Category: Tour Life Page 19 of 22

Day 6. Tour Van. Prank War Level: Escalated.

Jonah didn’t sleep that night.

Not because of the glitter stuck in places glitter should never be. Not because Rico kept humming “It’s Raining Men” every time he walked past him. Not even because he found a flake of holographic confetti in his toothbrush.

No.

Jonah was plotting.

And the next morning, vengeance arrived with the quiet hum of a soldering iron, a suspicious package of cheap Halloween props, and a laptop full of MIDI mappings.

Gabriel was the first target. Of course he was.

While the black-furred werewolf snored peacefully in the bunk above, Jonah spent three hours surgically modifying Gabriel’s pedalboard. He didn’t touch any of the critical tones—Jonah respected music too much for that. But every time Gabriel toggled the distortion channel…

Fart noises.

Wet, echoing, slow-motion fart noises.

Custom-mapped to his tone stomp. Through the arena PA. Complete with bass boost.

---

Showtime. That night. Kansas City.

Thane was dialed in at FOH. Mark was stalking the lighting rig with laser focus. Maya was shredding. Rico was slamming out the opening beat of “Hollow Heart.”

Gabriel, center stage, flipped on the distortion…

PPPPPPBBBBBBTTHHHHHHHHHHH.

The crowd fell silent for a full second.

Then roared with laughter.

Gabriel froze.

He toggled the pedal again.

BRRRAAAAAPPPPP-P-POP.

He spun around. “WHO DID THIS?!”

Jonah was behind the drum kit, smirking like a war criminal.

Rico actually fell off his stool laughing. Maya missed a chord. Even Mark paused the light cues, a clawed hand to his face.

Thane, over the comms:

“I swear to every moon that ever shined, I will end all of you.”

---

Backstage. Later.

Gabriel cornered Jonah with a half-full bottle of Fireball and a feral grin. “Okay. You got me. That was genius.”

Jonah narrowed his eyes. “We’re even?”

Gabriel tilted his head. “Even?”

And dumped the Fireball over Jonah’s head.

Jonah screamed. “MY EYES. IT BURNS.”

---

Somewhere in the shadows of the arena, Maya scribbled in a little black notebook labeled: ‘Prank Ideas.’

A single line:

“Duct tape + fog cannon + bag of flour.”

The war… continues. 😈

Day 5. Tour van. Spirits high. Sanity low.

Jonah was having a good day.

He’d just crushed the last show, fans had actually cheered his solo, and he’d snagged the last iced Red Bull from the gas station cooler before Gabriel. (That alone was an achievement worth framing.)

He had no idea he was walking into a war zone.

Gabriel had rigged a glitter bomb in Maya’s overhead cubby—an elaborate setup involving a tripwire, a container of “UltraSparkle Unicorn Confetti™,” and about 20 minutes of whispered scheming with Rico.

But no one told Jonah.

He reached up to grab his spare hoodie from the cubby, humming some dumb TikTok song—and BOOM.

An explosion of pink, purple, and silver glitter erupted like a Vegas finale.

Jonah staggered back, choking, sparkling, arms flailing like a disco ball with PTSD.

“WHY AM I TASTING GLITTER!?”

Maya looked up from her book just in time to see Jonah coated from eyebrows to boots.

“Oh my god,” she whispered, eyes wide. “They got a civilian.”

Rico wheezed from the kitchenette, trying not to drop the microwave burrito he was clutching. “Collateral damage. Man down!”

Jonah stormed down the aisle of the van, glitter sticking to his neck like guilt. “WHO. DID. THIS.”

Gabriel looked up from his laptop, eyes full of fake innocence. “Wasn’t me, sparklecake.”

Jonah pointed both hands at the ceiling. “It came from the cubby above your seat, bro!”

Gabriel smirked. “Then maybe you shouldn’t go poking around other people’s—”

“SHUT UP,” Jonah snapped, glitter puffing from his chest as he shouted.

Mark leaned into the aisle just far enough to mutter, “You look like a Bratz doll exploded.”

Thane, still re-coding the lighting cue list from the co-pilot seat, didn’t even turn around. “I swear to Fenrir, if I find a single sequin in the fog cannon again, I will break both of you.”

