Category: Tour Life Page 7 of 20

The coast felt different now.

Every city Feral Eclipse passed through buzzed with the roar of fandom and the electric undercurrent of something darker, something just out of sight. The music was stronger than ever, each performance tighter, each crowd louder — but the air? It had a pulse of its own. A warning. A hum of tension that never quite faded.

It started small.

A strange fan letter with no return address. A crudely wrapped package containing a barbed-wire feather. A burned photo of Gabriel from years ago — pre-band, pre-touring, pre-fame — somehow snapped from the sidewalk of a small Cape Cod street show. The kind of picture that no one should have anymore.

Security tightened. Venues adapted. No more backdoor fans. No unscreened gifts. No press access without triple-clearance. But the sense of being watched never left. Gabriel stayed smiling in public, but Thane knew better — he could read the way Gabriel’s ears twitched at unfamiliar voices, the way his tail no longer swung lazily backstage. Even Mark, usually unshakeable, started sleeping with his silver-handled switchblade tucked into his boot at night.

The pack closed ranks.

And still, the pressure built.

---

They were two shows into Northern California when it finally snapped.

The venue was a slick industrial beast nestled in the heart of San Jose — all steel beams and black curtains, modern and acoustically perfect. Gabriel was onstage early, running through warmups on his Ernie Ball DarkRay, red with its black pickguard catching the spotlights like it belonged there. Mark and Thane were nearby, discussing the lighting rig for the encore. The rest of the crew was scattered, setting up gear and double-checking rigging.

No one expected a threat this early in the day.

No one was ready when the man burst through the loading dock entrance like a ghost wrapped in rage — wild-eyed, trench coat flapping, his voice already rising into a frantic chant.

“The beasts walk among us! You think you’re idols, but you’re curses! You’re the beginning of the end!”

There was no time to process.

He hurled a glass vial with a roar — thick, veined with rust-red liquid and the stink of metal and old blood. The arc was perfect, sailing straight toward Gabriel’s head.

Thane moved before his brain did.

In one fluid lunge, he crossed the stage and intercepted the vial mid-air, claws flashing as it shattered against his arm and chest. The scent hit instantly — copper, sulfur, something ancient and wrong. The splatter burned, but Thane barely flinched.

He hit the floor running and drove the attacker to the ground in a single, brutal motion. The man screamed and writhed, but Thane held him down with one arm and a snarl that silenced the whole damn venue.

“You made a very stupid choice,” Thane growled, his muzzle inches from the man’s face.

Security arrived seconds later, followed by two local cops already sprinting across the lot. Thane didn’t move until he felt Gabriel’s presence behind him, one clawed hand resting gently on his back.

“I’m okay,” Gabriel whispered.

Only then did Thane let the human go.

The man was dragged away still shrieking, still convinced he was right — still muttering about bloodlines and monsters and purity.

The lot stayed silent long after the cruiser left.

---

The news cycle kicked in almost immediately.

Fan footage. Security cam stills. Audio of the man’s rant looping over network commentary. Within hours, the headline had replaced the bullet incident in every feed:

“Second Attempt on Feral Eclipse Member — Is This Hate Becoming Habit?”

But this time, the band said something.

A simple joint post, accompanied by a photo of the broken vial in Thane’s bloodied hand:

“We are not afraid. We are not stepping down. We are not shifting for anyone.”
#ProtectThePack

The world responded like wildfire. Fan signs exploded with artwork of broken chains, wolves standing side-by-side in front of flaming concert stages. One local group of superfans in Phoenix formed a human ring around the tour van when you arrived, holding handmade shields and signs painted with the band’s logo and the phrase “No gods. No monsters. Just pack.”

Gabriel barely said a word after that show.

Back at the hotel, he leaned against the balcony railing with Thane beside him, both silent, eyes on the sleeping city below.

“You think it’s going to get worse?” Gabriel finally asked, voice low, barely carrying above the wind.

Thane didn’t answer right away. He looked at the skyline — at the lights, the shadows, the quiet between them — then turned toward his bandmate.

“I know it is,” he said softly.

Gabriel nodded once, ears tilted forward, his tail brushing against Thane’s leg.

“Good,” he whispered. “Means we’re doing something right.”

He leaned in, brushing his snout under Thane’s jaw, the familiar nuzzle gentle and grounding.

“Let them come,” he murmured, muzzle tucked into Thane’s neck. “I’ve got a wolf in my corner.”

---

The shadows had eyes now.

But so did the pack.

And wolves don’t run.

The video of Thane taking a bullet for Gabriel hit the internet before the last echoes of the concert had even faded.

