Category: Tour Life Page 6 of 40

The Milan venue was buzzing by late afternoon — the grand glass-and-steel exterior reflecting the city’s sleek style and the anticipation of thousands inside. But it was backstage that things really got unhinged.

The designated meet-and-greet lounge was dressed to the nines in Italian chic: lush velvet couches, minimalist black tables, and a large neon sign reading “Feral Eclipse incontra i fan”. There was a champagne cart, trays of prosciutto-wrapped melon, and even a small espresso bar — because Milan.

The doors opened.

Immediately, Cassie and Maya were swarmed by a pair of fashion influencers. Cassie laughed and signed autographs on their silk scarves. Maya ended up explaining how to headbang in high heels without face-planting. #BossMoves

Meanwhile, Gabriel leaned against the espresso bar, intercepting fans with wild energy. A group of teenage girls handed him handmade wolf-ear headbands — he tried one on and strutted down the line like a runway model. Soon, half the contestants were wearing matching ears. The barista, caught off guard, ended up making free macchiatos just to befriend him.

Gabriel (dramatically): “Your espresso is as strong as my howl!”
Fan (swooning): “You NEED to come to dinner with us!”

Jonah, cornered by an enthusiastic drum circle provocateur, was trying to teach a kid to play a fun tribal rhythm — on a miniature djembe someone slipped through security. They ended up chanting “Eclipse! Eclipse!” so loud the venue staff peeked over the lounge divider in confusion.

Rico was seated at a low table, pensively reviewing fan art: one piece had him drawn as a Renaissance-era knight slaying moon beasts, another was an anime flipbook. He smiled at each one and signed them before passing them around. One fan offered him a pair of leather driving gloves. He wore them, amused and full of gratitude.

Emily was the calm eye of the storm — handling press requests, explaining the luggage situation to nervous parents on FaceTime, and handing out wristbands like a seasoned stage manager. (“No, you can’t smuggle in a 75-foot foam howling wolf.”)

At the end of the row, Thane stood quietly, signing VIP lanyards with his name and paw symbol. He kept one eye on the crowd, the other on Gabriel, who was now theatrically howling into someone’s iPhone camera like it was the mic to the world.

A particularly determined fan got bold, asking if they could “scratch behind your ears, please?” Thane paused — then offered a polite grin, bent down and allowed gentlest scratch behind his right ear. The fan nearly fainted.

When the last guest finally exited, the lounge erupted in applause — one last round before the stage.

Gabriel flicked the wolf-ear headband back into his bag, looked at Thane, and whispered, “That felt… amazing.”

Thane just gave him that quiet look of pride. “Let’s take it to the stage.”

The sun had barely risen over Frankfurt when the Feral Eclipse pack rolled out of the city in their European rental tour bus, guided — as always — by their sharply dressed, eternally patient British driver, Gordon. He’d learned quickly that silence, noise-canceling headphones, and a healthy disregard for logic were the only way to survive ferrying three werewolves and six chaotic humans across a continent.

Frankfurt had been intense. The crowds, the energy, the press drama… and of course, the backstage tension after the show. But now, with a new day dawning and the open road ahead, the pack was ready for something different. Something glamorous. Something Italian.

Milan.

Inside the bus, things were… not quiet.

Cassie and Maya had claimed the upper deck lounge and were blasting music at volumes that would’ve rattled less structurally sound vehicles. Jonah was beatboxing into a half-eaten bagel. Rico, hoodie up and sunglasses on, looked like he was attempting astral projection to escape the noise. Gabriel was already caffeinated into oblivion and was teaching Emily and Thane increasingly absurd Italian phrases.

“Say it with me: Mi scusi, dove si trova la caverna dei lupi rockstar?” Gabriel beamed.
Emily giggled. “That’s not even a real thing.”
“It is now,” he declared. “We’re making werewolf history.”

Mark, naturally, was the only one actually looking at a Milan travel guide, muttering under his breath about centuries-old cathedrals and proper museum etiquette, while trying to tune out Gabriel’s third impromptu rendition of “That’s Amore,” howled at full volume.

