They were holed up in a budget hotel just off the freeway — rumored to have checked in drunk, loud, and nursing a bruised ego the night before. When the Feral Eclipse van rolled into the lot, it wasn’t with fanfare. It was with fury.

Thane and Gabriel stepped out first. Silent. Focused. Behind them, Maya and Mark flanked the doors while Jonah and Rico hung back with Cassie by the van, all of them watching with tense anticipation.

Thane banged on the room door with one clawed fist.

It swung open after a pause. Bret stood there, shirtless, bleary-eyed, a hangover practically steaming off his skin. “What the hell do you —”

Gabriel grabbed his shirt collar, shoved him back against the wall with a low snarl. “You could have killed people.”

Bret sputtered. “What are you talking about?!”

Thane loomed beside him, the calm gone from his voice. “The prop. The fire. You left it smoldering. That field had over three hundred people in tents.”

Bret shoved Gabriel off weakly, stumbling. “We didn’t light anything — probably some fan —”

Maya stormed in. “You trashed that stage in a tantrum and left broken gear piled on dry brush. That’s arson whether you struck a match or not.”

Mark folded his arms. “Not to mention the part where we have it on drone footage.“

Bret paled.

“We’re not pressing charges,” Thane said darkly. “Yet.”

Gabriel stepped in close. “But if you ever endanger our fans, our crew, or our family again — there won’t be a warning next time.”

Bret said nothing. Just nodded, eyes downcast.

As the pack turned to go, Maya glanced over her shoulder and added, “Mama Feroz is gonna love hearing about this.”

The door slammed shut before she could finish the grin.