Jonah threw himself into his seat, fuming, still sparkling under the overhead light. “I drum for this band. I have dignity. I am a respected—”

Gabriel flicked a single piece of confetti at him.

Jonah growled. Growled. It wasn’t impressive. It came out like a Labrador who’s just seen a squirrel.

“Okay,” Jonah muttered. “Okay. You want war? You want sparkle warfare? Fine.”

The van went quiet.

Then Maya, eyes gleaming, said, “Welcome to the chaos, rookie.”

Somewhere in Arizona, 2:00 PM. Desert heat outside. Air conditioning and vendettas inside.

It started innocently enough. A harmless joke.

Gabriel had swapped Maya’s guitar picks with ones that glowed in the dark and had tiny cartoon wolves on them. He’d even labeled the bag “FOR THE ALPHA BITCH.”

Maya found them right before rehearsal.

“Cute,” she said, flatly.

Gabriel just grinned from his seat, sipping coffee from a cup that said Bass Players Do It Deeper.

The next morning, Gabriel opened his gear case and found his entire bass string set swapped out for pink nylon ukulele strings. There was a glittery sticker on the lid: “REVENGE SERVED HOT, LIKE MY ATTITUDE.”

Mark smirked quietly from the back row, watching it unfold like a slow-motion car crash.

Thane, who was trying to reroute a shorted cable in the lighting rack, didn’t even look up. “Whatever this is—don’t involve me.”

By Day 3, it had escalated.

Gabriel hid a Bluetooth speaker under Maya’s seat and played fart noises during every bump in the road. Maya filled Gabriel’s shampoo bottle with green hair dye that turned his mane into a mossy nightmare.

“You’re gonna rue this day,” he hissed, towel-wrapped, lime-green and furious.

“Oh no,” Maya replied, deadpan. “Is the emo wolf gonna write poetry about it?”

Rico and Jonah had started keeping score with dry-erase markers on the fridge door:
Maya – 4 | Gabriel – 3 (minus 1 for green hair)

Thane, having had enough, declared the back two rows of the van a Neutral Zone. Any war fought beyond that line would be met with growls and actual werewolf retribution.

Naturally, Gabriel mounted a stuffed raccoon head on the boundary with a sign that read: “NO GODS, NO LAWS, NO THANE.”

Mark kicked it clean out the van door at a gas station.

But then—then came the nuke.

Gabriel waited until Maya was napping and replaced her phone’s keyboard autocorrect. Every time she typed “guitar,” it changed to “butt flute.” “Stage” became “puppy zone.” “Feral Eclipse” turned into “Fluffy Glitter Wolves.”

The group text was unreadable for hours.

“Gonna shred the butt flute at the puppy zone tonight!! LET’S GO FLUFFY GLITTER WOLVES!!”

Even Thane had to pause and laugh.

But Maya… she bided her time.

That night, as Gabriel was climbing into his bunk, the entire thing collapsed—bolts loosened, screws missing, held up by zip ties and vengeance. He hit the floor with a thud and a yelp.

Everyone turned.

Maya leaned against the bathroom door, arms crossed. “Call me ‘alpha bitch’ again.”

Gabriel groaned from the floor, rubbing his ribs. “…Respect.”

The scoreboard on the fridge now read:
Maya – 6 | Gabriel – 2 (bonus point for creativity deducted for medical risk)

The house lights dropped. A low rumble coursed through the stadium. Murmurs of the crowd grew into a rolling tide of anticipation. The massive LED wall lit up in a crimson glow as the Feral Eclipse logo burst to life—claws slashing through light, sound, and sanity.

Behind the black curtain, the band stood together—werewolves and humans alike, shoulder to shoulder in the breathless seconds before chaos.

Thane adjusted the strap of his utility harness, one hand coiled around the thick black audio cable like a weapon. His ice-blue eyes burned. Gabriel stood beside him, bass guitar slung across his shoulder, grinning like a demon with a caffeine IV. Mark towered nearby, arms folded, legs braced like a statue built for war.

“Let’s tear their souls out,” Thane growled, loud enough for only his pack to hear.

Jonah, drumsticks spinning in his fingers, grinned. “Wasn’t planning to do anything less.”

Maya cracked her knuckles, already halfway snarling in anticipation. “Time to remind the world who we are.”

Rico double-checked his guitar tuning one last time. “If I puke, just play around it.”

