Category: Tour Life Page 22 of 23

Back alley behind The Throttle Room – Tulsa, Oklahoma

The loading dock smelled like stale beer and hot pavement. It was 4:07 PM, and load-in was officially behind schedule—just like always.

Cassie leaned against a flight case with a fading “FERAL ECLIPSE – VOCALS” sticker peeling at the corner. She had one boot braced on the side, arms crossed over her mesh tank top, and eyeliner that somehow hadn’t budged since Chicago.

She sipped a half-flat Dr. Pepper and glanced toward the open bay doors. Inside, the unmistakable sound of Thane yelling at a tangled XLR snake echoed through the stage rafters.

“Bet you five bucks he threatens to burn the whole rig by soundcheck,” she said, not looking up.

Jonah, the drummer, perched cross-legged on a bass cab like some ADHD gargoyle, drumming on his knees with two Sharpies. “Oh please. He’s already halfway there. I heard him mutter something about ‘dragging this entire venue to hell by the truss.’”

Cassie snorted. “You’d think a werewolf would have more chill.”

“Thane?” Rico chimed in, emerging from the trailer with a guitar case over one shoulder and sunglasses on indoors. “Dude treats gaff tape like a personal vendetta.”

Just then, a deep growl of frustration from inside made them all glance toward the doorway.

“Three… two… one…” Jonah counted down.

Thane appeared, towering, fur bristled, ice-blue eyes blazing and holding what looked like half a lighting clamp in one clawed hand. “WHO PUT GAFF TAPE ON MY PATCH PANEL?!”

Nobody said anything. From across the dock, Maya didn’t even look up from coiling her own cable. “That was Mark,” she called dryly. “Said it looked ‘emotionally unstable.’”

Rico muttered under his breath, “I mean… he’s not wrong.”

Just then, Mark himself emerged from the shadows near the lighting rig, eyes half-lidded, carrying a coffee that definitely hadn’t come from a venue-approved source.

He looked at them like they were all a disappointment, and said in a perfectly flat tone, “If this truss were a person, I’d sue it for incompetence and general malaise.”

Jonah whispered to Cassie, “I think that’s the most positive thing he’s said all tour.”

Gabriel chose that moment to leap off the loading ramp, two iced coffees in hand and the biggest grin plastered across his muzzle.

“Hey crew! Guess who charmed the barista into a triple shot for free?”

Cassie looked him up and down, still panting slightly from the run, and smirked. “You or the claws?”

“Probably both,” Gabriel replied with a wink, handing one coffee to Thane, who was still radiating unholy rage.

Maya finally stepped into view, swinging her guitar over one shoulder and cracking her neck like a pro wrestler before a match. “If we don’t start load-in in the next five minutes, I’m mutinying and running this band myself.”

Jonah pointed at her with both Sharpies. “Honestly, I’d vote for you.”

“You should,” she said. “I have better hair and I don’t yell at cables.”

Mark raised his mug. “Yet.”

As the sun dropped lower behind the grimy rooftops, the band and the wolves—humans and not-so-humans alike—finally got to work, slamming cases into position, tightening bolts, running lines, and muttering half-sentences under their breath.

In the organized chaos of it all, there was a strange rhythm. A weird, dysfunctional family rhythm made of snarls, sarcastic one-liners, and three musicians who had somehow decided that sharing a tour with werewolves was fine.

Rico strummed a quick riff on his guitar and muttered, “Still better than my last band. No one’s tried to hex anyone yet.”

Cassie shrugged. “Yet.”

And from inside the stage, Thane’s voice rang out again.

“Mark, I SWEAR TO FENRIR if this fog machine tries to kill me again—”

Jonah grinned. “Showtime’s gonna be awesome.”

Tour van, 2:13 AM, somewhere on the highway

The wheels hummed steady beneath them, cutting through the Texas night. Inside the tour van, dim blue LED strip lights cast a quiet glow over empty pizza boxes, half-drained soda cans, and the slowly circulating cloud of airborne glitter that refused to die.

Thane sat in the front seat, laptop open on his lap, trying to update the rigging log. Trying. But every keystroke brought a faint shimmer off the pads of his claws, and the cursor had glitter under it.

