “She’s climbing him! SHE’S LITERALLY CLIMBING HIM!”

Maya had to duck behind a flight case to hide her laughter. Mark just stood nearby, arms crossed, staring into the middle distance like he had ascended to a higher plane of “I’m not dealing with this.”

“Look,” the woman huffed, adjusting her sunglasses. “I waited in line three hours yesterday to buy a foam paw with your logo on it. And I brought my grandson. He bailed halfway through. I told him, Nana’s not leaving ‘til she howls with a werewolf.”

Cassie took a sip of her iced tea and smirked. “That’s the kind of fan I wanna be at 70.”

Thane sighed, then crouched slightly and held up one clawed hand. “One selfie. No climbing. No autographs on body parts.”

She squealed in delight, pressed herself under his arm, and somehow got the camera angle just right without even checking.

Snap. Done.

Before she left, she patted Thane’s arm and said, “Your fur’s lovely. You remind me of my third husband. Strong but broody.”

Then she winked and sped off in the golf cart like a senior citizen bat out of hell.

The silence was long.

Mark finally said, “We need an age limit.”

Jonah nodded slowly. “We definitely do not.”