Category: Tour Life Page 3 of 22

It started small—just a few polite messages tucked into Feral Eclipse’s inbox from usernames with suspiciously edgy profile pics.

“Hey… I used to be a Vandal Saints fan, but after Boise… wow. Just… wow.”
“You guys were next level. The Saints looked like they were trying to open for a PTA meeting.”
“Y’all got any tour shirts in black and red? Asking for a whole fan club.”

Then someone posted on the Saints’ subreddit (which had about nine active users on a good day):

“So… Feral Eclipse kinda… killed it. And I think I’m switching teams.”

That kicked the hornet’s nest.

A wave of “Saints-to-Wolves” confessionals swept social media like a dramatic high school breakup montage.

One fan posted a TikTok in full Saint merch—hoodie, hat, and wristbands—then slowly removed each item to the sounds of sad violin music… only to dramatically reveal a Feral Eclipse shirt underneath and howl at the camera.

Hashtag: #FromSaintToSavage

Another created a stitched edit showing the Boise concert crowd:

• Feral Eclipse: crowd surfing, screaming, literal tears.
• Vandal Saints: one dude on his phone and someone leaving to “check on their car.”

The caption read:

“The fog machine has left the chat.”

The turning point? A fan who used to run the biggest Vandal Saints Discord server dropped this bomb:

“Alright, I give up. I’ve tried. But after seeing Feral Eclipse in person… I’m done pretending Bret doesn’t look like he’s being hunted every time Thane breathes. I’m closing the server. Come join the pack instead. We have light shows and functioning microphones.”

They did. By the hundreds.

Gabriel, halfway through soundcheck in Spokane, opened the official band Instagram and laughed out loud. “Guys. Guys! Look!”

He held up his phone to show the brand-new tag:
@SaintsToEclipse_FC
“We walked away from the ashes and into the stars.”

Cassie looked up from her mic. “They’ve got a motto already?!”

Maya peered over Gabriel’s shoulder. “Is that a bootleg Thane Funko Pop?”

Thane muttered, “Not authorized,” but made no move to stop them.

Mark just gave a rare smirk. “They chose wisely.”

That night, during the encore, Feral Eclipse launched into a jaw-dropping version of Field Notes from the Stars under a cascade of amber fog and starlight projection. Half the crowd held up signs that read:

“Baptized in Fog, Reborn in Fire.”
“Former Saints, Current Eclipse.”
“All Hail Starcatcher.”

The chant began low, then rose like thunder.

“WOLVES! WOLVES! WOLVES!”

Gabriel let it ride, holding his bass up to the lights with one clawed hand, a huge grin on his muzzle.

Offstage, Diesel sipped his coffee and watched the growing sea of bodies and lights and loyalty.

“Heh,” he muttered. “Told those whiny boys the pack would run ‘em over one day.”

And from the merch booth?

They completely sold out of everything.

Even the new limited edition black hoodie that read:

“I Survived the Saint Roast Tour”
Featuring: One Couch. No Mercy.

The roasting began before the stage crew had even finished loading out.

Someone had recorded Bret’s mic check—specifically, the long, off-key scream followed by Diesel’s megaphone call of “DON’T FORGET TO LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP THIS TIME!” The video cut to Bret freezing mid-note like he’d just seen a ghost (or, more accurately, Thane), followed by a slow, awkward retreat behind a stack of speakers.

That 14-second clip? Instant viral gold.

By midnight, it had over a million views on TikTok under the caption:

🎤 “When the big bad Saints remember they’re opening for actual wolves.”
#FeralEclipse #Starcatcher #DieselSaidWhat #ThaneStaredown #VandalWimps

It only got worse from there.

A fan posted side-by-side crowd footage—Feral Eclipse’s set with screaming fans and pyro… and Vandal Saints’ with a single confused person in the back eating nachos.

Someone remixed “Ashes in Stereo” with Cassie’s kazoo version and dubbed it “Ashes in Soprano: The Couch Fire Sessions.”

A cartoon artist uploaded a comic of Bret trying to stand tall while Thane loomed silently behind him, ice-blue eyes glowing in the dark. The last panel showed Bret sprinting offstage, crying, “I DON’T WANT TO DIE IN IDAHO!”

