By the time the last burger hit the grill, the sun had dipped below the rooftops and the backyard was packed so full of fans, neighbors, and curious onlookers that Thane couldn’t see the grass anymore. There were teenagers balanced on lawn chairs, adults sipping lemonade like it was wine, and at least one baby in a wolf-ear headband riding around on someone’s shoulders. A grandma in a “FERAL IS FOREVER” shirt kept trying to buy merch off Jonah’s phone with cash.
Thane had long since given up trying to maintain order. Gabriel, naturally, had leaned fully into the madness.
“We should play something,” Gabriel said, grinning, still sweaty from the grill and glowing in the string lights like a rockstar turned backyard deity. “I mean, we’ve got fans, we’ve got gear, we’ve got a yard. What else do you need?”
“Noise ordinances,” Mark said flatly, arms crossed, surveying the sea of people with the look of a werewolf trying to do math in a blender.
“Mark,” Gabriel said, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “this is Oklahoma. This whole state was built to break rules.”
Ten minutes later, they were hauling gear out of the garage.
Cassie and Rico wrangled the PA system. Maya tested her mic with a dramatic “CHECK CHECK WOOO!” and the crowd cheered like they were at Madison Square Garden. Jonah duct-taped cables together in a loose arc around the patio. Emily ran camera like she was directing a Netflix special. Thane tuned the mixer by ear, kneeling on a lawn chair while juggling signal lines and watching the decibel meter climb toward “YOU’RE DEFINITELY GETTING A FINE.”
Gabriel stood on the back porch, bass slung low, and shouted into the mic, “EDMOND! ARE YOU AWAKE?!”
Two hundred people screamed.
The neighbors didn’t complain. They joined in.
The street was blocked. Kids stood on fences. Teens danced in the sprinklers. Somewhere, someone had set up a makeshift merch table using the patio furniture. Maya’s old band shirts were going for twenty bucks a pop. A guy dressed like Gabriel—with a hoodie, sunglasses, and a fake tail—tried to crowd surf but only made it two feet before falling into a rose bush. A full row of fans stood outside the back fence with signs that read “THANE FOR PRESIDENT” and “MARK SMILES = LEGENDARY LIGHTING.”
The show kicked off with a stripped-down version of “Run Wild.” Just vocals, acoustic, and the entire backyard swaying like tall grass in moonlight. Then came “Midnight Engine,” and that’s when it truly detonated.
Gabriel jumped off the porch into the yard, spinning with the bass like a wolf possessed. Rico shredded like he was exorcising demons through his strings. Cassie’s voice soared over the rooftops and out into the Oklahoma sky.
Then came the flashing lights.
Red and blue.
Not from the gear.
From the street.
Two squad cars rolled up with sirens blipping politely and spotlights bouncing off the sides of the tour bus. The music faltered just a second. Heads turned. Thane whispered, “Here we go,” and looked around for a lawyer he definitely didn’t have.
But instead of shutting things down, the two officers stepped out… and started smiling.
“You folks Feral Eclipse?” one asked, walking up the driveway.
Thane nodded warily. “Yeah…”
The officer lifted his phone. “My daughter’s gonna lose her mind. Mind if we keep the lights going? Crowd control and all?”
Gabriel whooped, “HELL YES!”
And just like that, the police lights joined the stage rig.
The next few songs blurred into mayhem. Jonah tossed glowsticks into the crowd. Maya let a fan sing backup on one chorus. Mark dialed in lights with a flashlight, a garden stake, and wizardry. Emily kept live-streaming, flipping between angles and uploading in real time. Fans cried. Neighbors danced. Two guys offered to build a fire pit “just for the vibe.”
Somewhere between “Howl of Ages” and “Crash the Horizon,” the back fence gave out under the weight of sheer humanity. No one was hurt—except maybe the rose bushes.
By 11 p.m., the hashtag #WolfDenLive was trending across four platforms. Celebrity accounts were sharing clips. News crews had parked across the street and were broadcasting live from behind Mrs. Halpern’s azalea bed.
Cassie passed out glow-in-the-dark Feral Eclipse stickers. Jonah tried to crowd surf and almost took down the patio swing. Rico signed a kid’s forehead with eyeliner. Even Mark cracked a smirk.
As the last chords of the final song echoed into the humid night, Gabriel raised his bass above his head like a trophy, sweat-soaked and grinning, his fur lit by twinkle lights and flashing red-blue strobes from the cop cars still idling out front.
The crowd roared. Howled. Filmed every second.
Thane stepped forward, pulled the mic from its stand, and let his voice carry over the yard.
“We’re Feral Eclipse,” he said, “and this is our home.”
Cheers. Deafening. The fence line was half-collapsed. Neighbors stood shoulder to shoulder with superfans. A dog barked somewhere. Someone tossed a flower crown onto the porch.
Gabriel flopped down on the grass, panting, tail twitching. “That was insane.”
Jonah, holding a half-empty bottle of lemonade, slumped next to him. “I think I saw someone selling knockoff merch in our own driveway.”
“Yeah,” Mark muttered, stepping over a tipped speaker. “And we’re out of burger buns.”
Cassie passed by, barefoot, sipping soda from a Solo cup. “So worth it.”
Thane just stood at the edge of the porch, arms folded, surveying the absolute circus his backyard had become—and smiled.
No fences. No tour stops. No rules.
Just the pack.
Home.
And louder than ever.