The curtain snapped upward with a hydraulic hiss.

A wall of white-hot light exploded over the crowd.

And Feral Eclipse erupted.

Mark launched the light rig into overdrive—six VariLite VL2Bs mounted along the truss above the stage fired pulsing red beams down into the fog, slicing through smoke and madness like laser fangs. The strobes kicked into sync with the first beat.

Gabriel exploded forward, feet pounding the stage, claws digging into the plywood as he slammed the opening bass riff hard enough to rattle teeth in the cheap seats. His hair flared behind him like a shadowy halo. He screamed wordlessly into the roar of the crowd, feeding off their wild energy like fire on gasoline.

Maya, planted to Gabriel’s left, had transformed into a literal rhythm machine—her fingers a blur on the strings, body rolling with each hard riff. She looked feral in her own way, fire blazing in her eyes.

Rico’s solos screamed over the top of it all—beautiful chaos woven into thunder.

Jonah was a human blur behind the kit, sweat flying from his arms like rain in a hurricane.

And Mark—oh, Mark—was a one-man lighting apocalypse. He sent pulsing reds, savage whites, and shadowy blues blasting across the crowd in waves that matched the beat so tightly the audience could feel the rhythm in their ribs.

The crowd? Lost their damn minds.

People screamed, cried, threw shirts, waved clawed hand signs. Several fans in the front row were howling—literally howling—along with Gabriel as he leaned out over the barricade, baring his fangs and slapping hands with total strangers like he’d known them all his life.

By the time they reached their third song, “Lunar Burn,” the entire crowd was bouncing in unison, an ocean of bodies worshiping at the altar of claws and chords.

And then—mid-song, no warning—Thane flipped the fog cannons to full.

A flood of low-lying fog spilled across the stage. The red beams from above tore through it, slicing through the mist like blades. Gabriel stood dead center in it, bass slung low, eyes glowing like embers as he lifted his arms and howled.

The crowd howled back.

No music.

Just that moment.

That shared madness.

Then—BOOM. Jonah’s drumline kicked in. Maya screamed into the chorus. Rico spun into a solo so hot it should’ve come with a warning label.

They had something here.

Something real.

After the final encore, the lights dimmed. The crowd screamed for more, even as the stage went dark.

And in the shadows, Gabriel leaned over to Thane and whispered, breathless:

“We’re not a band anymore.”

Thane tilted his head. “Oh?”

Gabriel grinned wide, fangs flashing.

“We’re a goddamn movement.”

Backstage meeting room, fifteen minutes post-furniture destruction

The makeshift band meeting had commandeered the dim, echoing room adjacent to the green room. A half-eaten veggie platter sat lonely on the table. Thane had managed to unfold a chair without breaking it this time. Mark stood beside him like an unyielding slab of granite. Gabriel was perched backward on a stool, coffee in hand like a referee ready to call a foul.

Maya leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, fiery eyes locked on Thane. Rico and Jonah slouched nearby, trying their best to look small and un-injurable.

“Alright,” Thane muttered. “Let’s hear it.”

Jonah was the first to brave it. “Look, man… we didn’t know cosplay fan art would set you off that hard.”

“It’s not the art,” Thane growled. “It’s being turned into… merch. I’m not a plush toy. I’m me.”

Rico raised a hand slowly, like a kid in class worried about asking the wrong question. “What if… and just hear me out… you are you. But now, people are seeing that. You made an impact. They’re just… processing it through glitter and chaos.”

“Badly,” Maya added flatly. “Very badly. But they are trying.”

Thane rubbed the bridge of his snout, sighing. “It’s just… hard. We’re not celebrities. We’re a crew. A family. This wasn’t supposed to be about becoming somebody’s furry fanfiction inspiration.”

Gabriel sipped his coffee. “Yeah, but now we are. The weird thing is… that’s kind of beautiful.”

Mark grunted. “It’s still stupid.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Gabriel shot back with a grin.

At that moment, the door creaked open.

A tech assistant sheepishly peeked in. “Uh… sorry to interrupt. Fanmail dump just got delivered. Apparently it’s been piling up since Dallas and no one told you guys.”

He wheeled in two bins overflowing with envelopes, doodles, signed photos, even a stuffed wolf plush in a Feral Eclipse shirt.

