The morning after the San Diego show dawned hazy and too damn early.

Thane had just managed to wrangle Gabriel into a semi-decent T-shirt (read: one without a rip in the collar) before dragging the pack to a trendy café near the harbor. Mark grumbled behind his sunglasses like a caffeinated gargoyle, and Maya was halfway through threatening violence over the decaf selection when it started.

The ambush.

A full wall of cameras and microphones surged across the sidewalk like a tide of polyester and desperation.

“Gabriel! Is it true you turned down a $10 million label deal?”

“Cassie, are you and Rico dating?”

“Thane! Is it true you bit a fan backstage in L.A.?!”

“Oh hell,” Cassie muttered, immediately throwing her hoodie over her head.

Thane planted himself in front of Gabriel instinctively, shoulders squared, but it was already too late. Flashes exploded. Reporters shouted over one another. One of them even asked if Mark was really a “robot in wolf fur.”

Mark bared his teeth. “Beep boop. Back off.”

Gabriel, instead of ducking, turned full-face to the mob with a disarmingly cheerful grin. “Good morning, sunshine goblins!”

One of the newer reporters blinked. “Uh… I… what?”

Gabriel reached out and gently lowered the closest mic like he was tucking in a toddler. “Here’s your quote: ‘We don’t care about your rumors, your ratings, or your tabloid exorcisms. We care about music, fans, and breakfast burritos. Got it?’”

Thane just chuckled, shaking his head. “Gabriel, you’re gonna get us banned from every news outlet in California.”

“Perfect,” He beamed. “Less paperwork.”

It didn’t end there, though.

Later that afternoon, an entertainment gossip blog posted a “Feral Eclipse: Out of Control?” piece with grainy, unflattering photos — including one of Gabriel licking a window for reasons known only to him.

Ten minutes later, the band reposted it with the caption:

“We warned you about letting werewolves into showbiz.”

It became the most-liked post on their page that week.

Meanwhile, in a van somewhere outside San Bernardino…

Vandal Saints scrolled through the viral clips on their phones in cold, bitter silence.

“Why the hell do they always win people over?” one of them spat.

The lead singer — eyes bloodshot, ego bruised — cracked open a warm energy drink and muttered, “Don’t worry. We’ll show them up at Desert Howl Festival.”

He paused. Then added, “Right?”

The silence that followed was not confidence.