Another fan posted a faux tabloid article from a satirical music blog titled:

“Wolves Howl, Saints Whimper: Feral Eclipse Strikes Again”
Lead singer Bret allegedly seen googling ‘emotional support fog machine’ backstage.

By morning, Vandal Saints were trending… but not in the way they hoped.

Feral Eclipse fans were relentless.

“They got so upstaged it left a permanent shadow on the arena floor.”

“Can we talk about how Thane said NOTHING and still made them panic?”

“Diesel is the new lead singer of my heart.”

“Vandal Saints? More like Fragile Sinners.”

“Don’t mess with a band that travels with a lighting wizard, a bass-powered storm, and a walking sound system in werewolf form.”

“Imagine getting bodied by a kazoo.”

Even Emily’s sign got its own meme format, with fans posting custom versions like:

• “We ❤️ Your Courage (No really. What little there was.)”
• “Ashes in Stereo, Confidence in Mono.”
• “Now opening for Feral Eclipse: Vandal Saint Bernard (they’re mostly harmless now).”

Gabriel laughed so hard he spilled coffee twice while scrolling through the tag feed. “I’m putting that cartoon on a T-shirt.”

Cassie smirked. “We should send them a fruit basket. With a fog machine manual.”

Jonah cackled. “And a Thane bobblehead that just glares when you press the button.”

Mark, without looking up, said, “Needs a sound chip that plays Diesel saying, ‘Don’t forget to look before you leap.’”

Thane just glanced up from his laptop, muttered “Limited edition merch idea,” and kept typing.

By noon, even Vandal Saints’ own fan page had gone quiet—except for one sad post that simply read:

“We, uh… support artistic expression in all forms. Even when it involves emotional trauma delivered by a barefoot sound engineer with glowing eyes.”

The tour rolled into Boise under a blanket of pale blue sky and the unmistakable feeling that something glorious was about to go down.

The venue—a gritty outdoor amphitheater nestled against the edge of the city—was already humming with activity by the time the Feral Eclipse bus pulled in. Crew members unloaded gear like a precision strike force, cables coiled, lighting trusses aligned. It should have felt like any other stop on their runaway-success tour.

Except for one small, explosive detail:

They were sharing the bill with Vandal Saints.

As the band stepped off the bus and into the warm afternoon sun, Diesel paused at the bottom step, sunglasses in place, coffee in hand. He stared across the parking lot at a weathered black trailer parked crooked near the loading dock.

The logo stenciled on the side read VANDAL SAINTS in cracked red gothic font.

Diesel let out a sharp bark of laughter.

“Oh, hell yes,” he grinned. “They lived.”

Gabriel was right behind him, dragging a case of gear and already bouncing with energy. “Please tell me I get to heckle them during soundcheck. I’ve been training for this moment.”

Thane raised an eyebrow, glancing at the set list. “Permission granted.”

Cassie popped in beside them, half-eaten granola bar in hand. “If he’s heckling, I want the kazoo. I brought four.”

“You brought four kazoos?” Emily asked, emerging from the bus with a clipboard.

Cassie beamed. “Color-coded. I’m not a heathen.”

---

The Vandal Saints were already inside, trying very hard to pretend they hadn’t noticed the arrival of the one band they absolutely did not want to be co-headlining with.

Bret—their bleach-blond, vape-clutching lead singer—paced nervously backstage in designer boots and unnecessary sunglasses, sipping cold brew like it was a nervous tic. His bandmates lingered in awkward silence, clearly hoping the fog machine worked better than last time.

They didn’t say a word when Feral Eclipse rolled in. Didn’t offer a nod, didn’t scowl, didn’t blink.

Because then Thane appeared.

Barepaw. Clawed. Calm.

He stalked across the stage hauling a full coil of snake cable across one shoulder like it weighed nothing, eyes scanning the truss layout. He passed Bret with a single glance.

And Bret froze.

Didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. Just turned very, very slowly back toward his cold brew.

Gabriel caught it from the corner of his eye and nearly doubled over. “Oh no. Oh yes. He remembers.”