It spread like wildfire.

News stations ran the footage on a loop. Social media turned it into a thousand memes, reaction videos, hashtags. Commentators everywhere lost their minds over the sheer brutality and grace of what they’d witnessed — a bare-pawed werewolf throwing himself between a gunman and his bandmate, absorbing the shot, and not even going down.

Backstage, chaos had barely settled. Thane sat shirtless, blood still dark on his side, though already scabbing over. His black polo had been shredded by the impact and removed by a medic who seemed more starstruck than concerned. Gabriel hadn’t left his side since the second the attacker was hauled away, sitting cross-legged beside him, tail brushing against Thane’s thigh like it needed constant contact to prove he was still alive.

“You sure you’re okay?” Gabriel asked for the fifth time, voice low and cracked at the edges.

Thane huffed softly, not quite a laugh, and flexed his fingers. “Little sore. Healing fast.”

Gabriel reached down, his clawed hand lightly brushing over the matted fur at Thane’s side. “You took a bullet, my wolf.”

Thane shrugged. “Didn’t really think about it.”

“Exactly,” Gabriel whispered. “That’s what scares me.”

Thane looked at him then — really looked — and saw the storm of fear and love swimming behind those icy blue eyes. He reached up, brushed the back of his fingers along Gabriel’s jaw, and leaned in close until their snouts touched. A quiet, steady nuzzle.

“I’d do it again. Every time.”

---

The next morning, the media exploded.

Every major network played the angle. “Werewolf Saves Bandmate,” “Bullet-Proof Love,” “Modern-Day Guardian.” It was everywhere. The clip was slowed down, looped, analyzed frame-by-frame. There were debates on werewolf physiology, ethics panels discussing pack loyalty, political commentators trying to twist it into something it wasn’t — and through it all, Feral Eclipse stayed quiet.

For twenty-four hours.

Then the band broke the silence on The Tonight Show.

Mark didn’t speak at all. He just stared at the host with a dry, withering glare that shut down the usual “edgy werewolf jokes” before they started. Maya, however, picked up the slack with a passionate blow-by-blow of what happened, complete with vivid hand gestures and the line, “That man got dropped like a sack of racist laundry.”

Jonah reenacted Thane’s leap from the stage using a stool and a marker as the gunman.

But it was Gabriel who silenced the room.

He spoke softly, claws curled in his lap, and said, “He didn’t think. He just moved. That’s what it means to be pack. That’s what love looks like when it’s not afraid.”

Thane added only, “I’ve had worse. Just cracked a rib. Or ten.”

---

By the weekend, Feral Eclipse was everywhere.

Rolling Stone put Thane on the cover — claws crossed over his chest, the bent bullet resting in his palm like a war trophy. TIME Magazine called it “a defining moment in modern music and cultural identity.”

A limited-edition shirt dropped that same night:
“Protect the Pack”
Black-on-black embroidery. One small, red-stitched bullet near the hem.

It sold out in three hours.

Fan videos turned the moment into art. Animation, tribute songs, poetry. One viral TikTok dubbed it over with orchestral swells, the tagline fading in over slow-motion:

“Not all heroes wear shoes.”

---

Thane healed in a day.

Gabriel did not.

Not physically — his bandmate was untouched. But inside? Gabriel was shaken. He stayed close, quieter than usual, fingers always brushing against Thane’s fur, as if afraid the memory might take him if he looked away too long. Every meet-and-greet, every camera flash, every chant of “Protect the Pack!” brought a complicated blend of pride and pain to his face.

They ended up on the hotel roof the night before the tour resumed. The L.A. skyline burned like a molten sea of lights behind them, but neither wolf was watching it.

Gabriel leaned against Thane’s side, head tucked under his jaw.

“I thought I lost you,” he whispered.

Thane didn’t answer right away. Just tightened his arm around Gabriel’s back, holding him firm and safe.

“You didn’t,” he finally said. “And you never will.”

Gabriel licked his cheek once, a gentle sweep of tongue across fur, and exhaled.

The silence stretched comfortably between them.

Down in the city, cameras flashed. News anchors talked. Fans screamed.

But up here, under the quiet pull of the moon, Thane and Gabriel didn’t need any of that.

They had the only thing that mattered.

Each other.

The L.A. heat hadn’t let up, even as the sun slipped behind the skyline and the open-air venue swelled with thousands of fans screaming for Feral Eclipse. The stage lights bathed the crowd in strobes of electric color. Drums pounded like thunder. Strings howled like sirens. And in the center of it all stood Gabriel, bass slung low, grin wide, drenched in the joy of the moment.

