Category: Tour Life Page 9 of 20

Night had fallen hard over Rocklahoma, but the Feral Eclipse campsite was lit up like a small village. Canopies strung with battery-powered lights cast warm glows across folding chairs, beer coolers, and laughing fans sprawled in half-broken hammocks. Music played from someone’s speaker — mostly Feral Eclipse tracks, though someone had snuck in a Dio song that Jonah kept dramatically singing over.

Thane was reclined in a camp chair, one arm slung lazily over Gabriel’s shoulders, both of them nursing drinks and watching as Cassie got talked into a chaotic game of beanbag limbo. Jonah and Rico were mid-debate over whether nachos were a food group. Maya was halfway through her second flask and showing fans how to do claw-hand poses correctly for selfies.

It was the kind of night that wrapped around you like warmth from the inside out. Loud. Joyful. Absolutely unhinged.

Until the energy shifted.

Two guys staggered out of the dark, clearly drunk, with that wobbly confidence that only comes from ego and just enough alcohol to ruin your judgment. They wore sleek black outfits, shiny leather boots, and just enough eyeliner to confirm the suspicion.

Vandal Saints.

Gasps rippled through the fans closest to the perimeter. Phones immediately came out. The taller of the two was already sneering.

“Ohhh wow,” he slurred, looking around at the fans like he’d stepped in something sticky. “Look at this. The flea circus has merch.”

The other one jabbed a thumb at Gabriel. “Didn’t know you could ride a wave of hype off one acoustic bonfire and a fire hazard.”

The pack tensed instantly. Thane sat up. Gabriel leaned forward slightly, ears flicked back but calm. Maya was already halfway to a bottle she could throw. Rico looked like he might pounce.

But before anyone could speak, Mark stood up.

The old gray werewolf had been quiet all night, perched on a cooler with his soda and his thoughts. But now he rose slowly — all calm weight, shoulders broad, fur catching the firelight in a dull silver shimmer.

He stepped between the fans and the Vandal Saints boys like a wall moving on its own. Not a growl. Not a threat. Just presence.

“You’ve had your set,” Mark said flatly. “Now you’ve had your say. It’s time to walk away.”

The taller one scoffed. “Yeah? Or what, grandpa? You gonna sniff us to death?”

Mark didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just held the guy’s gaze like gravity itself.

“You don’t belong here tonight. You know it. They know it.” He gave a nod to the crowd — every one of them locked in, silent, recording. “Turn around. Walk out with what little grace you’ve got left.”

Silence.

Then, slowly, one of the Vandal Saints took a step back. The other followed, still glaring, but faltering. They turned — not running, but not proud — and vanished into the dark.

Only once they were gone did the spell break.

The campsite erupted.

“OH MY GOD MARK!”
“DID YOU SEE THAT??”
“HE DIDN’T EVEN RAISE HIS VOICE!!”
“Bro, he alpha’d them with a sentence!”
“Holy crap I’m putting that on TikTok right now.”

Gabriel turned to Thane, wide-eyed and blinking. “What… just happened?”

Thane shook his head slowly. “I think we just saw prime Mark.”

Cassie was already doubling over laughing. Jonah shouted something about adding “Mark Intimidation” as an official stage effect. Maya passed Mark her untouched drink in a show of pure respect.

Mark just sat back down, cracked open another soda, and muttered, “Idiots.”

By midnight, the clip had gone viral. Multiple angles, perfect audio, a couple fan-edited versions with dramatic music behind Mark’s speech. The top comment everywhere?

“This is the guy the rest of the pack listens to. Don’t mess with Uncle Mark.”

The sun was just starting to dip behind the Oklahoma tree line as Feral Eclipse stood behind the curtain at Rocklahoma’s main stage. A dry breeze rustled the tarp walls. From beyond the lights, they could already hear it — the crowd, impossibly loud, roaring in waves that seemed to grow every time someone spotted the silhouettes of the band waiting in the wings.