About halfway through the ride, Gordon made the mistake of cracking a smile when Gabriel offered him a biscotti. This was taken, of course, as permission to talk his ear off for the next hundred kilometers.

They crossed into Italy mid-morning, the mountains giving way to vineyard-strewn hills and winding roads, the city of Milan slowly rising in the distance like a promise of elegance, fashion, and culinary chaos. As the Duomo came into view, glittering in the mid-day sun, a collective cheer went up from the bus.

Thane stood from his seat, bracing one paw on the overhead rail as he addressed the group with calm determination — and a half-eaten croissant in his other one.

“Alright, pack. Let’s not make too much of a scene when we get to the venue.”

“Define too much,” Gabriel chirped from below, wearing sunglasses and a red feathered fashion scarf he’d absolutely stolen from somewhere.

Thane sighed.

Too late.

When Thane and Gabriel finally stepped back into the green room, the mood inside didn’t shift — it cracked open.

Cassie was the first to speak, eyebrows raised over her bottle of water. “You good?”

Thane nodded like it was nothing. “Yeah. All good.”

Mark, seated on the couch with a half-eaten bratwurst and his usual dry glare, didn’t even look up. “You yelled loud enough to echo. Concrete walls, genius.”

Gabriel winced.

Rico tilted his head. “I think you might’ve out-roared the subwoofers tonight. Whole room went quiet.”

Jonah, of course, made a sound effect: a long, slow whistle. “Bro, you growled like you were about to eat a man.”

Thane rubbed the back of his neck, his ears twitching. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to make a scene.”

“You didn’t,” Maya said gently. She was sitting on the floor, cross-legged, sipping an imported soda. “You made a stand. There’s a difference.”

There was a beat of silence.

Gabriel glanced around at all of them, then gave a sheepish grin. “Thane was defending me from my brother.”

“We figured,” Mark said, finally putting down his food. “You’ve got a look when it’s personal. We all know it.”

Cassie leaned forward, eyes narrowing playfully. “So… does this mean we get to go beat him up?”

“No,” Thane said quickly.

“Yes,” Rico said at the exact same time.

“Guys,” Gabriel chuckled, eyes misty again. “Seriously. I’m okay.”

Thane met their eyes — each of them, one by one. “I don’t like dragging pack drama into this. But I’m also not going to let anyone, family or not, hurt Gabriel. Not anymore.”

Mark nodded, his expression softening in that rare, almost imperceptible way. “You didn’t bring drama in. You shut it down.”

Jonah leaned against the wall with a grin. “Pretty sure that guy soiled himself through the phone line.”

Everyone laughed, and just like that, the tension melted.

Thane finally sat down beside Gabriel, who immediately leaned into him like a magnet to steel. The rest of the band relaxed — talk shifting back to dinner plans, social media chaos, and how many selfies Jonah had photobombed today.

But underneath it all was something stronger than noise or fame.

It was pack.

It was protection.

It was love, in its fiercest, wildest form.

And every single one of them felt it.

The air backstage was electric, buzzing with leftover adrenaline and a light haze of fog fluid that hadn’t quite settled yet. Everyone was still riding the high from the Frankfurt set — Jonah drumming out rhythms on the catering table with two chopsticks, Cassie breathlessly recounting the way the front row had screamed every lyric, and Gabriel practically glowing with the afterglow of playing to a sold-out German crowd.

It was warm and loud and happy.

Until the tour phone rang.

Thane barely glanced at the screen, but when he saw the name “Nathan” flash across it, his entire posture changed.

He stepped away from the group without a word, disappearing into the darker, quieter part of the venue’s backstage hallway. Concrete walls. No one to hear. He pressed the answer button and kept his voice steady.

“Hello.”

“Heyyy, is Gabriel around?” came the voice on the other end — smug, smooth, manipulative as ever. “We’ve been watching the tour highlights on social media — man, it’s crazy! Anyway, I’ve got some friends back home who are huge fans, and I was wondering if you guys could maybe —”

“You’re not speaking to Gabriel,” Thane said sharply, already done. “You’re speaking to me. And I know why you’re calling.”