Thane stood off to stage left, arms crossed, eyes sharp. The high was still riding strong from the earlier celebrity circus, but something in his instincts wouldn’t rest. His ears twitched beneath the roar of the crowd. Something felt… off.

Then it happened.

From the pit near the front rail—a sudden flash of movement. A figure shoved through the dense crowd, arm raised, something metal clutched in his hand.

Not a fan.
Not a camera.
A weapon.

The moment stretched.

The attacker’s aim locked on Gabriel’s chest.

And before the scream even left a single throat, Thane moved.

Faster than anyone could follow—one moment on the side of the stage, the next between the gun and Gabriel.

The sound cracked like a firework.
The pain hit like lightning.
And Thane didn’t fall.

He staggered a step, the heat of the wound blooming through his side. His black polo shirt torn, the smell of blood sharp and immediate. But he stayed upright. Clawed feet dug into the stage floor. Rage filled his chest like wildfire.

Gabriel turned, eyes wide in horror, but Thane had already leapt off the stage.

The attacker barely had time to register what hit him.

Thane tackled him straight to the concrete—hard—a growl like thunder erupting from deep in his throat. Clawed hands pinned the man with terrifying control, one set of claws pressed to the pavement an inch from the coward’s face, eyes glowing with pure, predatory fury.

“You picked the wrong damn night,” Thane growled.

Security arrived seconds later—though it felt like an eternity. They shouted. Fans screamed. Cell phones filmed.

But Thane didn’t move.

Not until Gabriel’s voice called out, steady but cracked with panic: “Thane. I’m okay.”

Only then did he breathe again.

He stood slowly. The attacker whimpered beneath him, sobbing as he was dragged off by venue security and two stunned LAPD officers. Blood soaked through Thane’s side, but he didn’t so much as flinch. He climbed back on stage like nothing had happened.

Gabriel rushed to him—eyes wide with pain, with guilt—but Thane only placed a clawed hand on his wolf’s shoulder and leaned in close.

“You good?” Thane asked, voice low, gravelly.

Gabriel nodded once, eyes burning. “You took a bullet for me.”

Thane gave a small, tight smile. “Would do it again tomorrow.”

He dug to his side with a claw — gripped something embedded in his ribs — and yanked it out with a grunt. A gleaming, twisted slug clinked onto the floor.

The crowd watched in stunned silence as Thane stared at the metal, then casually tossed it aside with a low growl.

---

🎥 The Aftermath

The internet erupted like a bomb.

Videos spread within minutes. Multiple angles. Some caught Thane leaping from the stage. Others focused on Gabriel screaming in panic. One slow-mo clip showed the bullet visibly hitting Thane, his body jolting back—but not falling.

And the moment he tossed the slug to the floor? That got slowed down, set to orchestral music, dubbed over with wolves howling. It trended for three straight days.

#ProtectThePack
#ThaneTookABullet
#AlphaEnergy
#FeralBond

Photos of Gabriel helping Thane offstage circled the globe. One journalist called it, “the most feral and devoted act of the decade.”

Gabriel’s post that night said only:

“He saved my life. I don’t deserve him. But I thank the moon every day that he’s mine. 💙🐺”

---

The band canceled the next two shows. Not because Thane couldn’t work — he was already healing the next day — but because Gabriel refused to leave his side. The pack came together. Stronger. Tighter. Bound in blood and brotherhood.

The Los Angeles venue was ridiculous in every possible way—vaulted ceilings, golden chandeliers, a green room bigger than most hotels, and a guest list so thick with celebrities you needed a stage pass just to breathe near the espresso machine.

Feral Eclipse had been invited to play a televised charity concert—a glitzy, black-clad affair loaded with actors, aging rockstars, and pop icons trying to “stay relevant” by being seen at the right places. Somehow, their team had wrangled a prime-time slot… right after a washed-up classic rocker named Lars Vexley. A man who had publicly referred to werewolves as “sideshow trash with claws.”

So spirits backstage were… tense.

Gabriel paced near the snack table, bare clawed feet quiet against the tile, tail twitching in anticipation. Thane stood near the wall, arms crossed, surveying the scene like a bodyguard waiting for trouble. Mark sat on a folding chair by the coffee urn, calmly drinking overpriced kombucha with the aura of a monk who might light you on fire if pushed.

“Hey,” Jonah whispered. “Isn’t that —?”

Before he could finish, she walked in.

Aria Valentine. Global pop megastar. Grammy-winning chart-dominator. Millions of fans. Glitter like skin. Heels like weapons. And a sparkle-covered leather jacket with “FERAL” embroidered across the back.

