The coffee was just starting to work.

Gabriel’s tail had stopped twitching. Maya was upright without sunglasses. Cassie was managing real, actual sentences. Jonah even managed to snort-laugh at something Diesel said about “firefighter groupies in ’88.”

Thane had one clawed hand wrapped around a steaming mug of black coffee and the other gently massaging his temple. He was almost calm.

So of course, that’s when the chaos arrived.

It started as a low rumble outside—like a dozen subwoofers stacked in the back of a monster truck. Everyone glanced toward the windows.

Outside the diner, a full caravan of fan vehicles was suddenly rolling into the parking lot.

Pickup trucks, vans, a Prius with FERAL 4 LIFE painted on the hood in glitter paint. One fan had strapped a mannequin with werewolf ears to their roof.

Emily, peeking out from behind the blinds, slowly said, “Did someone post where we were?”

Jonah checked his phone. “…Yep. It’s already viral. Feral Eclipse spotted post-granny hangover at diner, looking ‘soft and huggable.’”

Thane’s eye twitched. “I am not huggable.”

Mark casually sipped his coffee. “You are when you look like roadkill.”

Within seconds, the parking lot was full.
Fans were pouring out of vehicles. People were sprinting across the street. One guy was holding a guitar above his head like a tribute offering.

And then someone screamed, “I BROUGHT COOKIES FOR THE WOLVES!”

That’s when panic actually hit.

Tina, the poor waitress, looked from the mob outside to the band. “Do… do I call the cops?”

Diesel stood up slowly, like a man about to fight gravity itself. “Nah. I’ll handle this.”

Cassie blinked. “Are you about to say something wise and cowboy-ish?”

He walked to the door. “No. I’m gonna yell at them and see what happens.”

He cracked it open. “FOLKS! YOU NEED TO CHILL!”

The crowd… did not chill.

Instead, someone shouted, “IS GRANNY WITH YOU!?”

Gabriel’s eyes widened. “They want her, not us!”

That’s when someone launched a werewolf plushie through the open door and it hit Jonah in the face.

He stared at it. Then slowly, in one movement, just laid down on the floor next to the booth.

“I’m done. Tell the fans I died nobly.”

Thane stood up with a groan, slammed the rest of his coffee, and growled, “Pack the food. We’re bailing.”

“Bus is two blocks away,” Diesel muttered. “We can make a run for it.”

“Fans’ll see us,” Cassie said, glancing out.

“I have an idea,” Gabriel said. “It’s bad. But it’s so us.”

Ten minutes later:

The front doors of the diner burst open.

The entire band and crew charged out in a line, led by Gabriel, who was holding a takeout box like it contained sacred treasure.

Mark casually followed behind, holding Emily’s iced tea and muttering, “Told them not to run. Now we’re a parade.”

The crowd SHRIEKED. Phones came up. Chants of “Feral! Feral! Feral!” broke out.

And somehow—in the chaos—a handful of fans actually joined the chase, sprinting behind the band like they were escaping paparazzi in a 90s music video.

One kid screamed, “GO GO GO!” while filming.
Another dove into a bush and shouted, “I REGRET NOTHING!”

Diesel threw the bus door open just in time. One by one, the crew hurled themselves aboard, gasping, laughing, growling, sweating.

As the doors slammed shut, Thane shouted toward the back, “DRIVE! FLOOR IT!”

The engine roared to life.

The last thing they saw through the back window?

A fan holding up a sign made from diner napkins taped together that said:

“We love you even when you look like cryptids!”