Mark was reclined on the opposite bench seat, headphones in, arms crossed, eyes closed. The glitter in his fur sparkled gently every time the cabin lights dimmed. Someone—probably Gabriel—had drawn a smiley face in it on his shoulder. Mark hadn’t noticed yet. Or maybe he had, and was just accepting his fate.

Gabriel, sprawled on the floor in front of the mini fridge, was still laughing every few minutes at absolutely nothing. His tail twitched under the kitchenette table, and he had a glitter mustache that wasn’t coming off until at least Tuesday.

“You’re gonna wake up in like three weeks and find it in your teeth,” Thane muttered, rubbing his face.

Gabriel rolled onto his back and pointed lazily at the ceiling. “I regret nothing.”

Mark opened one eye, slowly. “You should. I sneezed earlier and sparkled like a My Little Pony death scene.”

Gabriel grinned wider. “See? That means it worked.”

Thane sighed, closing the laptop. “At this point, we don’t even need fog machines. We are the fog machines.”

The van hit a bump, and a faint tinkle sounded as a Rocket Gator charm dislodged from the air vent and clinked onto the floor.

Mark didn’t even flinch.

“I’m never trusting either of you again,” he said, voice flat. “Next time we pass a souvenir shop, I’m buying a flamethrower.”

Thane chuckled. “You say that every time.”

“And one day,” Mark whispered darkly, “it’ll be true.”

Gabriel reached for a soda, popped it open, and took a long sip. “Hey Thane?”

“Yeah?”

“Next tour… you think they’d let us shoot glitter into the crowd?”

Thane blinked slowly. “Gabriel.”

“…Yes?”

“You’re sleeping outside.”

Mark raised a hand. “Seconded.”

Gabriel just laughed, rolled onto his side, and curled his tail like a smug cat. “Worth it.”

And so the van rumbled on—three wolves, a metric ton of glitter, and one unforgettable night in the books. Somewhere out there, a stagehand was still coughing up sparkles, and a lighting console would never quite be clean again.

But on the open road, beneath the stars, they were content. Sleepy. Sparkly.

And ready to do it all again.

Post-show, same venue, very late

The set was a hit. The crowd had gone feral. Gabriel had absolutely shredded under a literal spotlight of sparkling fog, and Feral Eclipse walked offstage to a sea of flashing lights, howling fans, and an entire front row covered in gator-shaped glitter flakes.

But now?

Now came the reckoning.

Thane stood at the back of the venue, arms crossed, staring down at one of the subwoofers—completely caked in glitter. Like someone had rolled it in glue and dragged it through a Hobby Lobby.

Nearby, two venue staff stood frozen, holding a shop vac like it was a crucifix warding off a demon.

Mark joined him, sipping his third soda of the night, eyes tired and haunted. His voice came out flat as drywall.

“There’s glitter inside the dimmers.”

Thane winced. “How deep?”

“I sneezed glitter.”

“Oh.”

Mark pointed toward the back riser. “Also, a stray confetti charge got sucked into the intake fan on the hazer. It now produces a fine mist of regret and sparkles.”

Down on stage, a crew member kicked something with a clink. It was a Rocket Gator sticker. Still attached to the inside of a cymbal.

The house lighting op—some poor overworked twenty-something with a nose ring and trauma in her eyes—approached Thane like he owed her money.

“There’s glitter in the motorized yoke.”

Thane blinked. “Like… inside the housing?”

She nodded, defeated. “In the housing. It spins. It… throws glitter now.”

Gabriel appeared from stage left, shirt half untucked, hair floofed from sweat and fog. “Okay, that sounds awesome, not gonna lie.”

Mark didn’t even look at him. “You owe this venue a fruit basket. And maybe a therapy session.”

Gabriel shrugged. “I could sign some posters?”

“You’re gonna be signing warranty forms,” Thane muttered, hands on his hips.

Just then, the front of house assistant wheeled up a bin full of recovered debris—mostly confetti, some gator charms, and at least two small children’s shoes. No explanation.

“Don’t ask,” she said. “Just… don’t.”