---

Soundcheck, Thirty Minutes Later

It started when Vandal Saints ran their mic test.

Their guitarist’s rig was out of tune. The fog machine wheezed to life with all the enthusiasm of a dying vacuum cleaner. And Bret’s opening vocal run was a wailing, pitchy disaster that echoed through the arena like a banshee being stepped on.

That’s when Gabriel, Jonah, and Maya gathered stage left like misbehaving schoolkids at recess.

Diesel leaned against the edge of the loading ramp, arms folded, and pulled out a tiny plastic megaphone he’d definitely kept in a drawer for this exact moment.

“HEY BRET,” he called. “DON’T FORGET TO LOOK BEFORE YOU LEAP THIS TIME.”

Cassie joined with a perfect kazoo rendition of their one radio hit, “Ashes in Stereo.”

Emily held up a handmade sign that read:
WE ❤️ YOUR ONE HIT
(No, really. Just that one.)

Maya followed with hers:
FREE COUCH FIRE TONIGHT – FIRST 100 FANS GET SUNGLASSES.

Jonah played back the THUD sound from their last fall—perfectly timed to Bret’s jump off a riser—and added fake reverb through the sideboard.

No one on stage said a word. Not the Saints. Not their crew. Not Bret.

Because Thane was standing just behind the drum kit, arms crossed, silently watching.

His gaze was unreadable. Cold, calm, patient. Like someone already mentally preparing to route cables and stage-manage a better band with far less effort.

Bret gulped audibly.

One of the Saints stage techs muttered, “Aren’t you gonna say something back?”

Bret, sweating under his hoodie, shook his head. “You insult the werewolf. I’m staying alive today.”

---

Later That Night

The crowd was electric. Feral Eclipse took the stage with thunder in their paws and howls in their hearts. Pyro. Lights. A functioning fog machine. Gabriel tore across the risers like a rock-and-roll hurricane, Cassie belted a perfect scream into the night sky, and Mark’s lighting design looked like it had been crafted by the gods themselves.

They closed with Field Notes from the Stars, bathed in white and amber. The crowd cried. People hugged. Phones lit the air.

The Vandal Saints followed with flat lighting, flubbed chords, and exactly one person yelling “Play the couch song!” from the back.

They didn’t stick around after the show.

---

Back at the bus, Diesel kicked his boots up, tossed a setlist in the trash, and muttered with a chuckle, “I give ‘em one more tour before they change their name to ‘Vandal Ain’ts.’”

Gabriel snorted. “New band goal: keep terrifying them into silence forever.”

Emily giggled as she updated the crew log.

Cassie clinked her water bottle against Jonah’s. “To karmic justice.”

And Thane, already rerouting stage inventory for the next stop, glanced up just once—smiling ever so faintly as the Saints’ van peeled out of the parking lot without so much as a goodbye.

The highway stretched endlessly ahead of them, a silver ribbon unspooling under moonlight and amber floodlights. The Feral Eclipse tour bus hummed steadily along a quiet stretch of desert highway somewhere between Albuquerque and Flagstaff. The stars outside were sharp and plentiful, casting faint glints through the windshield like the world was watching from above.

It was a long overnight drive—a fifteen-hour haul broken only by fuel stops and caffeine binges. Most nights, the crew would doze in their bunks or sprawl in the lounge, lost in music, gaming, or half-asleep banter. But this night?

This night was a “Diesel Story Night.”

It started, as they always did, with Gabriel sliding into the passenger seat beside Diesel with a sly grin and an extra-large hazelnut espresso.

“Story time, old man?”

Diesel gave him a long side-eye, took the coffee like tribute, and sipped. “What kind of story?”

“The kind where someone gets humiliated and you almost got arrested,” Gabriel said with glee.

That was all it took.

Within minutes, the front of the bus was crowded.

Cassie sat crisscross on the floor with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Jonah leaned over the armrest with a snack bag in one hand and a flashlight aimed dramatically under Diesel’s chin. Maya sprawled across the dashboard like a cat, one boot dangling in the air. Mark sat on the side stairs with a quiet smirk, and Rico had somehow wedged himself upside-down in the passenger footwell.