She spotted Gabriel.

And lost her entire mind.

“Oh my GOD,” she squealed, beelining straight toward him like a missile made of perfume and charisma. “You’re you. Like, the actual you!”

Gabriel blinked. “Uh… yeah?”

She clutched his arm like they’d been besties since birth. “I have every bootleg. I made my manager drive four hours to get me a hoodie from your Vegas show. Do you remember me from the DMs? I’m @ValenWolves94 on Insta—I run your fan page!”

Thane’s eyebrow twitched.

“Oh,” Gabriel managed, glancing at Thane. “That’s you.”

Across the room, Lars Vexley was watching this unfold like someone had just peed in his whiskey. Dressed in head-to-toe fake snakeskin and sunglasses indoors, he leaned over to a nearby crew member and muttered way too loudly, “Ugh. I thought they let wolves in for pest control.”

Thane’s jaw flexed.

Mark slowly set down his kombucha.

Gabriel, still smiling awkwardly as Aria squeezed his arm, just said, “Excuse me a second,” and walked calmly toward the aging rocker.

The room went silent.

Thane followed.

Lars gave a smug little smirk. “You here to beg for an autograph, pup?”

“No,” Gabriel replied sweetly. “Just wanted to let you know—your mic pack’s still live. You’re going out next.”

Lars paled.

A few staff members scurried past, trying not to snort laughter.

Then Maya stepped in, sipping her own coffee like it was an Olympic sport. “You know,” she said loud enough for everyone to hear, “some people age like wine… and some age like milk in the sun.”

Half the green room choked.

Aria gasped and nearly dropped her purse.

Someone behind the catering table whispered, “Oh my god.”

Gabriel turned back to Lars with that charming, chaotic glint in his icy blue eyes. “Enjoy your acoustic set. Hope you remember the lyrics this time.”

---

Five minutes later, Lars Vexley performed a shaky, lifeless version of one of his ‘80s hits to lukewarm applause. The audience barely looked up from their phones. Meanwhile, backstage, Aria had already posted a selfie with Gabriel and Thane, complete with sparkly wolf ears added in post and the caption:

“Met my IDOLS. I may never recover. 💖🐺 #FeralForLife #ThaneIsSoTallIRanIntoHisRibs”

By the time Feral Eclipse took the stage, Twitter was melting. The crowd was on fire. Aria was front row, screaming like a teenager, flanked by confused celebrities trying to figure out what just happened.

And Lars?

Lars went viral for all the wrong reasons.

---

The next morning, the internet was a war zone of memes and media headlines:

🎤 “Feral Eclipse Claws Into L.A. — Literally and Figuratively”
💋 “Pop Princess Aria Valentine is Feral Eclipse’s #1 Fan (And We Have Proof)”
🧀 “Lars Vexley Gets Roasted By a Werewolf and a Latina With a Latte”
🐺 “The Wolves Own Hollywood Now”

---

Back in the tour van, Maya held up her phone, reading aloud with glee.
“‘Thane is the definition of ‘alpha energy without saying a word.’ I’m printing this.”

Gabriel snorted and looked out the window, tail flicking smugly. “Think we’ll get invited back?”

Thane, still scrolling, didn’t look up. “I’d be shocked if we weren’t.”

The sun was low on the horizon, casting a golden glow across the Pacific Coast Highway as the tour van cruised along, music thumping, the windows cracked just enough to let in the ocean breeze and the scent of eucalyptus trees. The van was alive with sound—Jonah’s unhinged playlist had just segued from something vaguely Celtic into an 8-bit chiptune cover of “Break Stuff,” and nobody could figure out why.

Gabriel was driving, of course — sunglasses on, and bouncing in rhythm against the wheel. “Next hotel’s supposed to be, like, right off this turn, yeah?” he asked, glancing at Thane, who had the nav open on his phone.

Thane squinted. “…That was the turn.”

There was a beat of silence.

“I knew it,” Gabriel said, slapping the wheel with a grin. “Sooooo… detour?”

“Don’t you dare take the next —” Maya started.

Too late. Gabriel flicked on the turn signal with unearned confidence and veered off the highway onto a cracked access road.

They came to a stop in a dusty gravel lot where an ancient, sun-bleached sign creaked in the wind:

TONIGHT ONLY!
CREATURE FROM THE BLACK LAGOON & THE HOWLING
DOUBLE FEATURE!

Cassie stepped out of the van, staring up at it. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mark folded his arms. “We’re staying.”