“Woah, chill. I just wanted —”

“You wanted to guilt him. Again. Into giving you tickets, money, access —whatever selfish garbage you cooked up this time. You don’t care about Gabriel. You never have. You only call when you want something.”

There was a pause. Then a mocking laugh. “Man, what are you, his bodyguard now?”

Thane’s eyes narrowed. His claws extended slightly without thought. “As far as you’re concerned, yes.”

And his voice dropped to a low, dangerous growl.

“And I’m telling you right now — if you ever call this number again… if you ever try to manipulate him, use him, or twist your way into his life again… I will get on a plane, fly to Massachussetts from wherever I am, find you… and rip you clean in half with my bare paws.”

There was a silence on the other end. Thane didn’t wait for a reply. He hung up.

He stood there, breathing hard, his heart pounding, claws still slightly curled. His tail lashed once, sharply, before he forced it still. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and turned to head back toward the green room

---

Where Gabriel was standing in the hallway.

“I heard,” Gabriel said quietly.

Thane froze. “I didn’t mean —”

“No,” Gabriel said, his voice breaking just slightly. “You don’t need to explain anything. I heard everything.”

His eyes were glassy. But not angry. Not embarrassed.

Just full of emotion.

“You didn’t have to do that for me,” he whispered.

Thane stepped forward and cupped Gabriel’s cheek gently in one clawed hand. “I know. But I wanted to.”

Gabriel exhaled, his breath hitching slightly as he leaned into the touch. “You’re the first person who’s ever stood between me and my brother like that. The first one who didn’t just… let him keep using me.”

Thane pulled him into a firm, protective embrace. “No one hurts you. Not while I’m breathing.”

Gabriel buried his muzzle against Thane’s neck, arms wrapped tight around him. “Thank you.”

And in the chaos of the post-show whirlwind, the crew respectfully gave them space — even Jonah, who was halfway through a story about someone puking on a merch table, stopped mid-sentence and waved everyone toward the other room.

In a world of screaming fans and thundering applause, this moment was private. Quiet. Unshakable.

The first note hit like a bomb.

Rico’s guitar roared through the venue with a perfect, searing slide, followed by Jonah’s thundercrack drum entrance that rattled the lighting rig overhead. The crowd—already packed shoulder to shoulder, already screaming — exploded into a frenzy that threatened to tear the roof off the building.

And then Cassie stepped up to the mic.

“FRANKFURT!” she howled, the scream backed by every watt of power the PA system could push. “ARE YOU READY?!”

There was no pause, no warning. The entire venue screamed back with such force it felt like the air got knocked out of the room.

From stage left, Gabriel charged in like a wildfire, bass slung low, claws flashing as he launched into the first riff — his sleek black fur catching every glint of the rotating lights. He grinned like a madman, windmilling into the beat with all the grace of a caffeinated acrobat. His tail whipped, his whole body in sync with the music, and the crowd went absolutely ballistic.

Mark’s lights detonated behind them in synchronized strobes, showering red and gold beams like a cinematic supernova. A fog burst from the floor vents as six VariLite units tilted on cue, painting the stage in dramatic, shifting geometry. The drum riser glowed from underneath like it had been set on fire.

Thane stood at the mixing desk offstage, fingers flying over faders and sliders, sweat starting to bead across his brow. He grinned as he listened to the mix — tight, crisp, utterly brutal. The German tech crew behind him watched slack-jawed as Thane operated like a battlefield general. One muttered, “Er ist ein Zauberer,” under his breath. A wizard.

The first song tore through like a freight train — then the second. And then it was time.

Cassie stepped forward into a single golden spotlight.

“This next song… is about surviving the worst parts of yourself. About clawing your way back out, even when everyone says you can’t. It’s for you, Frankfurt. And it’s for us.”

The venue held its breath.

Then came the opening chords of “Ashes in Reverse.”

Fans near the barricades started sobbing. Actual sobbing.