Thane stayed standing, arms folded just behind the cockpit, watching the whole scene with calm interest. Emily sat on the edge of the stairwell, already giggling.

Diesel cleared his throat and took a deep breath like a man preparing for war.

“A’ight, buckle in, pups,” he rumbled. “Lemme tell you about the time I was driving for Vandal Saints.”

The whole bus groaned in unison.

Gabriel choked on his coffee. “Those whiny alt-rock tryhards? The ones who threw a tantrum because our pyro scared their fog machine?”

Diesel grinned. “That’s the ones.”

He shifted in his seat, eyes on the road, but his voice dipping into full dramatic mode.

“So this was, oh, ’09, maybe? Back when Vandal Saints were riding high on that one hit—you know, the song with all the auto-tuned howling and the music video where they burned a couch in slow motion?”

“‘Ashes in Stereo,’” Mark deadpanned. “Still used in cheap whiskey commercials.”

“Right!” Diesel snapped his fingers. “So, I’m their driver. We’re on a multi-band tour. They’re headliners. Or so they think. Second-to-last gig is in Vegas, and the openers are this no-name group of wolf-themed punk rock weirdos called ‘Pack Howl.’”

Everyone turned and stared at Gabriel.

He raised both paws. “Not related. Swear.”

Diesel continued. “So these Pack Howl kids? They go on, no pyro, no light board, just raw talent and duct-taped guitars. Crowd loses their damn minds. I mean mosh pits, bras flying, people crying. They walk offstage to a standing ovation.”

Cassie whispered, “I already love them.”

Diesel chuckled darkly. “Vandal Saints lose it. One of their guitarists is pacing, muttering about ‘getting upstaged by feral mutts.’ Their lead singer throws his vape at the wall and demands we ‘erase the openers from the lineup poster.’ Like it’s Men in Black or something.”

Maya cackled. “Oh, I wish I had seen that meltdown.”

“So the set starts,” Diesel went on, “and they’re trying to go bigger—lighting crap on fire, fake blood, screaming into the wrong end of the mic—and the crowd? Totally dead. One guy in the front yells ‘Play Ashes in Stereo!’ and they haven’t even finished their first song.”

The entire bus burst into laughter.

Jonah practically fell into Emily’s lap, wheezing.

Diesel sipped his coffee again, deadly serious. “And then, the best part. Their fog machine jams full open. The stage fills with smoke—just as the lead singer tries to jump off a riser.”

He paused for effect.

Thane raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess.”

“Missed the landing,” Diesel said. “Straight into a lighting truss. Face first. I watched it from the side curtain. Like a majestic, useless goose.”

“HONK!” Gabriel shouted, mimicking the fall with dramatic flailing.

Emily had tears in her eyes from laughing. “Did he get back up?”

“Oh yeah,” Diesel grinned. “And then blamed the crew. They fired two techs before the encore. I gave one of them a ride to the airport. We stopped for tacos. He said it was still the best night of his career.”

Mark just shook his head. “You attract chaos.”

Diesel sipped again, smug as a wolf in the chicken coop. “I drive chaos.”

Cassie raised a hand. “New band rule: If we ever tour with Vandal Saints, we play Field Notes From the Stars during their soundcheck.”

“While gently setting a couch on fire,” Gabriel added.

Jonah held up his phone. “I’m tweeting that.”

Thane finally cracked a smile. “We’ll need a better fog machine.”

Everyone laughed again—long, loud, and free—as the desert night rolled by around them.

The stars above twinkled like they were listening too.

It didn’t take long.

A fan account posted a clip from the St. Louis show the next morning—just a short, zoomed-in video from the wings, showing a girl in a headset lifting her mic and calling a lighting cue moments before Field Notes From the Stars began. The amber-white swell that followed had already become iconic, but the discovery that someone new was behind it? That caught people’s attention.

The caption read:

🌟 WHO IS THIS STAR?

She called the cue right before “Field Notes” last night and the whole crowd LIT UP.

Is she crew? Is she new? Is she the real MVP?