---

Ten minutes and one credit card swipe later, the band had rented out the entire drive-in theater for the night. No one even asked how much it cost. They were too busy dragging out folding chairs, rigging a few speakers to the van’s interior system, and raiding the concession stand like hungry coyotes. There was a nearly full moon hanging low above the screen—just enough to bathe everything in soft silver.

Gabriel immediately took over the commentary track as The Howling played, dramatically gasping at every fake snarl and throwing popcorn at the screen. “Oh come on, that’s not even how knees work!”

Rico and Jonah held an impromptu glowstick sword fight while Maya tried (and failed) to roast a marshmallow on a tiny LED stage light. Cassie kicked her boots up on the dash and declared it the “best wrong turn ever.”

Thane didn’t even argue. He just smiled, arms folded, watching his chaotic pack under the stars.

---

Near the end of the first movie, a small white sedan pulled into the lot and parked a few rows behind the van. A teenage guy climbed out slowly, clutching something under one arm—thin, maybe seventeen or eighteen, with dyed green bangs and oversized boots. He didn’t try to get closer. Just stood there by his car, staring.

Gabriel noticed first. “We got a lurker.”

Thane looked over and nodded. “Not the bad kind.”

Gabriel waved him over. The kid froze, then slowly approached, holding out a notebook.

“I—I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he said. “I saw the van on Instagram and just… I’ve been following you guys since your first EP.”

Gabriel took the notebook and flipped through it. Lyrics. Sketches. A few drawings of werewolves with guitars.

“I write stuff too,” the kid said. “But people keep telling me it’s too weird. Too… personal.”

Gabriel didn’t hesitate. “Dude. Weird is the point. Look at us.”

He passed the book to Thane, who gave it a respectful skim and nodded.

Gabriel found a dog-eared page. “This one right here? It’s a banger. Keep this up, and the world’s gonna catch up to you eventually.”

Maya clapped a hand on the kid’s shoulder. “You’re already doing the thing. You just gotta keep doing it louder.”

Thane added, “Next time we’re near here—bring us your demo.”

The kid just stood there, stunned, his eyes glistening in the glow of the screen.

“C’mere,” Gabriel said. “You’re part of the pack now. Grab a soda.”

---

The second film ended. The credits rolled. Somewhere out in the trees, coyotes howled—and the band howled back. Phones were out again, fans whispering to the internet:

“Saw Feral Eclipse at a random drive-in tonight. They gave a kid songwriting advice. Made s’mores. Howled at the moon. I love them even more now.”

Another post showed the group lit in silver glow, chairs in a messy ring, guitars half-tuned, snacks scattered everywhere. The caption?

“Not just rockstars. Pack leaders.”

---

Back in the van, as the road stretched ahead again and the desert fell behind, Gabriel looked over at Thane in the passenger seat.

“That was a good night,” he said quietly.

Thane nodded, tail flicking against the floor. “Yeah. It really was.”

After the show, Leo didn’t want to leave—and Gabriel didn’t want him to either. So instead, he kept Leo and his family close for the entire meet and greet.

They sat off to the side on a couch, Leo still cradling the signed DarkRay like a sacred relic. Fans filtered in—some with signs, some with tears—and all of them noticed the boy. When they heard the story, they didn’t just cheer… they swooned. Many asked for selfies with Leo, others gave him high-fives and hugs.

And then came the videos.

Phones were everywhere.

Someone posted a slow-motion clip of Leo’s solo with the caption:

“From Music Shop to Spotlight: Gabriel Just Made This Kid’s Whole Life. 🐺🎸”

Another video caught Gabriel slinging an arm around Leo during the meet and greet, captioned:

“Protect this werewolf cub at all costs.”

The hashtags started to trend within hours:
#LittleWolfLeo
#BassHero
#GabrielMadeMeCry
#FeralFamily

---

Later that night, when the venue had emptied out and the lights dimmed, Thane and Gabriel walked the family to their SUV parked along the side lot. Leo still held the bass tight, eyes glazed from joy and exhaustion.

Thane walked behind them, eyes scanning quietly—not out of fear, just instinct. Gabriel, all smiles, carried a box of extra merch they’d tossed in for fun—T-shirts, picks, a signed setlist, even a few of Jonah’s broken drumsticks.

A couple of straggling fans across the lot spotted them and started filming. And then another.

As Gabriel handed the last items to Leo’s mom, one fan muttered into her phone:

“He walked them to their car. So no one would touch that bass. I’m gonna cry.”

Another posted a video of Thane leaning casually against the SUV like a protective sentry, captioned:

“Gabriel’s the heart. But Thane is the shield. Alpha energy.”