Mark sighed and rubbed his temples. “This is why I don’t do joy.”

Gabriel walked up behind him and gently patted his shoulder. “But don’t you feel a little more fabulous now?”

Mark turned slowly. “I have glitter in places I don’t talk about in public.”

Thane started laughing so hard he had to lean against a bass amp.

“Okay,” he gasped, “next time, we clear any glitter-related ideas through the rigging team. And by that, I mean me.”

“Noted,” Gabriel said, absolutely not noting anything.

Behind them, someone turned on a fan.

A glitter cloud rose like a cursed phoenix.

Mark sighed again, deeply.

“This venue is going to blacklist us.”

Gabriel grinned. “But we’ll be remembered.”

Next venue, pre-show setup, 1 hour to curtain

The venue was already buzzing when Thane arrived—crew calling cues, gear still rolling in, the lighting rig humming as Mark began calibrations from FOH. Everything seemed normal.

Too normal.

Gabriel had been suspiciously chipper all day. Not just his usual “excited-to-be-alive” vibe. No… this was a smug kind of chipper. Tail twitching, eyes a little too bright, grinning just a little too much.

Thane knew something was coming. He just didn’t know when.

It happened halfway through line check.

Mark was standing at the lighting board, going through his color presets like clockwork. “Red wash, stage left. Chase pattern, preset three. Spot cue—” he paused. “Wait… why is cue twenty labeled ‘Eternal Sparkle’?”

He hit the button.

Boom.

All house lights dimmed.

Then, from every direction, fog machines kicked on in unison, unleashing a wall of glitter-infused haze that flooded the stage like a disco hurricane. From above, confetti cannons fired—each one loaded with shimmering silver gator-shaped glitter.

A fanfare blared from the PA. Not the band’s opening track. No, no.

It was “Rocket Gator’s Theme Song”, which—somehow—Gabriel had ripped from the gator ride and remixed with club bass.

The lyrics were even worse:

🎶 “Strap in, scream out, let the gator ride begin—
Space and scales, we’re goin’ full sin!” 🎶

Mark froze mid-cue, claws flexing on the board.

Thane, across the stage, dropped his tablet and just stared as a full-on inflatable Rocket Gator slowly rose from behind the amp stack. Seven feet tall. One googly eye askew. Clearly zip-tied to a moving platform.

In the chaos, Gabriel appeared at stage left, arms crossed, grinning like a feral mastermind.

“Too much?” he asked innocently.

Mark turned toward him slowly, face a blank canvas of impending judgment. “You activated every fog unit.”

Gabriel beamed. “I coordinated the DMX patterns myself. Thane wouldn’t let me blow up pyro, so this was plan B.”

Mark blinked, glancing toward the lighting rack now coated in sparkly residue. “There is glitter in my gobos. You glittered my gobos.”

Thane finally spoke, wheezing. “I am both horrified and so, so proud of you.”

Gabriel sauntered up and gave Thane a soft shoulder bump. “What can I say? If I’m going down, I’m dragging you both into fabulous, shiny hell with me.”

Mark looked at the inflated gator, deadpan. “I’m going to feed that thing to a real alligator.”

“No need,” Gabriel said. “It’s inflatable and biodegradable.”

There was a long pause.

Mark just muttered, “You planned that.”

“Of course I did.”

Thane wiped tears from his eyes again, claws resting on his toolbelt. “Okay, okay. Gator war truce. After this, nobody touches fog machines or sticker budgets without a permit.”

Gabriel raised a clawed hand solemnly. “Agreed.”

Mark raised his coffee. “Temporary ceasefire. Pending terms.”

Next night, backstage at the new venue, two hours before showtime

The venue was a serious step up from the last one—high ceilings, clean dressing rooms, freshly waxed floors, and stage rigging that didn’t look like it might fall apart with a strong gust of bass. Thane was perched up on a catwalk above stage left, fine-tuning a stubborn lighting anchor while the crew buzzed below like caffeinated ants.

Mark had been uncharacteristically quiet during load-in. Not the good kind of quiet either—the intentional kind. Thane had noticed, of course, but with all the tech checks and patch corrections going on, he hadn’t had time to dig into it.