#Starcatcher #FeralEclipseCrew #BehindTheMagic

It didn’t take long for fans to connect the dots. The girl who had posted the original Minneapolis video? The same one now riding with the band?

Within hours, “Starcatcher” was trending on fan forums and Instagram. Fan art popped up. One person even drew her wearing a headset made of moonlight, surrounded by floating sheet music. Another animated a short clip of her calling Cue 32 with sparkles flying from her fingertips.

Emily found out the way most people do—by accident.

She was sitting cross-legged on the floor of the tour bus lounge, sipping cocoa and helping Jonah organize a massive tangle of mic cables, when Gabriel burst in from the bunk hallway holding his phone like it was on fire.

“EMILYYYYY!” he howled.

She jolted upright. “What?! What happened?!”

“You’re internet famous,” he said, spinning the screen around.

She stared at the post.

She blinked.

“Oh my gosh.”

Cassie leaned over from the kitchenette and smirked. “Better get used to fan mail, Starcatcher.”

Diesel, feet propped up in his usual front-lounge chair, added, “Just don’t start charging for autographs until after you’ve learned how to coil XLR properly.”

Emily turned bright red.

Gabriel practically bounced. “Wait wait wait—it gets better. Look.” He tapped a message notification. “A podcast wants to interview you. Some behind-the-scenes music series. And Rolling Stone Online just DM’d the band asking if they could include you in the next feature.”

Emily looked at Thane, stunned. “They… want to talk to me?”

Thane smiled and gave a calm nod. “You’re part of the heartbeat now. Let them hear it.”

She sat there, phone in hand, heart pounding, eyes shining.

She wasn’t invisible.

She wasn’t in the background.

She was seen. And celebrated.

Jonah, leaning over the newly untangled cable pile, nudged her with an elbow. “Told you the downbeat was coming.”

She laughed softly.

And this time, she didn’t feel like she was catching stars.

She was one.

The energy backstage that night was electric.

The crowd in St. Louis was packed wall to wall—screaming, stomping, chanting the band’s name even before the house lights dropped. You could feel the sound through your feet like thunder rolling under concrete.

Emily stood offstage-left in the narrow black alleyway of cables, amps, and taped-down floor markings, her brand-new headset tilted slightly on her head. It was a little big, and Gabriel had jokingly slapped a sticker on it that said “Starcatcher Control Tower” in Sharpie.

Thane handed her a folded cue list and tapped the page lightly. “Follow along. Mark’s running the board tonight, but he’s giving you the nod for Cue Thirty-Two. It’s the lighting swell just before Field Notes From the Stars.”

Emily blinked. “Wait — I call the cue?”

“You’ve earned it,” Thane said, his tone calm and even. “Besides, I trust you.”

She gripped the paper like it was sacred and slowly nodded. “Okay. I can do this.”

The first few songs passed in a blur. Gabriel was on fire—leaping across the stage like a caffeinated meteor, bass thrumming so deep it rattled bolts. Cassie belted like she was channeling lightning. Rico and Jonah moved in perfect sync, and Maya ripped through her solos like a woman possessed. And Mark’s lights? They painted the air in rhythm and color, moving the crowd like puppets on invisible strings.

Emily watched it all from her post, eyes on the cue list, fingers lightly tapping her thigh to the beat.

Then… the acoustic guitar started.

Cassie stepped forward. The crowd fell silent.

Emily’s heart kicked into overdrive.

Cue 32 – “Starfall Fade-In” – 12-beat delay – swell from 20% to 90% on amber and white backlight wash.

Mark glanced at her across the dim corridor and gave her the tiniest nod. She lifted the headset mic to her lips, voice shaking but steady.

“… Standby Cue Thirty-Two… and… go.”

The lighting rig responded like it had been waiting for her.

A soft swell of golden-white light bathed the stage from behind, creating silhouettes of the band in a quiet halo. The crowd gasped. Phones went up. Some fans actually sobbed.

Onstage, Gabriel looked toward the wings—and winked.

Cassie began to sing.

“The world gets loud…
but stars don’t speak in screams…”

Emily’s hands shook, just a little. Not from fear. From wonder.