And yet another, tearfully filming from behind a row of cars, added:

“I just saw two werewolves walk a kid and his family to their car so he could get home safe with a gift bass guitar. Humanity restored.”

---

The next morning, the hashtag #FeralGuardians hit number one on Twitter. The photo of Gabriel and Leo on stage was already framed on the shop wall back where it all started, and people across the country were lining up for a show they had to see.

Feral Eclipse wasn’t just changing music.

They were changing lives.

It was a rare, quiet afternoon as the van coasted into San Francisco. No press. No fans swarming the van. Just a quick stop at a local music store so Gabriel could restock strings before soundcheck.

The place had charm — old wood floors, vintage posters curling at the corners, a little bell that jingled when the door opened. Gabriel stepped in with Thane right behind him, claws casually clicking as he scanned the aisles.

As Gabriel rounded the amp display, he heard it—his own riff. Slower. Slightly off-tempo. But it was his.

Near the practice corner stood a kid, maybe eleven, maybe younger, tall for his age with oversized glasses and a look of pure focus. He was gripping a cheap bass, concentrating like the world depended on it. Across from him, a tired-looking mom juggled a baby in one arm and a phone in the other.

On the wall behind the counter, high up, hung an unmistakable red Ernie Ball DarkRay 5 with a black pickguard and a laminated “NOT FOR SALE” tag dangling from one tuning peg.

Gabriel walked up slow and knelt beside the kid, keeping his voice low. “Hey. That’s one of our songs.”

The boy blinked and looked up.

Then froze.

Gabriel smiled. “You’re doing awesome. What’s your name?”

“Leo,” he whispered. “Wait… are you…?”

“I am,” Gabriel said with a grin, then looked at the mom. “This your son?”

She nodded, eyes wide. “He loves your band. He’s been coming in here every weekend just to mess with that bass.”

“Can’t afford it,” Leo added quietly, like he hated admitting it.

Gabriel stood up and ruffled the boy’s hair. “Well, Leo… I think you and your family should come to the show tonight. VIP passes. Backstage. Merch. The whole experience.”

The kid’s jaw dropped.

“You serious?”

Gabriel winked. “Would I joke about something like that?”

---

That night, the San Francisco crowd was at full frenzy, the floor shaking as Feral Eclipse lit up the stage. Halfway through the set, Gabriel stepped to the mic and raised one clawed hand to quiet the crowd.

“I want to introduce you to someone,” he said. “This kid’s name is Leo. I met him today in a little music shop around the corner. And he was playing my song. On bass.”

He looked toward the wings. “Leo—come here, buddy.”

Spotlight hit the edge of the stage.

Leo appeared, wide-eyed, nervous, clutching his all-access badge like it was sacred.

The crowd went wild.

Gabriel crouched and motioned him closer. “Now, you weren’t expecting this part,” he said into the mic, “but I want you to help me play the next song. Right here. With my bass.”

He slung the red DarkRay off his shoulder and handed it gently to Leo, who stared like it was Excalibur.

The arena hushed.

Gabriel leaned in, nose-to-nose, and whispered, “You’ve got this. Don’t think. Just feel it. You’re a wolf now.”

Leo’s fingers trembled against the strings.

Then the lights shifted. The beat dropped. Jonah hit the drums.

And Leo played.

At first, shaky. But Gabriel stayed right behind him, nodding to the rhythm, tail flicking in time. The crowd cheered louder with every note. When Leo hit the bridge perfectly, the entire arena erupted.

When the song ended, Gabriel raised Leo’s arm like a champion.

Then he knelt down, pulled a silver pen from his pocket, and signed the back of the bass.

“You’re keeping this,” he said, voice soft but firm.

Leo’s mouth dropped open again.

“I mean it,” Gabriel added with a grin. “It belongs with you now.”

---

Backstage, after the show, the boy’s mother was crying. Leo was cradling the signed bass like it was alive, and the baby was chewing on a tour lanyard like it was the best teething ring in history.

Thane knelt beside them and ruffled Leo’s hair. “You did good out there.”

Gabriel crouched next to him for a photo, his arm around Leo’s shoulder.

“Best night ever,” Leo whispered.

Gabriel smiled, cheek to cheek. “Told you, kid. You’re one of us now.”

he black tour van cruised down the Pacific Coast Highway like it belonged there—sunlight bouncing off its glossy wrap, windows cracked to let in the salt air, the roar of the ocean competing with whatever chaotic playlist Jonah had synced to the van speakers. Spirits were high. The West Coast stretch of the tour was already shaping up to be a victory lap, and the van practically vibrated with anticipation.