“Oh, great,” Mark muttered. “Our legacy in crayon.”

Rico wandered over, lifting a letter with doodles of the band in wolf and human forms playing onstage. “This one’s got, like, actual shading. Damn.”

Gabriel grabbed a postcard and burst out laughing. “This one says, ‘Dear Gabriel, if you ever get tired of Thane, I’m 5’10”, make a mean grilled cheese, and love wolves.’”

Thane side-eyed him. “You gonna answer that one?”

“Depends. Do you make a mean grilled cheese?”

Before Thane could answer, another knock echoed at the door.

It opened a crack.

A hotel security guard stood there awkwardly. “Sorry. We tried to stop her. She, uh, slipped through a service hallway. She said she just needed a second.”

From behind him, a teenage girl stepped forward. Nervous. Hands clasped around a carefully folded drawing.

Thane’s ears twitched. His eyes softened just a hair.

“I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I didn’t mean to intrude. I just… I really needed to say thank you. I’ve been… having a really hard time. Like, really hard. And your music? Your existence? It made me feel like I wasn’t weird. Like maybe… maybe being different doesn’t mean being broken.”

She held out the drawing. It was him—Thane—standing in a spotlight, cable in one clawed hand, face fierce but proud. The text under it read: “Real. Raw. Relentless.”

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he knelt down slowly and took the drawing with a clawed hand that trembled just slightly.

“What’s your name?” he asked softly.

“Emma.”

He nodded. “Emma, I’m proud of you. For being different. And for being here.”

Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m proud of you too.”

Gabriel grinned and whispered behind him, “Say it. You’re feeling feelings.”

Thane didn’t look back. “Shut up.”

Mark muttered under his breath, “If we adopt a fan, I swear to god…”

Maya leaned against the wall, smirking. “Too late. Thane has an emotional support Emma now.”

Thane rose, still holding the drawing. He looked around at the ridiculous, chaotic, loving mess that was his band.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s go play a show.”

Backstage, five minutes after the cosplay catastrophe

Thane kicked the door open so hard the hinges protested in fluent French. The green room fell into silence as he stormed in, claws flexing, teeth bared, eyes blazing like twin ice storms ready to swallow a city.

Mark trailed a safe distance behind, wordlessly shutting the door. He gave a quiet nod to the others in the room that clearly said: “Get out. Now.”

Maya raised both brows, grabbed Rico and Jonah by their shirts, and hauled them into the hallway. She knew that look. The “casual homicide pending” look.

Alone now, Thane launched into a tirade like the air itself had insulted him.

“Cosplay? Furry OC dragon-wolf sparkle disasters?!”

He flung a folding chair halfway across the room. It exploded against the wall like a paperclip in a jet turbine.

“They made me into a goddamn cartoon mascot! What the fuck is wrong with people?! I am not some soft, plushie-friendly… fanfiction fuel!”

He picked up a plastic water bottle and crushed it in one clawed fist. “They wore fake claws, Gabriel. FAKE. CLAWS.”

Gabriel, who’d followed him in mid-sip of his eleventh post-show coffee, blinked.

Thane was just getting warmed up. He turned, jaw clenched, fur bristling.

“I have bled for this band. I’ve soldered busted cables in the freezing rain. I’ve fixed trusses with a broken wrist. I’ve held this chaotic hell-train together with my goddamn claws and sweat. And now? Now? Some TikTok disaster in glitter ears wants to be me? ‘Team Feral Thane’? ‘Smells like burnt marshmallows and leadership’?! WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?!”

He flipped a table.

Gabriel set down his cup, walked straight up to Thane, and put both hands on his shoulders with firm pressure.

“Thane.”

“What?!”

“Stop.”

“Why?! So I can keep getting turned into a sparklewerewolf OC trading card by a bunch of giggling—”

Gabriel shoved him—not hard, but enough to interrupt the meltdown.

“Look at me.”

Thane froze.

Gabriel’s icy blue eyes locked onto his. No anger. Just… sincerity.

“This is what happens when you matter to people.”

Thane blinked. That wasn’t what he expected.

Gabriel kept going. “You gave them something real. Something raw. They’re dumb about it, yeah. But they love what you built. They’re trying to honor that—even if it comes out all wrong.”