Then Gabriel’s voice crackled over comms.

“Thane? Uh… did you mess with the dressing room?”

Thane furrowed his brow. “No, I’ve been up here the whole time. Why?”

“Then… you should probably come see this.”

Thane climbed down and made his way to the dressing room, passing through the familiar backstage maze of cables, dim light, and low conversation. As he stepped into the doorway, he stopped cold.

The entire room was plastered—plastered—with Rocket Gator stickers.

They were everywhere: on the walls, the mirrors, the ceiling tiles, the backs of chairs. Even Gabriel’s prized guitar case had stickers inside it, including one right over the logo that read “RIDE THE ROCKET, COWARD.” Another one near the coffee station simply said “GATOR SEES ALL.”

Gabriel stood in the middle of the chaos, holding up one of the stickers between two claws like it was radioactive. His fur bristled as he scanned the carnage, wide-eyed.

“This is a hate crime,” he muttered.

Thane stared in awe, then slowly broke into a grin. It was beautiful. It was unhinged. It was exactly the kind of calculated, spite-fueled vengeance Mark specialized in.

And then he saw it—the crown jewel of the scene.

A framed poster, lit perfectly by a soft white spotlight, hung dead center on the wall. It showed all three of them on the Rocket Chomp Coaster, snapped mid-scream by the on-ride camera. Gabriel’s ears were pinned back. Thane looked mid-howl. And Mark?

Mark looked dead into the camera.

Expressionless. Unbothered. Like the gator ride was a business meeting he didn’t schedule but had shown up to anyway.

That broke Thane. He doubled over, wheezing with laughter.

Just then, Mark walked in, clipboard under one arm, casual as ever.

“Sound check’s in twenty,” he said, brushing past them. “Oh—and Gabriel, I added Rocket Gator charms to your guitar strings. Gotta keep the theme consistent.”

Gabriel sputtered. “You touched my guitar?!”

“I wore gloves.”

Thane leaned on the wall, tears in his eyes. “You magnificent bastard…”

Mark glanced over, tail flicking once. “That’ll teach you both to drag me to a cursed neon gator hellscape.”

Gabriel pointed at him, incredulous. “This means war.”

Mark simply nodded, already turning to leave. “I look forward to it.”

One hour later, somewhere between Amarillo and nowhere useful

Thane should’ve known it was coming.

The moment Gabriel pressed his muzzle to the van window and let out a howl of pure delight, the possibility of peace vanished into the Texas wind.

“GUYS—‘Gatorland Galaxy: Home of the World’s Largest Taxidermy Reptile Rocket Ride!!’—EXIT 247! WE’RE GOING.”

Thane was halfway through checking rigging supply emails and coasting in a haze of post-diner exhaustion. Mark sat beside him, sunglasses on, arms crossed, looking like a furry, very dead executive en route to the underworld.

“We’re what now?” Thane asked flatly, not even bothering to hide the dread in his voice.

Gabriel was already unbuckling and leaning between the seats like an overgrown puppy. “Thane. Thane. The sign has a gator in a space helmet. I need this in my soul.”

Mark, still unmoving: “Leave me behind. Tell my story.”

But it was already too late. Gabriel took the exit like a man on a mission from chaos.

---

Fifteen minutes later…

The three of them stood before the gates of Gatorland Galaxy, a roadside atrocity that hadn’t been updated since 1993 and looked like it had survived a small tornado and a government coverup.

The attractions included:

• A six-foot animatronic alligator in a foil jumpsuit that wheezed “WELCOME TO SPACE!” every few seconds.
• Faded posters advertising a live gator feeding that turned out to be a sunburned man tossing hot dogs into a kiddie pool.
• A ride called the Rocket Chomp Coaster, clearly made from repurposed barn parts and sketchy ambition.
• And a cotton candy stand that, for some reason, also sold boiled peanuts and used VHS tapes.

Mark stared up at the rickety “space rocket” ride, arms crossed, completely deadpan. “This is how we die. This is my final form: pancaked by a neon gator rocket.”

Gabriel, naturally, was already dual-wielding a souvenir gator-head drink cup and two massive bags of neon green cotton candy. “THIS. IS. AWESOME.”