Gabriel closed his eyes as he played, the emotion surging through his claws like lightning. Maya leaned into her guitar with quiet ferocity. Rico knelt at the edge of the stage, offering his riffs like a gift to the fans reaching for him. Jonah’s drumming softened to a heartbeat. The whole venue seemed to sway.

One girl in the front row fainted.

Security caught her. Barely.

By the time they reached the last chorus, the entire audience was singing it back — thousands of German fans, screaming perfect English lyrics at the top of their lungs. Thane glanced up from his console, catching Mark’s eye across the sea of bodies. Mark gave a rare, toothy grin and a thumbs-up.

It only got louder.

Final song. Final scream.

Cassie cued the band with one raised claw, and every light in the venue dropped to black. Total silence.

Then the last song hit like an earthquake — “Field Notes From the Stars.”

The very song that had gone viral and carried them to this moment.

Jonah’s sticks blurred. Rico’s solo carved the air like fire. Gabriel leapt off a side riser and spun midair, landing with perfect precision, bass lines churning beneath him. Cassie’s vocals reached new heights, snarling and soaring. The VariLites swept over the crowd like searchlights. Fans screamed. Phones flashed. The walls felt like they were shaking.

And as the last note rang out—raw, defiant, alive — the stage went dark for a beat.

Then lit up with the Feral Eclipse logo in blazing white behind them.

The crowd screamed louder than thunder.

The hallway behind the stage was lined with heavy black curtains, clipped together with thick plastic ties and humming faintly from the bass rumble of the openers still playing their final song. The air was thick — half with excitement, half with the scent of too many bodies and energy drinks packed into the same industrial corridor. Distant cheers filtered through the walls like the venue itself was breathing.

Feral Eclipse had regrouped in the green room, which was more gray than green and clearly designed for either a hockey team or a hostage negotiation — cheap couches, a battered fridge stocked with off-brand sodas, and a table piled high with German snack food the staff had tried to theme as “American.” Thane looked at a bag labeled Cowboy Chips and muttered something about cultural misunderstandings.

Gabriel had his bass slung low across his chest, casually strumming while pacing tight circles. His tail twitched with anticipation, ears high and twitching. “This crowd’s gonna be rowdy, I can feel it.”

“You feel everything,” Mark replied, crouched in a corner with a pair of Allen wrenches and his lighting console open across two folding chairs. “You also said that about the espresso machine in our last hotel.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Gabriel shot back. “That thing had intentions.”

Cassie was stretching her neck and humming scales quietly while Jonah bounced a drumstick off his thigh, catching it with an unconscious rhythm that had clearly taken years to perfect. Maya leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, keeping an eye on everything while pretending she wasn’t.

Rico was flipping through fan DMs on his phone, eyebrows occasionally raising in horror, amusement, or both. “Hey, anyone want to meet a guy with a Feral Eclipse tattoo that stretches across both butt cheeks? ‘Cause he’s here tonight. Row three.”

Thane sighed, looking up from his gear check. “Only if you want to sign them.”

“Nope.” Rico clicked the phone off and shoved it in his back pocket. “I’ve got limits.”

Emily stood nearby, wide-eyed but smiling, nervously adjusting her tour hoodie as she clutched a clipboard with the night’s setlist and logistics. “The house is completely full. Oversold. There are people standing in the back bar area just to hear the show.”

Gabriel perked up. “Wait, what’s the legal capacity here?”

“Let’s not ask that question,” Thane replied before she could answer.

A knock came at the door — two short raps, then a pause. One of the venue runners poked their head in, flushed and breathless. “Five minutes, ja? You are ready?”

Everyone looked at Thane. He gave a slow nod, stood, and rolled his shoulders once with a satisfying crack.

“Let’s go make Germany howl,” he said.

Gabriel grinned. “Hell yes.”

Cassie punched the air. “Let’s goooo!”

The whole crew moved as one, peeling out of the room and into the narrow corridor, energy simmering just below the surface, claws flexing in anticipation. Thane hung back half a step, giving Emily a reassuring nudge as they passed.