He sighed, resting his forehead against Thane’s. “Don’t hate them for loving you the only way they know how. You’re not a joke to them. You’re a legend. Even if their legends wear glue-on tails.”

Thane stood there, fists trembling, breath heaving… and slowly let out a ragged sigh.

Mark cracked the door open. “Can I come back in, or is this still a war zone?”

Gabriel turned with a grin. “De-escalated.”

Thane muttered, “Barely.”

Mark stepped in, surveyed the broken chair and bent table. “Jesus. Looks like someone held an exorcism in here.”

Thane rubbed his face. “I’m gonna need six drinks, a shower, and maybe a ritual cleansing.”

Mark deadpanned, “If someone shows up in a fursuit next show, I’m setting myself on fire.”

Gabriel grinned, patting Thane’s back. “That’s the spirit.”

Evening showtime, meet-and-greet line, back of the venue

It started innocently enough. The venue had arranged a post-show meet-and-greet for fans who had splurged on VIP passes. Gabriel was still buzzing from his final solo and riding the caffeine high of two pre-show espresso shots and one disturbingly chunky energy drink labeled “Thermonuclear Howl.”

He was the first to take a seat at the folding table set up near the back of the venue. Mark and Thane followed, both clearly Not Having It™.

Then the first fan walked in.

Wearing ears. Sparkly pink werewolf ears. And a tail. That wagged.

Thane froze. Mark’s pupils shrank to pinpricks.

Gabriel blinked, looked left, looked right, and whispered, “Oh no.”

The next fan wore a hand-sewn hoodie with fur glued to the sleeves and what appeared to be actual meat bones dangling from the drawstrings. She growled theatrically and purred, “You guys awakened my inner beast.”

Mark made a face like he’d just bit into a hot dog and discovered a thumb.

Rico, already half-laughing behind a merch crate, whispered to Maya, “Ten bucks says Thane goes full aneurysm before this is over.”

Maya rolled her eyes. “I’m not betting on inevitability.”

Then came the real kicker.

A teenage fan—maybe seventeen—wearing a glittery silver cape, mismatched claw gloves, and makeup that made him look like a raccoon who’d been mugged. He proudly declared:

“I’m FERAL THANE.”

There was a beat of silence. Even Gabriel’s smile twitched.

“Excuse me?” Thane asked slowly, standing just a little taller.

“I made a whole OC based on you!” the fan beamed. “He’s, like, part arctic wolf, but also part dragon and his fur smells like—”

“Stop.”

The fan blinked. “Huh?”

Mark leaned forward, voice like a glacier scraping across asphalt. “Go home. Reconsider your life.”

The fan slunk away.

Then someone showed up with a shirtless Gabriel cosplay and a Sharpie, asking to “sign my chest like the alpha you are.”

Gabriel did it.

Thane looked like he wanted to throw himself into the nearest bass amp.

“You’re enabling them,” he hissed under his breath.

Gabriel just sipped his coffee and grinned, “I’m living my best life.”

Another fan waddled up in a onesie with painted abs, fangs made of Tic-Tacs, and a “Team Mark” pin.

Mark didn’t blink. “Get therapy.”

Behind the line, Jonah was filming everything.

Rico whispered, “I’m gonna meme the shit outta this.”

Maya just laughed and leaned on the wall. “We knew what this band was when we joined.”

Thane finally stood, hands flat on the table. “Okay. I am calling an emergency band meeting right now. This is not sustainable.”

Gabriel sipped his drink with a contented sigh. “You love it.”

“I don’t!”

“You love it.”

Mark stood next to Thane, arms crossed. “We’re burning the internet down after this.”

“Good.”

Meanwhile, another fan posed for a photo with Gabriel while holding a handmade sign that read:
“I HOWL FOR COFFEE AND CHAOS”

Thane turned and muttered, “That one might be our target demo.”

Same afternoon, merch table near the venue’s main concourse

The venue’s merch coordinator—a teenager named Kyle who looked like he got this gig because he once dated the assistant manager’s niece—stood proudly behind a folding table piled with freshly unpacked boxes. A banner above the booth read: FERAL ECLIPSE—WILD. RAW. HOWLIN’. (Yes, with an apostrophe.)

Gabriel was the first to wander over, lured by the smell of popcorn and curiosity. He stopped cold at the sight of the merch.

“Thane is gonna lose his entire mind,” he whispered, awestruck.