Cassie stood quietly near the edge, one hand on her mic, her head tilted up as she hummed softly through her warmups. Rico and Maya were tuning up with steady, focused hands, checking fretboards and giving each other silent nods. Jonah was pacing like a caged animal, sticks flipping in one hand, adrenaline already pouring out of him.

Gabriel sat cross-legged on a road case, headphones on, tail slowly thumping behind him like a metronome. He had his eyes closed, breathing in time with the bassline already mapped in his head. When Thane stepped up beside him and touched his shoulder, Gabriel cracked one eye open and smirked.

“Ready?”

“Born ready, my wolf,” Gabriel said, flicking off the headphones.

The house lights dropped. The intro track rumbled to life. Fog hissed across the stage in swirling waves. Then the banner dropped, and the stage exploded into deep blue and pulsing red lights.

The crowd’s reaction was instant—a sonic tidal wave of screams and howls as the first thunderous notes of No Chains Left ripped through the night. Feral Eclipse didn’t just walk onstage — they took it. Gabriel was already throwing his whole body into the first riff, fur flashing in the strobe, his bass snarling like a wild animal. Rico and Maya hit opposite corners of the stage, flanking the front row as if daring them to keep up. Jonah looked like he was waging a war on his kit. And Cassie — she didn’t just sing, she unleashed.

Thane watched it all from his spot by the stage rig, hands deftly working the FOH mix rig, headset on, directing cues with clipped barks into his mic. Mark had synced the entire lighting rig by hand earlier that day, and it showed — every downbeat was punctuated with strobes, red blasts, and a rising crescendo of white beams that sliced through the Oklahoma dusk like claws.

The setlist ran like wildfire. Wolves Run Cold, Chainbreaker, Ashes and Iron — each one louder, tighter, more explosive than the last. When they launched into Howl With Me, the crowd didn’t just sing. They howled. Thousands of voices lifted into the sky in a perfect, spine-tingling roar.

Even the band looked stunned for a split second.

By the time they closed with Down the Line, the crowd had become a living, breathing organism — arms raised, bodies pressed together, chanting the final lyrics with tears in their eyes and dust in their teeth. Cassie dropped to one knee on the final chorus, gripping the mic like it was the only thing anchoring her to the earth.

And then… silence. The final chord rang out.

No one moved. Not a breath.

Then came the thunder. Screams. Cheers. Chanting. A wave of sound so loud it cracked off the stage trusses and shook the trees. Gabriel grinned and dropped his mic without a word. The rest of the band followed him offstage as the roar continued behind them, like the aftermath of a sonic bomb.

Fifteen minutes later, the next band — a polished, big-label act called Vandal Saints — stepped onto the stage. They strutted, confident, prepped, postured. But as they began their set, something became uncomfortably obvious.

The crowd had… shifted.

More than half had filtered away, some drifting back toward the camps, others still in packs around the field with Feral Eclipse shirts on, playing clips from the show, replaying the firelight from the night before. People still cheered — politely. But it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t feral.

Backstage, the band was sprawled across a few empty cases, cooling off under a portable fan and laughing through their exhaustion. Jonah was eating nachos off a cymbal. Maya had kicked off her boots and was holding an ice pack to her ankle. Rico was scrolling through tagged posts on his phone and just kept muttering, “Holy crap.”

Gabriel flopped down beside Thane, nuzzled his shoulder, and looked out over the crowd that was still half-lit by the glow of the main stage.

“Think they’ll recover?” he asked.

Thane gave a slow, exhausted grin. “They’ll survive.”

Mark wandered over with a new soda and sat down without a word. After a moment, he looked toward the stage.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“What?”

“That pause between songs,” Mark said. “That awkward silence.”

Gabriel cackled. “Guess they should’ve camped with the fans.”

The sun was already brutal when Feral Eclipse rolled into Pryor, Oklahoma, the van crawling through the dense maze of dusty fields, flags, tents, RVs, and shirtless chaos that was Rocklahoma. The gates were open, the music was loud, and the whole weekend screamed feral freedom.

“Holy crap,” Jonah whispered, peeking out the window. “Is that guy crowd-surfing in a baby pool?”