She kept her headset on, staying quiet, listening to Thane and Mark calling cues around her—so much sound, so much coordination. But she had done her part. She was in it. Not watching from the outside anymore.

When the house lights finally came up and the band took their bows, Emily took off the headset slowly… and smiled wider than she ever had before.

Mark passed her on his way off the lighting platform and said, “Nice call.”

Diesel was already waiting by the bus with a cookie in one hand and a proud, dad-joke grin on his face. “Told ya, Starcatcher.”

It was an unusually muggy night in St. Louis, and the venue was pure chaos.

The backstage area was cramped, the loading dock was a bottleneck, and two separate opening acts were trying to fight over limited floor space. Gabriel had already tripped over the same power cable twice, Thane was knee-deep in a faulty input patch that refused to speak to the snake box, and Jonah was muttering to himself in double-time as he helped Rico drag the drum riser into position.

In the middle of it all, Emily stood frozen near the gear wall, clipboard clutched in both hands, eyes darting from crew member to crew member. Someone had just handed her a printout of the patch list, and now a stagehand was asking her—loudly—where the DI box for the acoustic guitar had gone.

She swallowed hard. “Uh… I think… it was with rack six? Or maybe… maybe the fly case by the cable spool?”

The stagehand huffed and rolled his eyes, muttering something under his breath as he walked off.

Emily’s ears were hot. She turned, backing out of the way of a dolly full of mic stands, and nearly tripped into a lighting rack. Jonah appeared just in time, steadying her by the elbow.

“You okay?” he asked, gently.

“I… I don’t think I’m helping,” she whispered. “Everyone’s busy. I keep messing things up. I shouldn’t even be back here.”

Jonah blinked, then quietly motioned her to follow him to the side of the stage, out of the way of the chaos. The muffled thump of a bass test rumbled through the floor.

“Can I tell you something?” he said, crouching beside a crate.

Emily nodded, still on the verge of tears.

“I used to throw up before band competitions in high school,” Jonah admitted, brushing his hair back. “Like, every single one. Even when I knew the routine. Even when I nailed every fill in rehearsal. I’d still sit behind the bleachers and think I didn’t belong.”

Emily looked at him, surprised. “But… you’re you.”

He smiled. “Yeah. But it took a while to believe that meant something.”

He stood again, pulling a folded diagram from his pocket. “You know what this is?”

“Stage plot?” she asked softly.

“Yep. But look closer.” He handed her the patch list—the same one she’d been given earlier. “Half of this doesn’t match what’s actually onstage. The labels are wrong. The routing is flipped. Wanna impress everyone?”

She hesitated.

Jonah leaned in. “Grab a pencil, and fix it.”

Emily blinked, then took a breath.

And did.

She moved fast—quiet, steady, but determined. She traced every box and rack she could find. Noticed that Rack Six had been swapped with Rack Four. Found the DI box buried under a coiled extension reel near the fog machine, exactly where no one thought to look. She double-checked the snake inputs, relabeled the patch sheet by hand, and ran it straight to Thane mid-wiring.

Thane took one glance, looked back at her, and raised a brow. “You did this?”

Emily nodded, heart in her throat.

“Nice work,” he said simply, and waved her to follow him as he adjusted the gain structure.

Ten minutes later, Gabriel found her coiling cable and handed her an espresso with a little sticky note stuck to the side. It read:

💡 Not an intern. Field Engineer in Training. – G

She laughed out loud.

Later that night, just before the show, Jonah found her again, sitting just inside the bus with her feet up, finally breathing again.

“You good?” he asked.

She nodded. “Better. Still nervous. But better.”

He smiled. “You ever hear the beat of a song where it feels like it’s not quite in sync—but you know if you just wait one more bar, it locks in perfectly?”

She tilted her head. “Yeah.”

“That’s what you’re doing,” Jonah said. “You’re syncing up. That feeling? It’s not fear. It’s the downbeat.”

Emily beamed, pride finally outweighing the doubt.

Then Gabriel stuck his head in the bus door and yelled, “FIELD ENGINEER, YOUR PACK SUMMONS YOU. IT’S ALMOST SHOWTIME!”