Thane just sighed. “We’ve got load-in at 4:00.”

Gabriel tossed him a gator hat without breaking stride. “We’ve got memories now.”

Mark tried one of the boiled peanuts, chewed once, stared into the void, and muttered, “I think this is how time breaks.”

Eventually, Gabriel talked them both into riding the coaster. Thane sat in the back, holding his rigging bag like an emotional support pack. Mark screamed once. Just once. And Thane made a mental note to never let him live it down.

---

Later, at the exit…

The three of them stumbled out of the Galactic Gift Barn like shell-shocked survivors, clutching knockoff T-shirts, gator-shaped stickers, and a deep, lingering sense of regret.

Back in the van, as Gabriel climbed behind the wheel with manic glee and fired up the engine, Mark leaned over to Thane, eyes hollow.

“I take back every complaint I’ve ever made about load-in days,” he said, voice flat. “I didn’t know true suffering until I met Rocket Gator.”

Thane laughed so hard his claws cramped.

Early morning, roadside diner just outside Amarillo

The sun hadn’t fully cleared the horizon yet. A faint pink glow spread across the dusty Texas sky like a tired yawn. Thane, Gabriel, and Mark sat huddled in a cracked vinyl booth inside The Saddle & Griddle—an ancient greasy spoon that smelled like burned bacon, black coffee, and twenty years of crushed dreams.

The waitress had called everyone “honey,” hadn’t blinked at Gabriel’s claws, and had already brought a full pot of coffee before anyone even asked. She clearly knew the type.

Mark sat across from the other two, fur slightly rumpled, blue polo shirt wrinkled from the long drive, and a sour look on his muzzle that screamed he’d been awake since before the concept of mercy. He stirred three creamers into his coffee with the lifeless precision of a man surviving on sheer caffeine and spite.

Gabriel, bright-eyed as always—even after a full night riding shotgun in the van—flipped through the laminated menu like it was a treasure map.

“Ooh, hey! ‘Lone Star Stack’—eight pancakes, eggs, sausage, hash browns and toast. You think it’s named after an actual star or just the state?”

Mark didn’t even glance up. “It’s named after the inevitable heart attack.”

Thane smirked behind his chipped mug. “He’s not wrong.”

Gabriel grinned at Mark. “Come on, old wolf. You need something greasy to bring you back to life.”

Mark sighed with the weight of the world and set down his spoon like it had personally wronged him. “I’m beyond saving. Just let me fade into the booth upholstery.”

Their waitress—name tag Ruby, hair up in a shellacked bun that looked structurally reinforced—returned with a pen poised. “Y’all figured out what you want?”

Mark pointed at the menu without lifting his head. “Whatever has the fewest moving parts and the lowest emotional investment. And no melon.”

Ruby raised an eyebrow. “So… eggs, toast, bacon. Black coffee. No drama.”

Mark finally looked up and gave a single solemn nod. “That. Exactly that.”

Gabriel ordered the Lone Star Stack, obviously, and Thane went for the skillet scramble with extra hot sauce—because sleep-deprived werewolf techs run on protein and spite.

As Ruby walked off, Mark leaned back in the booth and looked at both of them. “You know what’s sad? This isn’t even the worst diner we’ve ever been in.”

Gabriel snorted. “You mean the one in Tulsa where the table collapsed under your plate?”

“No,” Mark said, deadpan. “The one in Kansas where the ‘meatloaf’ tried to bite me back.”

Thane chuckled. “I still say that wasn’t meatloaf. That was punishment.”

“Whatever it was,” Mark muttered, “it had an agenda.”

The food arrived fast, clearly slapped together by a cook who didn’t care if his customers were famous, cursed, or undead. The bacon was crisp, the eggs hot, and the toast didn’t scream when stabbed. Honestly, that was good enough.

As they ate, conversation drifted into that cozy, blurry space between exhaustion and the next caffeine hit. Mark stayed quiet, as usual, but every now and then dropped a one-liner that had Gabriel snorting coffee or Thane choking on toast.

By the time plates were cleared, Mark was still tired, still cynical—but his shoulders had eased. Just a little.