“You did great,” he said quietly.

She blinked. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You kept us from imploding. That’s everything.”

She smiled — just a little. “You’re welcome, Sound Wolf.”

Thane groaned, but couldn’t help the small grin that tugged at the edge of his muzzle as they stepped into the wings.

By the time the meet and greet began in Frankfurt, the queue outside the venue had already turned into a carnival. Fans waved homemade signs, blew plastic wolf whistles, and held up actual wolf masks — some terrifyingly realistic, others hilariously cartoonish. A few had even painted fur patterns onto their faces. The air was a blend of perfume, beer, and body glitter, and security had long since given up trying to make the line orderly. It was like herding caffeinated goats with smartphones.

Inside, the VIP room had been decorated by the venue staff in what they assumed was a cool, edgy aesthetic — lots of steel gray, bold red uplighting, and even a printed banner that read “WILLKOMMEN, FERAL ECLIPSE!” hanging over a long table with water bottles, pretzels, and carefully aligned Sharpies.

Gabriel was the first through the door. He froze at the sight of the banner, then immediately turned to Thane.

“I swear to Fenrir, I’m gonna steal that.”

Thane didn’t even blink. “You already stole a cannonball last week.”

“I’m a collector,” Gabriel replied innocently, already unhooking the banner from one side.

Mark grunted. “Don’t you dare hang that in the kitchen.”

And then the fans poured in.

The first ten were in matching DIY Feral Eclipse hoodies — with hand-sewn patches, embroidered names, and even sewn-in little tails. One girl burst into tears upon meeting Cassie. Another clutched a limited-edition bass pick of Gabriel’s like it was the last Horcrux. Jonah signed a drumhead someone had somehow smuggled in. Rico posed for ten photos before realizing none of them were with the person holding the phone.

One fan approached Emily with a full color sketch she’d drawn — of the band as German shepherds — and Emily, absolutely delighted, ran around the room showing everyone.

Thane kept things moving, politely nudging fans forward, helping interpret when needed (and brushing up on just enough German to get him into trouble). But then came the moment that cracked even his stoic calm.

A burly, bearded guy in lederhosen shuffled up shyly and handed him… a single, lukewarm bratwurst wrapped in foil.

“For… sound wolf,” the guy said, eyes wide.

Thane blinked. “…Danke?”

Gabriel, witnessing this from across the room, burst into such intense laughter he nearly dropped his bass. “Sound Wolf!” he howled, doubling over. “YOU HAVE A TITLE NOW.”

Mark mumbled, “Better than ‘Lighting Goblin.’”

“Excuse me?” Cassie chirped. “I am the Lighting Goblin.”

“I thought you were the Mic Witch,” Rico teased.

The meet and greet spiraled into a swirl of hugs, howls, and heartfelt moments. One elderly woman gave Maya a warm handshake and said in perfect English, “You make me feel like women can lead bands without having to shout to be heard.” Maya was quiet for a moment, then pulled her into a full embrace.

By the end, the band was glowing — emotionally and literally, thanks to a fan who had brought glowstick necklaces “for good luck.” As the last guest exited, Emily turned to Thane, breathless and glowing herself.

“That was insane.”

He nodded. “Let’s go make it louder.”

The convoy pulled away from Paris before sunrise, the city’s lights still fading in the rearview. Inside the bus, the mood was tired — but triumphant. They’d stormed the rooftops, trended hashtags across borders, and left Paris howling in their wake. Now, attempting to outrun jet lag and dreaded hotel karaoke requests, the pack eyed Germany on the horizon.

Thane reviewed the itinerary: Frankfurt, Festhalle — 12,000-capacity arena, polished, efficient, modern — and a fanbase so dedicated they might’ve printed “Feral Eclipse” on their nylon stage outfits. Mark slept standing up. Emily was curating fan content by the minute (“We’ve got reaction vids from Austria already!”). And Gabriel… was drooling at the idea of schnitzel and bratwurst.