“Two of them,” Mark confirmed, sipping soda without a hint of judgment.

Gabriel’s grin practically broke his muzzle. “Oh we are home.”

---

🏕️ No VIP. No Backstage. Right in the Fray.

Thane parked the van not in the designated artist section, but dead-center in the fan campground. He’d made the call on the drive in.

“If we’re playing for the people,” he said, “we camp with the people.”

They pulled out folding chairs, canopies, and crates of merch like seasoned road warriors. Within minutes, their little corner of the festival turned into ground zero for chaos:

• Rico and Maya were jamming with random fans on battered acoustics and beer cans.
• Jonah started a drum-off on plastic tubs with a group of shirtless dudes in war paint.
• Gabriel signed a shirtless guy’s back and got lifted onto a cooler like some kind of wolf god.

A massive, duct-taped hand-painted banner reading “FERAL ECLIPSE CAMPS HERE” was hoisted by a fan over the site. Someone grilled hot dogs. Someone else tried to name their tent The Howlden.

---

📻 The Surprise Interview

Late in the afternoon, a station crew from 97.5 KZLF — The Rig came by, clearly following the noise.

Their DJ, Carla Vega, held out a mic and said, “We were gonna track down your tour manager. Then we saw your bassist crowd-surfing on a camp mattress.”

Gabriel threw a peace sign behind her.

So they pulled up camp chairs, gathered around a beat-up fold-out table, and went live on the air right there in the dirt.

“You’re not hiding in green rooms,” Carla said into the mic. “You’re right here in the madness.”

Cassie smirked. “That’s where the wolves run.”

“Tell me about the album,” Carla pressed.

Thane leaned in. “Twelve tracks, one message: no chains. No rules. Just the raw truth.”

Gabriel added, “Also? Fire. There might be fire.”

---

🔥 Speaking of Fire…

That night, the band lit a massive campfire and kicked off an impromptu acoustic set with half the campground packed around them. Guitars out, stripped-down harmonies, and a hell of a lot of off-key backup vocals from the crowd.

• Gabriel howled the bridge of “Ashes and Iron” into the stars.
• Cassie sang “Down the Line” so hard people were crying.
• Jonah led a clap-along using nothing but tent stakes and a pot lid.

Then someone knocked over a torch. Sparks hit a cooler. A roll of paper towels lit up like a beacon.

“FIRE!” someone shouted.

Mark and Thane leapt into action — dumping soda, smothering flames, grabbing the fire extinguisher from the van.

Smoke billowed. People cheered. Gabriel raised his arms like he planned the whole thing.

“ROCKLAHOMA!” he bellowed into the smoke. “THE WOLVES HAVE LANDED!”

---

🌄 Morning Headlines

The next day, Feral Eclipse made the front page of the local news app.

“Newcomer Band Ignites Rocklahoma — Literally and Figuratively”
Campfire concert, surprise interview, crowd-surfing mayhem, and a minor fire drama make Feral Eclipse the name on everyone’s lips.

Another band—Vandal Saints—rolled into the area mid-morning, clearly annoyed. Their frontman looked at the banner, the crowd still hanging around the Eclipse camp, and muttered, “They better not play after us.”

It started innocently enough.

After the show at The Emberline, Thane had insisted on booking one night in a proper hotel. Not a roadside dive, not a van nap, not a shared room with questionable stains — but a real hotel. Five stars. Marble floors. A chandelier in the lobby. Bellhops that looked like they’d rather be at Harvard.

The front desk staff visibly hesitated when they saw the pack strut in, still in ripped jeans, fur tousled, claws visible, and gear bags slung over their shoulders like chaos grenades.

“Do you… have a reservation?” the concierge asked slowly.

“Feral Eclipse,” Thane said, handing over the card. “Three rooms. One night.”

There was a pause. The woman at the desk blinked. Then gasped.

“Oh my god. You’re the band my niece won’t shut up about. You’re the wolves from WXRF last night!”

Gabriel winked. “Guilty.”

---

🛏️ Midnight – The Presidential Suite (why not?)

Rico was lounging on a leather couch like a king, sipping complimentary champagne from the bottle.