She stood up.

Ready.

Two nights after Kansas City, the Feral Eclipse tour bus hummed along the I-70 corridor beneath a wide Missouri sky. Inside, the crew lounged in their usual post-show sprawl—Cassie curled up with a book in the corner, Jonah practicing finger taps on a pillow, and Gabriel pacing the length of the bus with his eighth espresso of the day, rambling enthusiastically about adding a bubble machine to their light show.

Emily sat on the edge of one of the unused bunks, her knees drawn up, hoodie sleeves pulled over her hands. She still hadn’t quite convinced herself this wasn’t all a dream.

Thane appeared beside her with a soft knock on the bunk frame. “Hey. We don’t usually make it official, but…”

He handed her a laminated lanyard. Bright red. Custom printed.
Feral Eclipse – Crew Access – Emily
In the corner, written in Gabriel’s scrawl, someone had added: Starcatcher.

Emily stared at it, eyes wide. “I… get my own badge?”

Thane smiled. “You’ve already earned it.”

Jonah peeked around the corner and grinned. “Also, heads-up—we assigned you Bunk #8. It’s the one under mine. Rico’s above you, so don’t worry about sudden guitar solos. He’s surprisingly quiet.”

Mark walked by with a mug and added, without looking up, “But if you hear mysterious typing at 2 a.m., it’s me reprogramming the ghost lights. Nothing to be alarmed about.”

Cassie leaned over the couch with a grin. “And if Gabriel tries to explain the tour layout using snack metaphors again, you’re legally allowed to hit him with a pillow.”

Gabriel popped up from the kitchenette, holding a cookie. “The cookie tray is the stage layout, and I stand by it!”

Diesel called back from the front of the bus. “She ain’t allowed to bring drama unless she brings enough cookies for the rest of us.”

Emily laughed, warm and real, hugging the lanyard to her chest.

Thane leaned in slightly, voice low but full of kindness. “You’re one of us now, Emily. Just be yourself, help where you can, and don’t be afraid to learn. We’re loud, weird, and slightly cursed, but… this pack sticks together.”

Her voice was soft but certain. “I won’t let you down.”

“You already haven’t,” Gabriel said, hopping into the opposite seat and handing her a cookie. “Now let’s teach you how to survive load-in without getting crushed by a rolling rack.”

It was after the second encore in Kansas City—a packed show at the Midland Theater, where the walls still hummed with the echo of thousands of voices chanting the final chorus of Field Notes From the Stars. The song had officially entered the main setlist a week ago, and now, every time they played it, the crowd lit up the venue with cell phone flashlights like stars in a digital sky.

But backstage, beneath the high of another killer night, a soft tension hummed in the green room.

Thane stood at the end of the hallway, arms crossed, talking quietly with Gabriel. Jonah was toweling off his neck, still glowing from the performance, while Cassie sat on a crate, flipping through a worn notebook with half-baked lyrics scrawled inside.

A knock at the door cut through the air—gentle, hesitant.

Maya opened it.

Outside stood a girl in her late teens, wearing an oversized Feral Eclipse hoodie and a lanyard with the venue’s “Production Assistant” pass hanging from it. Her hair was pulled into a messy ponytail. Her hands trembled slightly at her sides.

“Um…” she said, voice barely above a whisper. “Sorry. I know I’m not really supposed to… interrupt.”

Cassie looked up. “Hey, it’s okay. You with the crew?”

She nodded, eyes darting toward Jonah. “I — I was at the Minneapolis show. The small one. The VIP night.”

That got everyone’s attention.

“I was backstage,” she continued. “I… recorded that song. Field Notes. I didn’t mean to… not really. I just… I couldn’t not. I’d never heard anything like it.”

Jonah stood slowly. Gabriel tilted his head, a curious glint in his eye.

“You’re the one who posted it,” Thane said gently.

She nodded again, lower lip trembling. “I didn’t even put my name on it. I just… I thought it might disappear if I didn’t share it.”

There was a long pause. She braced herself for anger, or disappointment. She didn’t get either.

Instead, Jonah stepped forward with a slow, quiet smile. “You saved it.”