---

“Auf Die Bühne” – Germany, Festhalle Frankfurt

The Festhalle’s ferris-wheel silhouette came into view first — lights still swirling from a late-night event. The bus parked behind the sprawling gray-and-glass structure, and as the pack disembarked, the energy shifted: serious, intense, orderly.

Security, uniformed in crisp black, formed neat lines. Venue crew wore matching vests and headsets, radios humming around their shoulders like lifelines. There was no chaos — at least, not yet.

Inside, the hall gleamed under LED fluorescents. The stage was already set, gear neatly organized in labeled crates. Thane actually smiled at the efficiency.

“God, look at this,” he murmured. “They’ve got more cables pre-rigged than an orchestra.”

Cassie laughed. “German precision. Probably screws down the stage bolts with digital torque motors.”

Mark nodded approvingly. “This is my kind of load-in.”

Indeed, load-in was smooth. Gear was wheeled in silently, cables snapped into place, monitors tested with no screaming cables or missing speakers. For ten glorious minutes, nothing went wrong.

Then Gabriel swaggered onto the stage — bass slung low, tail flicking in approval of the clean backdrop.

“Orderly schmoderly,” he said to no one in particular. “Time to rock.”

Within minutes, the load-in had devolved into typical Feral Eclipse chaos: thumping sound checks, Gabriel testing mic gain with howls, Cassie fine-tuning vocal lines, and Jonah setting off a mini trombone blast of his own. Mark’s slight smile turned into a smirk.

A stage tech — blonde, sharp-eyed, clipboard in hand — watched it all unfold.

“Es tut mir leid,” she said quietly to Thane, then quickly translated for Gabriel: “That means ‘Excuse me.’”

Gabriel gave her a grin that spread across his muzzle. “No, Ich bin der Wolf,” he replied, accidentally switching to German. “I am the wolf.”

The tech blinked, then laughed. Thane winced—but it was worth it.

Three hours of sleep.

That was all anyone got before the hotel room phones rang like alarms possessed by demons. Thane groaned, face-down in a pile of linens. Mark muttered something about needing a silver bullet — but for the phone. And Gabriel, somehow already half dressed and holding coffee, kicked the door open and shouted, “We’ve been summoned!”

“Back to hell?” Mark asked without opening his eyes.

“Worse,” Gabriel said. “Influencers.”

A luxury rooftop lounge. Panoramic views of Paris. The kind of place where champagne flowed like water and no one made eye contact unless it was through an Instagram filter. The whole pack had been invited — “high-profile social cross-promo,” the tour manager called it. “Good exposure.”

“You know what else is good exposure?” Cassie muttered as they shuffled out of the hotel van and up to the elevator. “Sunlight. But that’ll still kill a vampire.”

“I would take vampires over TikTokers,” Mark grumbled.

The rooftop was gleaming white marble and glass, covered in curated lounge spaces and ring lights. Dozens of perfectly dressed influencers swarmed the area, each more polished and nauseating than the last.

Thane’s ears went back the moment they stepped out into the crowd. Every head turned. Phones came out like daggers. One woman actually gasped and clutched her pearls — like a cartoon character.

“Oh. My. God.” a guy with ice-blond hair and a Gucci collar chain squealed. “Are they real? They look so real. Wait — are those, like, prosthetics?”

Gabriel rolled his eyes so hard they might’ve snapped something loose. “Sure, we glued on eight inches of fur and claws just to be quirky.”

A second influencer immediately tried to rub Thane’s bicep. “You’re, like, giving feral chic meets lumberjack daddy and I am here for it.”

Thane gave her a look that said, in no uncertain terms: Touch me again and I will end your influencer career using only a snarl and a hashtag.

Meanwhile, Rico and Maya were already sipping champagne with forced politeness. Jonah got cornered by someone trying to pitch a collab for a werewolf-themed skincare line. Emily looked like she was calculating how many steps it would take to hurl herself off the roof. Mark just stood by the elevator, arms crossed and growling whenever anyone got too close.

Then someone — some idiot — put a DJ on the corner of the patio. He spun up a remix of Feral Eclipse’s own track “Unleashed.”