Maya was jumping on the bed while blasting their demo tracks from a Bluetooth speaker.

Cassie had found the minibar and was aggressively reorganizing it by ABV.

Jonah was doing something involving a hairdryer, a banana, and the fire alarm.

Gabriel was shirtless and trying to convince a pair of bathroom mirrors to reflect him “like a cool album cover.”

Mark had locked himself in the other bathroom muttering, “I’m too old for this,” while Thane was half buried under a pile of scattered cables, trying to fix the in-suite TV sound system to run a mix playback.

Then came the knock.

A mob of fans — mostly teens and twenty-somethings — had figured out where they were. The door cracked open and a flood of people immediately burst in like wolves in heat.

“OH MY GOD IT’S GABRIEL!”
“CASSIE, I LOVE YOU!”
“JONAH SIGN MY ARM!”
“IS THAT THE ALBUM MIX?!”
“WHY ARE THERE SO MANY BANANAS?!”

Security tried to intervene. Tried. But Thane had accidentally overridden the room lock with a DAW controller and a patch cable. By the time the staff showed up, Gabriel was giving a selfie tour of the suite, two girls were braiding Maya’s hair, and someone had accidentally set a small fire in a trash can trying to light a candle with a stage lighter.

---

☕ Hotel Breakfast Buffet, 8:37 AM

Somehow, miraculously, the band made it to breakfast.

Thane looked like he’d slept for five minutes on a broken guitar case.

Mark was drinking black coffee with the thousand-yard stare of someone who had seen things.

Gabriel? Bright-eyed and shirtless under his jacket, still wearing the room service towel around his waist like a royal sash.

Fans were already there. Word had spread. A group of sleep-deprived superfans had infiltrated the buffet line, carrying Sharpies, posters, and the occasional hotel napkin.

“Oh my god, Gabriel, please sign my toast —”

Someone had taken a bite out of it. He signed it anyway.

“Excuse me,” a frazzled hotel manager said to Thane, “we do not normally allow public meet-and-greets at the waffle station.”

“We’re not normally awake at breakfast,” Thane replied, deadpan.

As if on cue, the pancake machine exploded.

Everyone turned.

Jonah stood frozen, syrup bottle in hand. “…It told me to press both buttons.”

---

🧳 Check-out – Later That Morning

“We’re banned, aren’t we?” Maya asked, dragging her suitcase out through the shattered revolving door.

“Indefinitely,” Thane confirmed, walking beside her with one hand over his eyes.

Mark sipped the last of his hotel coffee. “They gave us a three-star Yelp review as guests. That’s impressive.”

“Still worth it,” Gabriel said, pulling on his shades with a grin. “One more show like that and we’re not just Feral Eclipse. We’re legend.”

Cassie looked around at the crowd still camped on the sidewalk, waving signs and wearing merch.

“You know what?” she said. “I think we already are.”

The tour van pulled away from the curb, wrapped in midnight black and clawed decals, leaving behind a swirl of glitter, fire damage, and the faint scent of burnt waffles.

The last note still hung in the humid air, distorted and lingering like the tail end of a storm. The crowd at The Emberline was feral — sweaty, loud, glowing under the red backlights and fog. People were screaming. Crying. Clawing for guitar picks. Thane’s ears were ringing, but he didn’t care.

Backstage was a whirlwind.

Cassie was fanning herself with a merch flyer while chugging water.
Jonah had ripped his shirt and didn’t even realize it.
Mark was already unplugging lighting cables with quiet satisfaction.
Gabriel had vanished.

“Where the hell is he?” Thane asked, wiping sweat off his arms with a towel.

“He’s probably out front again,” Rico said, shrugging as he tuned down his guitar. “You know how he gets.”

“Security’s gonna tackle him one day,” Maya muttered, but she was smiling.

---

💥 Outside – 15 Minutes Later

The post-show crowd outside The Emberline was still buzzing like static. A few dozen fans lingered near the wrapped tour van, snapping photos, swapping phone numbers, yelling about favorite songs.