Her eyes widened.

Gabriel was next, grinning like she’d just offered him espresso and a standing ovation. “You birthed a classic, starlight. That post has changed people.”

Cassie stood and crossed the room, holding out her hand. “Thank you.”

“I’m sorry if it wasn’t cool,” the girl whispered, still unsure whether to cry or laugh. “I just… I didn’t think anyone would ever hear it if I didn’t.”

Mark, from the corner, added dryly, “Best unlicensed distribution of a track I’ve ever seen.”

Everyone laughed.

Thane walked over, calm and kind as always. “What’s your name?”

“Emily,” she said softly.

“Well, Emily,” he replied, “how do you feel about getting credited properly when the single drops next week?”

Her mouth dropped open. “Wait… seriously?!”

“We don’t forget our pack,” Jonah said. “Especially the ones who believe in us before we believe in ourselves.”

Emily wiped her eyes, nodding. “Can I… can I come back and see the next show?”

Gabriel placed his paw gently on her shoulder. “You’ve got a lifetime pass, starcatcher. All-access.”

She broke into tears then, the good kind—the overwhelmed, everything-is-changing kind. And in that room full of musicians and werewolves and worn-down road gear, she was the one glowing brightest.

The studio wasn’t flashy. No gold-plated walls or skyline views—just a cozy, dim-lit space tucked inside a renovated brick building in downtown Chicago. The ceilings were high, the walls thick with sound foam and old rock posters, and the air carried that electric smell of warm tubes, dust, and just a touch of coffee.

Thane had picked this studio on purpose. It wasn’t built for show-offs. It was built for artists who had something real to say.

The band had driven in direct after the last show, spurred by the viral wave of Field Notes From the Stars. With over ten million views, hundreds of covers already flooding YouTube, and people tagging them in stargazing videos with the lyrics—it was clear: this wasn’t just a moment. This was the moment.

Inside the control room, Thane stood behind the console, headphones on, hands dancing across the EQ with surgical precision. Diesel sat on a folding chair in the corner, arms crossed and tapping a pen on a legal pad. “Don’t screw it up,” he muttered with a smirk. “Half the damn world’s listening.”

In the tracking room, the band had spread out in a loose semicircle—no baffles, no isolation booths. Just shared space and open mics. They wanted it to feel like that night in the clearing.

Cassie stood center with the acoustic guitar in her hands. No flashy makeup, no monitor wedge. Just her voice and six strings.

Jonah was seated on a cajón instead of his usual drum throne. He tuned it gently, the old familiar tap-tap giving him peace. Gabriel knelt beside him, holding his bass like it was a sleeping child, keeping his touch featherlight and his face unusually serious.

Rico leaned against an amp, playing softly under his breath, running scales to warm up. Maya had her notebook open nearby, scribbling alternative chord ideas and murmuring to herself.

Cassie strummed a chord.

Everyone froze.

It was time.

Thane’s voice came through the headphones.

“Take one. Full pass. Just like the clearing.”

The red light blinked on.

Cassie began.

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

Gabriel’s low harmonies crept in like a sunrise, layering behind her vocals with haunting tenderness. Jonah tapped a syncopated beat on the cajón, soft and measured—heartbeat tempo. Rico played clean, melodic flourishes that hung in the air like fireflies.

A gentle wash of shimmer filled the headphones. Like starlight had been captured in a synth pad and woven into the mix. Thane caught it and rode the faders just so, letting it swell with the second verse before pulling it back into near-silence again.

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

The room held its breath.

They finished the full take with Cassie’s voice barely above a whisper. No one moved.

Thane clicked off the record light and spoke, voice hushed through the intercom. “That’s the one.”

Gabriel blinked, eyes a little glassy. “Already?”

Thane nodded slowly. “That was it. We’ll do a few safety takes… but that was it.”

Mark, still staring at his laptop, muttered, “Victor didn’t even flicker.”

Everyone laughed, soft and warm.

Cassie wiped a tear from her cheek. “We’re gonna break hearts with this one.”

Jonah looked around at all of them, then closed his eyes and whispered, “Good.”