The last note of Rico’s solo hung in the air, echoing faintly off brick walls and broken glass, as the small crowd that had gathered in the alley erupted into spontaneous applause and low whistles. The jam had been impromptu, unplugged, and as raw as the concrete beneath their feet — but it had lit something up in the Detroit night. Cassie was still catching her breath from a run of improv vocals that had somehow ended in the chorus of an unreleased song. Jonah was grinning like a fool. Gabriel had his arms in the air like he’d just won a championship belt.
And then, from somewhere in the crowd, a voice rang out.
“Rico Fuentes?! Holy hell! You’re not dead!”
Rico blinked and turned. A tall, wiry guy with a receding hairline and a cracked Misfits hoodie was elbowing his way toward the front, clutching a foil-wrapped gyro in one hand and wearing the exact expression of someone who had just seen a ghost — and was thrilled about it.
Rico’s jaw dropped. “Marco?”
“Dude!” Marco laughed, nearly tripping on the curb. “You’re alive! And apparently famous!”
The pack turned to look. Gabriel’s ears perked.
“You two know each other?” he asked, already grinning.
Rico nodded slowly, still stunned. “Yeah. We used to play together. Basement punk shows. Back when we were dumb and invincible.”
Marco was beaming. “I still tell people about the time you snapped a Strat in half onstage and finished the set with a beat-up keyboard you didn’t know how to play!”
“It wasn’t broken,” Rico muttered. “It was… artistically unresponsive.”
Marco laughed so hard he nearly dropped his gyro. “Still the same.”
Gabriel stepped forward and extended a clawed hand. “Rico’s our lead guitarist now.”
Marco shook his hand without hesitation, then looked around at the group. “You guys are Feral Eclipse? The wolf band that blew up TikTok last year and set that Vegas stage on fire? That’s you?”
“Guilty,” Cassie said with a small wave.
Marco turned back to Rico, his voice softer now. “Man… I always knew you had it in you. Even when nobody else did.”
And with that, he pulled Rico into a rough, fast hug — the kind born from teenage chaos and years of distance that suddenly didn’t matter.
They didn’t talk much more after that. Just enough to exchange a number and a nod that said we’re good. It was enough.
They didn’t plan to stop by the house.
Rico hadn’t even mentioned it until the following morning, when they were gearing up to leave the city. The crew had slept in after the alley show, and the mood on the bus was relaxed, content. Gabriel had cooked eggs. Jonah was badly losing a card game to Emily. Diesel was already in the driver’s seat, waiting for the next address.
Rico slid up beside him and murmured, “Can we make one stop before we head west?”
Diesel just nodded. “You got it.”
No one asked. No one had to.
The house was a little brick place just outside the city. The kind that looked like it had been there forever and never really changed. A rusted swing set sat crooked in the side yard. The porch was chipped. The windows were all the same curtains from twenty years ago.
Rico stood at the bottom step for a while, just staring.
No one followed him out. They waited quietly on the bus, giving him space.
Eventually, the door opened.
An older woman stood there — frail but still sharp around the eyes. Rico said something, and she stepped back slowly, letting him in.
The door closed.
Inside, time likely collapsed on itself. The walls were probably the same color. The furniture probably hadn’t moved. She didn’t hug him — not that he expected her to — but she let him sit. They spoke. It wasn’t long. Maybe twenty, thirty minutes. Then he came back out, walked down the steps, and climbed onto the bus without a word.
Thane met him at the door.
“You okay?”
Rico gave a small nod. “Yeah. That’s probably all it’ll ever be. But I needed to see it again. Her.”
Thane didn’t press. He just gave Rico’s shoulder a soft squeeze and stepped aside to let him pass.
Later that evening, the three wolves sat at the small table near the front of the bus. The rest of the crew had gone quiet — Jonah and Maya napping in the back, Cassie writing lyrics in a notebook, Emily editing photos in a hoodie with her knees pulled to her chest.
The sun had dipped behind the skyline, and the world outside was painted in dusky purples and gold.
Rico sat with his guitar on his lap, gently plucking the same four notes over and over. Not enough to form a song. Just enough to fill the space.
Thane watched him for a moment. “She didn’t know who you were, did she?”
Rico shook his head. “Knew my name. Didn’t ask about the band. Didn’t even ask if I was okay.” A pause. “But she let me sit. She made coffee. And for her, that’s… more than I expected.”
Gabriel was sprawled nearby in one of the recliners, a throw blanket half over him. “Still your story, man. Even if someone else can’t read it.”
Rico smiled faintly. “It was the church basement that raised me, not that house. The alley last night felt more like home than anything.”
Thane nodded. “Then we carry that with us.”
Gabriel raised his empty mug and gave a tired smile. “To Detroit. Grit and glory.”
Rico leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “To ghosts and guitars.”
And as Diesel guided them quietly onto the highway heading west, the city lights faded into memory behind them, and the wolves rode on into the night — one story heavier, one burden lighter.