The T-shirts were… something. Bright neon pink and lime green tie-dye with “Stay Feral, Des Moines!” printed in Comic Sans across the chest. The “wolf” silhouette was clearly a clip art German Shepherd with sunglasses. One hoodie had a full moon with sparkles around it and the slogan “BITE ME, I’M LOCAL” in glittery puff paint.

There were also:

• Foam claws (all five-fingered, because of course),
• “Feral Eclipse” slap bracelets with paw prints,
• Stick-on glow-in-the-dark “fangs,”
• A limited edition tote bag with an anime-style werewolf in a crop top.

Gabriel picked one up and turned to Kyle. “Hey, man… where did you get these?”

Kyle beamed. “I designed them myself. I used AI, like… four whole times.”

“Oh,” Gabriel said, as if Kyle had just admitted to building a spaceship with hot glue and hope. “Oh, buddy.”

Thane arrived seconds later, Mark right behind him.

Thane’s ears immediately flattened. “What. The actual. Hell is this?”

Kyle, still beaming. “Custom merch for tonight! Wanna autograph some for the fans?”

Mark pointed at the foam claws. “These have five digits. We have four.”

Kyle blinked. “I mean, artist interpretation?”

“Is this glitter?” Thane asked, holding up the hoodie with two claws like it was contagious.

Gabriel whispered, “Please wear it. Please.”

“No.”

“Please just once.”

“Gabriel—”

“I’ll buy you coffee.”

“…Fine.”

Gabriel let out an unholy squeal of victory.

Mark wandered over to the tote bag. He held it up with two clawed fingers, deadpan. “I think this is fan art of us, but… anime.”

Jonah and Rico finally walked up, both with tacos. Jonah stopped mid-bite. “Okay. What the hell are we looking at?”

Rico raised a brow. “We get a cut of this?”

Kyle replied, “The venue keeps all merch proceeds.”

Mark: “I knew I hated this place.”

Thane looked ready to rip a foam claw in half, when Maya appeared behind them and loudly announced, “HEY! Who gave our drummer a Hello Kitty shirt with fangs?!”

All heads turned. Jonah froze. He looked down. Sure enough, someone had slipped a “Feral Kawaii” tee over his regular one. It had a chibi werewolf licking a moon like an ice cream cone.

Rico just gave him a thumbs-up. “Honestly, bro? You pull it off.”

Jonah groaned and walked into the nearest wall.

Thane turned back to the table and growled, “This is not us.”

Gabriel grinned and held up one of the pink glittery shirts. “Maybe not… but imagine the tour photo.”

Mark muttered, “I’m starting to think I’m the sane one.”

Mid-afternoon, backstage at the Ridge Rock Pavilion – a mid-sized amphitheater in Des Moines

The backstage area was… something. Someone had clearly Googled “werewolf hospitality” at 2 a.m. and gone way, way too far.

The green room smelled like raw meat, incense, and desperation. A small table in the corner held a mountain of bloody ribeye steaks—uncooked, sweating in the open air under the humming fluorescent lights. There was also a full jar of peanut butter, two cans of dog food (?!), and a pile of beef jerky shaped into a paw print.

Gabriel stood in the doorway, frozen, just staring at the carnage. “What the hell?” he muttered.

Thane stepped up beside him, a clipboard of load-in notes tucked under one arm. He blinked at the absurd meat display, his jaw slightly slack.

Mark brushed past both of them, stopped mid-step, squinted at the tray, and said flatly, “Is this a threat?”

Enter Becky, the venue’s PR manager—a beaming, overly enthusiastic woman in her early thirties with bright eyes and the energy of a motivational speaker. “Hi, guys!! Welcome! I just want to say how excited we are to have Feral Eclipse performing tonight. And don’t worry—we totally did our research.”

Gabriel slowly turned toward her. “Research.”

Becky gestured proudly at the table. “We wanted you to feel at home! I read online that werewolves love red meat and strong scents, so we curated this special welcome spread just for you!”

Thane looked at Mark. Mark looked at Thane. Neither said a word. The air was thick with judgment.

Undeterred, Becky launched into her next proud announcement. “Also! We changed out all the signs on your dressing rooms to say ‘Pack Leader’ and ‘Beta Babe’—so fun, right?! Oh! And if you need a full moon backdrop for any of your Instas, we’ve got one set up by the side entrance!”