Ruby returned with the check and a wink. “Y’all drive safe now. And you,” she said to Mark, “smile once in a while, huh?”

Mark, unblinking: “I’ll put it on the schedule.”

Gabriel leaned toward Thane and whispered, “He’s actually in a great mood.”

Thane grinned. “I know. He only made two apocalypse jokes today.”

Mark, already sipping his refill, mumbled without looking up: “The day is still young.”

Later that night, parking lot empty, the venue silent

The last road case clicked shut.

The gear truck was locked and latched, rigging tools stowed, cables coiled tight. The venue lights had gone dark, and the world felt hushed in that strange, sacred way it only does after a storm — after noise, lights, and fire have all faded.

Thane stood beside the truck, arms resting on the lift gate, fur still ruffled in places from the long night. Gabriel leaned nearby, one bare clawed foot propped up on a low bumper rail, absently picking at the edge of a backstage wristband. The lot was empty except for them, washed in pale moonlight and the faint orange glow from a distant security light.

Neither spoke for a while.

There was no need.

Eventually, Gabriel glanced over. “You good?”

Thane nodded slowly, then sighed. “I am now.”

Gabriel tilted his head slightly. “Rough show?”

“Rough gear,” Thane corrected. “Rough crew. Rough venue. But the show was fire. You were fire.”

Gabriel gave a half-smile. “We all were.”

“Maybe,” Thane said, turning toward him. “But you were the spark.”

Gabriel met his gaze — icy blue locking with icy blue. “Only because you made sure everything around me didn’t fall apart.”

A soft wind moved through the lot, brushing their fur, carrying the faint scent of hot asphalt and fading applause. Gabriel stepped closer, arms loose at his sides. His nose brushed Thane’s again, slow and tender this time. Thane closed his eyes and leaned into it, one clawed hand lifting to rest gently against Gabriel’s side.

The moment lingered.

No music. No roar of the crowd. Just the quiet rhythm of two hearts cooling down from the same storm.

“I love you, Thane” Gabriel murmured.

Thane’s voice was quiet, but firm. “I know. I got you. Always.”

They stayed there, pressed together in the silence, no longer stage tech and rockstar, no longer gearhead and headliner — just two wolves under the moon, leaning on each other, holding the night still for just a little longer.

And when they finally pulled away, they didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

They just walked, side by side, claws softly tapping the pavement, fading into the darkness together.

Outside the venue, behind the gear truck, well past midnight

The energy from the crowd had finally faded into the distance, replaced by the low rumble of road cases and the clack of boot soles across the pavement. The crisp night air carried a mix of ozone, diesel exhaust, and faint traces of sweat and fried food from the nearby concessions that hadn’t been cleaned up yet.

Thane stood at the open tail of the Feral Eclipse gear truck, clipboard in one clawed hand, grease pencil in the other. The rigging box sat open beside him, tools neatly arranged despite the chaos earlier. A pair of damaged cable runs lay across the loading ramp like limp snakes, and one of the rear par cans was hanging crooked in its cradle, waiting to be logged.

His fur was still slightly damp along his shoulders, light gray strands catching the moonlight. He jotted a note with practiced efficiency:

– Replace left-side lift chain (sticking again)
– Re-wire rig 4 junction, possible short in DIN plug
– Gabriel’s main vocal input channel: intermittent dropout under heat

A familiar set of footfalls crunched lightly on the gravel behind him.

“Hey,” Gabriel said quietly.

Thane didn’t turn, but the twitch of his ears said he heard him.

“You hiding out?” Gabriel added, stepping closer. He had changed into a dry black tee and was barefoot now—large clawed feet quiet as they padded across the asphalt. His bass was nowhere in sight, finally tucked away in its case.

“Not hiding,” Thane replied, still scribbling. “Just trying to stay ahead of next week’s meltdown.”

Gabriel gave a soft chuckle and leaned his shoulder against the side of the truck. “You really don’t slow down, do you?”

“Only when things aren’t on fire.”

There was a beat of quiet.

Then Gabriel said, “I saw you shield me back there. With the fans.”