Gabriel had slipped outside again, blending in like only a charismatic black-furred werewolf could — by standing out just enough. He signed a hoodie, posed for a selfie with someone in a homemade “Wolves Don’t Tour – They Hunt” shirt, and tossed out guitar picks like candy.

Then he saw him.

A young kid, maybe ten or eleven, hovering at the edge of the crowd with a sketchbook clutched tightly to his chest. His oversized Feral Eclipse hoodie nearly swallowed him, sleeves falling over his hands. He wasn’t pushing to the front. Wasn’t shouting.

He was just watching.

Gabriel’s ears perked. He made his way over slowly, crouching to the kid’s level.

“Hey,” he said gently. “You okay out here, little wolf?”

The kid’s eyes went wide. “You’re really him.”

Gabriel chuckled. “Last time I checked. You got a name?”

“Eli.”

“Cool name. What’s that you’re holdin’?”

Eli hesitated, then slowly opened the sketchbook. Inside was a hand-drawn scene — Gabriel onstage, claws on the bass, eyes lit up, stage lights behind him like a halo of chaos. Not perfect. But raw. Powerful. Real.

Eli mumbled, “I… drew this after I saw you guys online. Been practicing bass ever since. I wanna play like you someday.”

Gabriel just stared at the drawing for a beat.

Then, without a word, he unbuckled the worn leather wristband from his arm — the one he always wore onstage — and carefully slid it onto Eli’s wrist.

“This one’s been on every stage I’ve ever played,” he said. “Now it’s yours. You keep practicing. And someday, you won’t be playing like me. You’ll be playing like you. And you’ll blow us all away.”

Eli just stood there, stunned. Then he looked down at the wristband like it was made of gold.

“I will,” he whispered.

Gabriel smiled, then stood and ruffled the kid’s hair. “Good. ‘Cause I wanna hear your name shouted from the stage one day.”

---

🌀 Back at the Van – Midnight

The band was finally loaded up, merch restocked, cables stowed, and fog juice replenished.

Cassie flopped into her seat. “We’re gonna feel that one tomorrow.”

Mark slid in last, shutting the van doors. “Worth it.”

Gabriel tossed himself next to Thane in the front, still buzzing. “That was insane. Did you see the crowd during ‘Rip the Chain’? They lost their minds. That pit was like a hurricane.”

“I saw Jonah try to stage dive into a guy eating nachos,” Thane said. “Did you fall off the monitor again?”

Gabriel stretched and yawned. “Maybe. I blacked out a little during the solo.”

Thane rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. The van rumbled to life beneath them.

“Where to next?” Jonah called from the back.

Thane looked at the GPS, then at Gabriel.

“Wherever the wolves roam,” he said.

The sun dipped low behind the skyline as the Feral Eclipse tour van rolled into Chicago, the buildings towering like monuments to rhythm and chaos. The neon of clubs and radio towers flickered to life one by one as the van crept toward its destination — a grungy but legendary venue called The Emberline in the heart of the city.

Their debut album No Chains Left had dropped online just three days ago. Already, their single “Howl With Me” was crawling up the indie charts. And tonight? They had a sold-out show, a line wrapped around the block, and a live FM radio interview and acoustic set slotted just before doors opened.

Gabriel practically kicked the door open when the van stopped. “We’re here! The wolves have landed!”

Jonah peeked out the curtain in the back. “People are lining up already. I think someone’s got a Feral Eclipse shirt on.”

“I’ll sign someone,” Cassie muttered, double-checking her eyeliner in the rearview mirror.

Mark unfolded himself from the backseat with a grunt. “Remind me why we’re doing radio before soundcheck?”

“Because,” Thane said, stepping out with a coiled XLR cable slung over his shoulder, “marketing is part of survival.”

Up on the 9th floor of a narrow brick building, inside a low-lit studio filled with tapestries and cables, DJ Lexi Luna was already spinning their track when the crew arrived.

“And that was Feral Eclipse with their debut single — tell me that didn’t wake your inner beast. And guess what? The whole pack just walked in. Thane, Gabriel, Cassie, Rico, Jonah — welcome to WXRF!”