Thane dropped his clipboard.

Gabriel reached forward and gently pushed a dog biscuit off the tray like he couldn’t quite believe it was real.

Mark stared out into the void as if silently calculating the prison sentence for arson.

“I… don’t know whether to laugh or set this place on fire,” Thane finally muttered.

Mark offered a dry suggestion: “Can we do both?”

Just then, Maya stepped in, took one look at the raw steaks and Becky, and demanded, “Okay, what in the name of Latin rage is this?”

“Werewolf dinner!” Becky declared proudly.

Maya turned slowly to Thane. “If I kill her, do I still get paid?”

Meanwhile, Rico and Jonah entered behind her, pushing a massive amp through the hallway. Rico paused mid-roll and blinked at the bizarre meat altar.

“Yo,” he said, wide-eyed. “Are we doing a ritual tonight?”

Jonah, already backing up: “I told y’all we should’ve stayed in the van.”

Gabriel, ever the agent of chaos, stepped forward and raised a raw steak like a champagne toast. “To full moons and well-done misunderstandings.”

Before he could bite into it, Thane snatched the steak away.

“We’re eating at the taco truck across the street,” he said, already turning.

Gabriel pouted. “But—”

“Nope,” Thane cut in sharply.

Mark gave the meat tray one last glance and shook his head. “Someone’s gonna get salmonella just from standing near that thing.”

An Hour Later — Feral Eclipse Tour Van, Hotel Driveway

Jonah was the first to say it out loud.

“Okay, we’ve officially gone viral. Again.”

He was hunched in the back of the van, phone in hand, eyes wide as he read the comments scrolling past at lightning speed. “There’s already three TikToks with Riley’s blurry selfie, and one of them is set to our live version of ‘Blood Moon Promises.’ It’s got 40k views in the last half hour.”

Gabriel, lounging in the passenger seat with his feet on the dash and his coffee cup (now his third) in clawed hand, grinned. “She had a good angle. I looked damn heroic helping her up.”

“You looked like a caffeinated cryptid,” Mark muttered.

“I am a caffeinated cryptid.”

Thane was in the back with his laptop open, trying to settle the next venue’s load-in logistics, but he paused when Rico spoke up from the other bench.

“Uh, guys… the hotel just reposted it.”

Everyone froze.

Rico kept reading: “’We’re howlin’ with excitement! Feral Eclipse spotted at our breakfast buffet this morning! Thanks to fan @RileyEatsStars for the sweet clip. #FeralEclipse #WerewolfWakeup #HazelnutHospitality’”

Thane looked up, deadpan. “They hashtagged Hazelnut Hospitality?”

Gabriel leaned over to peek. “Wait, is that fan art?!”

Sure enough, someone on Instagram had already sketched a pastel-styled drawing of Gabriel handing Riley the tiny Nutella jar like it was a holy relic. Thane was in the background, looking confused and vaguely annoyed, and Mark was photobombing with a raised eyebrow and a fork full of bacon.

Gabriel snorted. “I look like a breakfast saint. That’s going on my next T-shirt.”

Mark groaned. “We’re never gonna have a quiet hotel breakfast again, are we?”

“Nope,” Jonah said. “Also… uh… the hotel’s other guests are now tagging us too. Apparently, a dad with a hangover got mad about the ‘wolf boys’ scaring his kid, and now he’s in the comments arguing with fans.”

Thane shut the laptop slowly and sighed. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Maya chimed in from the back bench, tapping her phone. “We’ve been on Instagram for two hours and you’re already trending on three platforms. I can’t decide if I’m proud or worried.”

Rico held up his phone. “Oh, and look—someone just uploaded AI fan art of all of us eating breakfast shirtless. Mark, you’re oddly shredded.”

Mark blinked. “…That’s unsettling.”

“Flattering, though,” Gabriel added, sipping his coffee. “I say we lean into it.”

Thane chuckled under his breath, the beginnings of a smirk tugging at the corner of his muzzle. “You lean into it. I’m going to get us to the next gig without being mobbed by children holding Nutella jars.”

As the van pulled away from the curb, Mark pulled his hood up and muttered, “Calling it now—next time, someone’s gonna ask me to autograph a bagel.”