“Next stop: Long Beach,” Cassie called from the passenger seat, holding her phone up triumphantly. “Sold out. Again.”

Gabriel gave a delighted whoop from the middle row and kicked his clawed feet up onto the back of Thane’s seat. “Dude. Four in a row. I told you this coast would hit different.”

Thane glanced back at him with a knowing smirk. “Yeah, yeah. Let’s just hope Vandal Saints didn’t follow us all the way here to throw another tantrum.”

“They did,” Maya said flatly, not even looking up from her phone. “They’re opening tonight. Again.”

Mark, from the back row, groaned. “I swear if that frontman tries to flirt with the merch girl again I’m lighting something on fire.”

The van erupted in laughter.

---

Backstage at Long Beach Arena, the atmosphere was tense and electric. Crews buzzed around with cables and clipboards, lights pulsed in time with the bass during soundcheck, and down the corridor… Vandal Saints strutted in like they owned the place.

Their frontman wore the same faux-leather jacket and resting “I’m the main act” face he always did—despite once again being the warm-up show. The rest of the band looked like they knew it, too.

They spotted Gabriel and Thane near the stage-left loading ramp. The singer gave a mock-salute.

“Don’t worry,” he sneered, “we’ll leave the crowd warmed up for your little dog and pony show.”

Gabriel didn’t even look up from his phone. “Do your best, man. I’m sure someone out there remembers who you are.”

Mark choked on his soda.

Thane stepped forward, slow and steady. “Here’s a tip — when the crowd leaves halfway through your set, don’t assume they’re going to the bathroom. They’re just bored.”

The frontman muttered something under his breath and stalked off, the rest of the band trailing behind with the energy of men walking toward their own funeral.

---

When the lights went down for the opening act, Vandal Saints took the stage to scattered cheers and polite applause. They hit their first few songs hard—visibly trying to command the crowd—but it wasn’t working. The pit barely moved. Phones stayed down. One by one, fans drifted out for drinks, merch, or to find their seats.

The final nail came during their last track, when a group near the front started a slow chant:

“FE-RAL! FE-RAL! FE-RAL!”

And it caught.

The Saints tried to play louder. It didn’t help. By the time their last chord hit, over half the arena was either at the merch tables or chanting for the headliners.

---

Then came the wolves.

Feral Eclipse hit the stage like a thunderclap. The light show was blistering. The first chord nearly knocked the roof off the place. Cassie’s voice was raw power and fire. Maya and Rico danced their solos across the stage with effortless precision. Jonah’s drumming hit like an earthquake.

And Gabriel? He owned the stage.

He howled into the mic during the first breakdown of “Run With Me,” and the crowd howled back—ten thousand strong. Fans waved homemade flags and foam claws. A giant sign near the front read:

“OPENING ACT? NEVER HEARD OF ‘EM.”

From his position near the mixing rig, Thane caught it and smirked. He didn’t even need to look at Gabriel to know the grin on his face.

---

After the show, the band crashed in the green room—sweaty, hoarse, and high on adrenaline. Gabriel scrolled through his phone, laughing uncontrollably.

“You guys. Someone filmed the Saints walking off stage early. They were so mad.”

He flipped the phone around. A TikTok showed the Saints trudging offstage to light boos and scattered applause.

Thane leaned against the doorframe, claws casually folded over his arms. “They thought they were lions. Turns out they’re just housecats in eyeliner.”

Gabriel licked Thane’s cheek without looking away from his phone. “C’mon, let’s go make the next city cry.”

Mark grumbled from the couch. “Can we at least stop for tacos first?”

The whole room cracked up. Outside, the crowd still hadn’t left the parking lot.

The wolves were rising.

And the road ahead was wide open.

The sun had barely risen above the skyline when the big black tour van rolled into the quiet neighborhood of Gabriel’s childhood home. It was still. Peaceful. Nothing like the chaos of the past two days.

The van was packed. Gear stowed. Coffee in every cupholder. The band was inside—buzzing gently with excitement and exhaustion.

Gabriel stepped out alone at first, just needing a few seconds to soak in the street he once walked daily. The cracked sidewalk. The tree he used to climb. The front porch where he first tuned his secondhand bass.

Thane came out after him, quiet and steady, joining Gabriel by the open back doors.

A moment later, Gabriel’s family stepped out from the house. His dad gave him a long look, then walked over, arms open.

They hugged tight. No words at first. Just the kind of silence that meant something.

“I’m proud of you,” his dad finally said, voice low, right next to Gabriel’s ear. “I was proud before the music. Now? I’m in awe.”

Gabriel swallowed hard. “I wouldn’t be who I am without you.”