The band squeezed into the tiny space, claws tapping nervously against mic booms.

“So,” Lexi asked, her eyes lighting up, “who came up with the name Feral Eclipse? Because it slaps.”

Rico grinned. “That was Thane.”

Lexi looked over at the muscular brown werewolf at the back of the room. “The quiet one’s got good taste.”

Gabriel leaned into the mic. “He’s full of surprises.”

Thane gave a slow smile and nodded. “It fit. Controlled chaos. Beauty in the wild. Light and shadow in the same breath.”

“Damn,” Lexi whispered. “Okay, philosopher wolf.”

After a few questions about the album, tour life, and who throws the most tantrums in the van (Jonah immediately raised his hand with pride), it was time for a live acoustic track. Gabriel picked up the bass with a cheeky grin, and Rico and Maya slid into position. Cassie stepped up, voice ready.

The stripped-down version of “No Chains Left” rolled through the airwaves like a chill down a spine — raw, growling, and beautiful.

Lexi finally exhaled after the last soft note of “No Chains Left” faded into silence, the hum of the studio gear filling the space like held breath.

“That was live, y’all. No filters. No tricks. Just straight power.”

The band stayed still for a moment, soaking in the calm that followed. Even Jonah was quiet — a rare occurrence.

Lexi leaned into her mic again, grinning. “Listeners, if you’re not already lined up outside The Emberline, what are you even doing with your Friday night? Doors open in an hour. Feral Eclipse hits the stage with claws out, and from what I just heard in this room, you’re gonna want front row.”

She turned back toward the group. “Final question before we let you escape — what’s one word that describes tonight’s show?”

Cassie answered without missing a beat. “Unleashed.”

Maya followed with a smirk. “Loud.”

Rico: “Tight.”

Jonah (grinning): “Sweaty.”

Gabriel leaned into the mic like he was about to confess a secret. “Feral.”

Lexi laughed. “That’s the brand, baby. You heard it here. Feral Eclipse, live tonight in Chicago. Their album No Chains Left is out now, and if it doesn’t make you growl under your breath in public, you’re listening wrong.”

She tapped the console, queued the next track — another cut from their record — and gave the pack a wink.

“Now get outta here and go break the stage.”

A few days later, Feral Eclipse had taken over the back room of a gritty print shop called Wolf + Ink. Tables were buried in fabric samples, hoodie mockups, sticker designs, enamel pins, and the occasional cup of spilled coffee.

“Black with blood red,” Maya said, eyeing a hoodie print. “No debate.”

Rico added, “QR code on the pick tins. Link to our album.”

Jonah held up a beer koozie. “Put ‘Howl Responsibly’ on the back.”

“Only if I get my face on the van,” Gabriel grinned.

Thane, meanwhile, was putting the final touches on the album art — jagged claw slashes across a moonlit cliff, the silhouettes of the band howling into a storm. The logo Feral Eclipse blazed across it, raw and sharp.

Outside, the extended tour van was getting a full vinyl wrap. Gabriel circled it with awe. The final design gleamed: deep midnight black with silver claw marks slashing the sides, the glowing blue Feral Eclipse logo across the hood. On the back doors: their album name “No Chains Left” in bold, clawed lettering — and peeking around the rear corner, a grinning cartoonish Gabriel in full werewolf flair.

“Do you see this?” he shouted. “We look like a damn album cover.”

Mark folded his arms and nodded slowly. “We’re gonna look like rockstars. Hope we play like it.”

Thane looked over the group, their gear, the van, the new merch packed in crates.

“We do.”

Sunlight filtered through dusty windows as Day Two dawned at Moonrise Soundworks. The studio air was thick with the smell of old wood, coffee, and just a hint of ozone from last night’s overworked amps. Outside, the van sat silent, but inside — the pack was howling.

It was like something had clicked overnight.

Rico nailed a solo on the first take. Not just nailed — obliterated it. His fingers blurred on the fretboard, and even the crusty engineer muttered, “Okay, that was disgusting. Next track.”