Thane finally paused, pencil hovering in midair. “Yeah, well… I didn’t do it for applause.”

“I know. That’s why it means more.”

Thane glanced over at him now, eyes softening.

“You were amazing tonight,” he said. “Even with the mic going out, even with half the rig misbehaving—you held it together.”

Gabriel looked down briefly, then back up with a small grin. “Because I knew you and Mark had me. Like always.”

A low hum rumbled in Thane’s chest—a sound not quite a purr, but something close. He stepped down from the loading ramp and came to stand beside Gabriel, clipboard tucked under one arm.

Without a word, he reached out and nudged Gabriel’s nose with his own—just a slow, warm press, fur to fur. Gabriel closed his eyes and leaned into it, their foreheads touching for a brief moment in the hush of the night.

“I don’t say it enough,” Thane murmured, “but I’m proud of you. Every damn night.”

Gabriel smiled, one arm slipping briefly around Thane’s back. “And I’m proud to have my wolf out here with me. Even if you do snarl at everyone.”

Thane chuckled, then tapped the clipboard against Gabriel’s chest. “Help me finish logging this gear and I’ll consider not snarling at you for the rest of the night.”

Gabriel laughed. “No promises. But I’ll carry the rigging box if you buy me a pizza.”

“You drive a hard bargain.”

They turned back to the truck, claws clicking softly on the metal ramp, working side by side under the soft yellow glow of the loading dock light—tired, a little sore, but grounded in the quiet kind of love that didn’t need an audience.

Backstage, moments after the final encore

The house lights came up to a roar. The crowd was still buzzing—sweaty, wide-eyed, and euphoric from the thunder Feral Eclipse had just brought down. Gabriel had just walked off stage, sweat-drenched and grinning, his bass slung over his back like a war trophy.

Thane was already waiting at the bottom of the ramp, towel slung over one shoulder, headset around his neck, his fur a little singed-smelling from too much time near the dimmer racks.

Mark stood nearby with his clipboard, watching the lighting rig slowly return to standby mode. He already had a soda cracked open and looked ready to throttle the next intern who bumped into the patch bay.

Before anyone could say a word, the side door to the loading area burst open.

A human fan—probably late twenties, glitter-streaked and wide-eyed—barreled straight toward Gabriel.

“OH MY GOD,” she gasped, waving a homemade sign that read “FERAL DADDY” in neon paint. “YOU’RE REAL. YOU’RE ACTUALLY REAL.”

Gabriel froze mid-towel swipe, eyes going wide. “Uh—hey?”

More fans followed. Dozens of them. Word had clearly spread backstage like wildfire.

“He was playing with CLAWS!”

“He howled into the mic during the solo—I swear I felt that in my soul!”

Security was late to react, caught between amusement and chaos. A few crew members tried to redirect the surge, but it was too late.

Gabriel, overwhelmed, looked to Thane and Mark like a cornered animal.

“Uh… guys?”

Thane stepped between Gabriel and the fan hoard like a brick wall, claws flexed just a little—not threatening, but clear.

“All right, everybody take a breath,” he said, projecting full Dad-Wolf energy. “You want autographs, line starts over there. If you want a chunk of fur, try eBay. And if you even think about touching his tail, I will bite back.”

The crowd actually listened—somewhat stunned, definitely impressed.

Mark, from off to the side, muttered, “You should’ve put that on a T-shirt.”

One brave kid in a band tee pointed at Gabriel, eyes wide. “Is he, like… a real werewolf?”

Gabriel tilted his head and gave them a sly grin, one fang just showing. “What do you think?”

The kid’s jaw dropped. “COOLEST. BAND. EVER.”

Thane rolled his eyes, but he was grinning now. “Yeah yeah, move along, rockstars. Some of us gotta strike the stage.”

As the crowd began to shuffle into selfie mode and merch tables, Mark took a long sip of soda and muttered, “Remind me to triple up the barricades next time.”

“Or just bring silver rope,” Thane replied, deadpan.

Gabriel looked over, still catching his breath, tail flicking behind him. “I think I’m gonna need a nap.”

Thane clapped a clawed hand on his shoulder. “You earned it, my wolf.”