“You were always that person,” his dad said. “I just made sure you had strings and power cables.”

They both laughed softly, and Gabriel handed him a signed setlist from the show, folded and laminated.

Gabriel said. “I thought you deserved one of mine.”

His dad nodded, eyes misty. “This one’s going in a frame.”

Gabriel turned next to his grandparents, who each took his clawed hand in theirs like nothing in the world was strange about it.

“You’re a very good boy,” his grandmother said. “And a fine musician. Your grandfather cried during that solo. He won’t admit it, but I saw it.”

Gabriel grinned. “Thank you. For coming. Really.”

They kissed his cheeks and shuffled off toward the porch, warm smiles still lighting their faces.

Last came his mother and Nathan.

They stood a bit apart from the others. Gabriel nodded politely. No more. No less.

Thane stood behind him, arms crossed.

His mother opened her mouth like she might say something, but Thane’s eyes locked onto hers with a gaze so icy it could’ve frozen asphalt. He didn’t growl. Didn’t move. Just… watched.

She closed her mouth.

Nathan made eye contact for half a second.

Thane didn’t blink.

Nathan looked at the ground.

Gabriel didn’t speak to them. Didn’t need to. He just turned and climbed back into the van.

Thane followed and slid the side door shut behind him with a quiet click that felt like a period at the end of a sentence.

As the van pulled away, Gabriel looked back once—just once—then turned toward the front, resting his head on Thane’s shoulder.

“Well,” he said with a quiet smile. “Let’s go be legends again.”

Thane nuzzled the top of his head and whispered, “Already are.”

And with that… the van rolled west.

The road was calling.

The morning after the sold-out TD Garden show, the crew rolled into Café Sauvage in Boston’s Back Bay—a stylish little brunch spot with warm lighting, glassy windows, and the best French toast brûlée in the city. Gabriel had reserved a large table for the full crew: Thane, Mark, Cassie, Maya, Rico… and his family.

Even his mom and Nathan had shown up—likely still riding the shock of Thane’s verbal body slam from the night before.

The mood was surprisingly calm. Gabriel’s dad chatted about stage lighting with Mark. His grandparents quietly sipped coffee and nibbled pastry. Fans who’d followed the band to brunch were doing their best to act casual at nearby tables—phones in hand, hoodies zipped halfway to hide Feral Eclipse logos. The place was packed with polite obsession.

And then Nathan broke the spell.

Slouching in his seat, chewing his toast like it offended him, he muttered just loud enough for surrounding tables (and unfortunately, the band) to hear:

“I still don’t get how people think he’s actually talented. Just flailing around on stage like he’s auditioning for some furry rave.”

The table went silent.

Gabriel’s head tilted slightly, but he didn’t turn.

Thane put down his coffee very slowly.

Cassie blinked. “Oh no he didn’t.”

And then it happened.

From two tables over, a young woman in a worn denim jacket and a “FERAL FANGIRL” enamel pin stood up with the kind of energy usually reserved for courtroom mic drops. She wasn’t yelling—but her voice cut.

“Wow. Imagine getting comped to one of the greatest shows Boston has ever seen… and still managing to sound like a Reddit comment section.”

Nathan’s head jerked toward her, stunned. “What the hell —”

She stepped forward, gesturing with her mimosa like it was a mic. “Gabriel built this with talent, discipline, and more soul than you’ll ever have in your whole designer-bro wardrobe. And he did it while being a literal werewolf. What have you done? Lose arguments on Twitter?”

Mark snorted so hard he dropped his fork.

Rico leaned back, whispering, “This is the best breakfast of my life.”

The fan wasn’t done.

“You should be down on your knees thanking him for letting you bask in his spotlight. But instead you’re out here throwing shade like some jealous side character from a CW drama.”

Nathan blinked, visibly shrinking.

“And FYI?” she added. “You don’t deserve the toast, never mind the VIP tickets!”

That was it.

The whole restaurant erupted.

Applause. Laughter. One guy at the bar raised his coffee like a toast. Even Gabriel’s mom tried to hide a laugh behind her menu.

Nathan slumped in his chair, red-faced and silent, his ego toasted harder than his sourdough.

Gabriel leaned against Thane’s shoulder, tears in his eyes from laughing. “She’s amazing.”

Thane gave the fan a subtle thumbs-up. “I think she just earned a backstage pass.”

Gabriel’s dad wiped a tear and nodded, completely straight-faced. “Best roast I’ve ever seen.”

The waitress arrived with a tray of fresh cinnamon rolls and said, “Courtesy of the kitchen. And also… damn.”