Maya followed with rhythm that locked in like concrete. She didn’t miss a beat, her timing flawless, her scowl daring anyone to suggest a retake. “Do it again?” Thane asked through the glass. “Only if you want it worse,” she shot back.

Jonah was a blur behind the drum kit — headphones askew, hair wild, eyes laser-focused. He finished one thunderous fill, paused just long enough to throw a drumstick at Gabriel, then launched into the next track without missing a beat.

Cassie stood in the vocal booth with one foot up on a crate, headphones on, sleeves rolled, eyes closed. Every note she delivered rang out like it belonged on a stadium stage. Powerhouse doesn’t even begin to cover it.

Gabriel was pure chaos and glory on the bass. He played lying on the floor, hanging upside down from the amp stack, and at one point, balancing on a rolling stool for absolutely no reason — and every take was still gold. “Do you ever not stick the landing?” Thane asked during playback.

Gabriel just winked. “I’m a werewolf. We’re built for precision.”

And Thane — Thane was in his element. Clawed hands flying across the soundboard, headphones on, eyes flicking between meters and waveform readouts. He coaxed every last ounce of tone out of each track, fine-tuning mic placements, pushing the compression just enough to growl, and snapping fingers for silence with authority.

Mark had moved in, too — not to play, but to perfect the mood. He’d commandeered the studio lighting. The lamps were gelled and angled just right, bathing the tracking room in deep reds and midnight blues. He even synced a fog machine to the click track during one playthrough. No one asked why. It worked.

By the end of the day, twelve songs were fully tracked.

No missed takes. No drama. Just pure, wild synergy. It was like they’d rehearsed it a hundred times — only they hadn’t. Not like this. Something about the room, the energy, the moment — it had all come together.

The engineer leaned back in his chair, blinking in disbelief. “I’ve been doing this forty years,” he said slowly. “That… was one of the tightest, cleanest, most amazing sessions I’ve ever seen.”

Gabriel looked at Thane. Thane looked at Mark. Mark just sipped his soda.

Cassie cracked a grin. “We’re gonna need a huge merch table.”

The van rolled through Kansas City under a steel-gray sky, tires humming over the interstate as towers and train yards slid past the windows. In the front seat, Gabriel drummed his clawed fingers on the dash in a relentless rhythm, tail wagging like a metronome on espresso.

“Gabriel,” Thane muttered from behind the passenger seat, “if you tap one more thing, I’m hot-gluing your paws to the headliner.”

“But we’re almost there,” Gabriel grinned. “Do you feel that? That’s history about to happen. That’s electricity, baby.”

Mark, wedged in the back with a tangled pile of gear and road snacks, grunted. “That’s indigestion. You had three gas station burritos.”

“I regret nothing.”

Jonah chuckled from the third row. “Y’know, for once, I’m with Gabriel. I’m kinda hyped to see how this all sounds when we’re not recording on a phone duct-taped to a water bottle.”

Maya glanced up from her phone. “I swear, if this place looks like someone’s creepy basement again, I’m walking.”

Rico strummed a muted chord from his lap. “Don’t worry. Thane vetted it.”

“I audited their board layout and mic locker before I even called,” Thane said flatly. “They’ve got a Neve console, a pair of U87s, and a live room big enough for a small orchestra. It’s legit.”

Cassie leaned forward from the back row, eyes sparkling. “Do they have a tea kettle?”

Everyone turned.

“What? I sing better when I’m warm and hydrated.”

Mark muttered, “I’m gonna need whiskey.”

As the GPS chirped their final turn, the van pulled into a cracked parking lot lined with faded murals of saxophones and vinyl records. Ahead, Moonrise Soundworks stood tall, a brick-faced building with a hand-painted sign and mismatched window blinds. The front door creaked as they stepped out into a space that smelled like old wood, ozone, and history.

The place looked like a time capsule from the ’70s: wood-paneled walls, faded shag carpeting, and a lava lamp bubbling away in the control room. The walls were lined with photos of forgotten legends and platinum records that hadn’t been dusted in decades.