Gabriel’s ears twitched.

“Oh no,” Thane said softly.

“OH YES!” Gabriel yelled, grabbing the mic from the stunned DJ. “If we’re doing this, we’re doing it right.”

What followed was twenty minutes of unhinged rooftop chaos. Gabriel led the crowd through an impromptu werewolf-themed dance workout, complete with howls. Jonah used champagne flutes as percussion. Cassie joined in just to make it louder. Mark took the mic once and told someone that using AI to sell protein powder made them morally bankrupt.

The crowd loved it. The internet loved it. By the time they finally escaped, the hashtag #BrunchWithWolves was trending across four countries.

Back in the van, hair ruffled and sanity frayed, Thane rubbed his face and said, “We’re never doing that again.”

“Until next time,” Gabriel said, leaning his head on Thane’s shoulder with a wicked grin.

The show was over. The power had held. No one had passed out — on stage, anyway — and the Parisian crowd had screamed loud enough to rival jet engines. The moment Feral Eclipse stepped offstage, the chaos didn’t end. It simply changed venues.

Within minutes, the crew was outside the Accor Arena, half herded by venue staff and half corralled by their own momentum. Thane had barely managed to get his gear stowed before someone — probably Jonah — suggested a celebratory stroll along the Seine. That somehow turned into let’s go find a bar which then became let’s just follow the noise.

Paris, of course, welcomed them with open arms. Or rather, open cafes, flashing phones, and an increasing number of people running across cobblestones to shout, scream, or sob at the sight of them.

“Did we win something?” Gabriel asked, spinning a borrowed beret on one claw as they navigated a narrow alley that led out into a bustling plaza.

“You mean besides the hearts of half of Paris?” Cassie replied, ducking as a drone buzzed overhead.

Thane looked up and exhaled slowly. “There’s another one. That’s the fifth drone I’ve seen tonight.”

“I will throw a baguette at it,” Mark said, holding one menacingly. “Don’t think I won’t.”

“You literally just paid €3 for that,” Rico said.

“Exactly,” Mark grumbled. “Weaponized carbs aren’t cheap here.”

The plaza opened up like a stage. Café tables were filled. Music poured from nearby speakers. Someone spotted them — someone always did—and then it was on. A flash of recognition, a shriek, a call to friends. In under five minutes, the small crowd had doubled, then tripled. The wolves were surrounded.

Gabriel — never one to miss an opportunity — leapt onto a wrought-iron bistro table with the grace of a caffeinated jungle cat and flung his arms wide.

“PARIS! WHO’S STILL AWAKE?”

The crowd responded with a roar. A baguette flew through the air. He caught it and raised it overhead like a gladiator’s blade.

“Who dares challenge me in battle?!”

A fan accepted, armed with a second baguette and questionable judgment. The duel commenced.

Mark groaned and turned away, muttering, “We are never getting invited back to this country.”

Rico and Jonah were instantly taking bets. Emily tried to take video but was laughing too hard to keep the camera straight. Cassie was chatting with a woman who had painted Feral 4Ever across her cheek in glitter and tears.

And Thane — still carrying a half-coiled XLR like it might come in handy — stood in the middle of it all, watching the way the lights from streetlamps shimmered on cobblestones, the laughter that bounced between buildings, and the way their little chaotic pack somehow brought joy to strangers a world away from home.

“This is getting unhinged,” he said aloud to no one in particular.

“It’s Paris,” Mark replied beside him. “Pretty sure it’s supposed to be.”

The cops did show up — eventually. But they just smiled, recognized the band, and ended up helping redirect traffic while posing for a group photo.

At some point, someone bought them all espresso shots. At some later point, Gabriel tried to convince a passing mime to join the band.

And when the hour grew late and the adrenaline finally wore off, they made their way — slowly, surrounded by fans and laughter — back toward the waiting hotel vans. Thane looked back once more at the glowing Eiffel Tower, now distant behind the rooftops.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.

Tonight, Paris would remember.