As they filed in, an old man with silver hair and aviators stepped out from behind the mixing desk. “You the werewolf band?”

Thane raised a brow. “We prefer Feral Eclipse.”

The engineer shrugged. “As long as you don’t scratch my floors, we’re good.”

---

The session kicked off with chaos, as expected.

Gabriel was a blur of motion in the tracking room, thumping out heavy bass lines while dancing, jumping, and at one point, nearly knocking over a mic stand. Rico and Maya argued over harmonics and chord voicings until Cassie made them take a break. Jonah drummed like a caffeinated octopus, forcing Thane to repeatedly recalibrate the kick mic.

But somewhere in the noise, it clicked.

Cassie stood in the vocal booth, headphones on, bathed in a warm spotlight. She closed her eyes — then let out a soul-tearing note that left everyone stunned. Even Mark, slouched in a chair in the back, gave an approving grunt.

Thane sat behind the massive analog console, eyes locked on the meters. His claws danced over the faders, riding the sound like a seasoned pro. He hadn’t looked that at peace in weeks.

Gabriel came up behind him, draping his arms around Thane’s shoulders and resting his chin on top of his head. “Told you. You were made for this.”

Thane didn’t even pretend to fight the grin.

Outside, the sun began to set, casting golden light through the dusty studio windows. Inside, the pack howled through a track called “No Chains Left” — their anthem, recorded for real, with all the grit and glory they had earned.

The warm glow of a low campfire flickered across the edge of the motel parking lot — not because they lacked shelter, but because the pack just preferred the open air. Something about the stars overhead and the smell of woodsmoke made even the most mundane nights feel primal and alive. The motel rooms were decent enough, but this was better. More them.

The rumble of distant traffic blended with the low strum of an acoustic guitar — Rico noodling around half-distracted while Maya shuffled a dog-eared deck of cards. Jonah and Cassie were deep in a heated argument over whether marshmallows should be charred or golden-brown perfection.

Thane sat on a folding chair, legs outstretched, claws tapping idly against a metal cooler. Mark leaned beside him against the van, arms crossed, a can of Dr. Pepper slowly warming in his paw. They were quietly going over the tour plan again, lit by Thane’s phone screen.

“We’ve got plenty of buffer left,” Thane muttered. “Even after the gear haul. Should take us all the way to California and back if we’re smart.”

“Assuming Gabriel doesn’t try to buy every weirdo pedal he finds between here and San Diego,” Mark said with a grunt.

As if summoned by name and chaotic energy, Gabriel flopped down beside Thane, practically radiating excitement. His tail thumped against the cooler like a living percussion line.

“So. Idea time,” he grinned.

Thane groaned. “Nope.”

“You haven’t even heard it yet.”

“I can smell the disaster on your breath.”

Gabriel leaned in, muzzle close. “Let’s hit a studio. A real one. Like… actual mics. Isolation booths. Soundproof dreams, baby.”

Thane blinked. “Are you out of your mind?”

“I mean, kinda, yeah,” Gabriel beamed. “But imagine it! This band? Right now? We’re tight. We’re fire. We’re a storm with claws. Lock it in. Make a record that melts faces and sells merch. That gets us heard.”

Mark crossed his arms tighter. “You’re talking thousands of dollars for studio time.”

“Yep!” Gabriel chirped. “And we’ve got it. And Thane — you — get to do this right. Finally. No duct-taped mics. No screaming over a generator. Real gear. Real you.”

Thane narrowed his eyes. “Flattery’s not a budget line item.”

Gabriel shifted in closer, nose-to-nose. “Then consider this a bribe.” He leaned in and gave Thane a slow, affectionate lick across the cheek. “Please, my wolf?”

Thane exhaled like a man giving up his last nerve. He looked at Mark. Mark rolled his eyes so hard it was audible. Maya smirked and shrugged. Rico gave a thumbs up without pausing his playing. Cassie had already started brainstorming album names on her phone.

“…Fine,” Thane growled. “But I’m picking the studio. And we’re setting a damn limit.”

Gabriel howled with delight and tackled him into the dirt.