The show was over. The power had held. No one had passed out — on stage, anyway — and the Parisian crowd had screamed loud enough to rival jet engines. The moment Feral Eclipse stepped offstage, the chaos didn’t end. It simply changed venues.
Within minutes, the crew was outside the Accor Arena, half herded by venue staff and half corralled by their own momentum. Thane had barely managed to get his gear stowed before someone — probably Jonah — suggested a celebratory stroll along the Seine. That somehow turned into let’s go find a bar which then became let’s just follow the noise.
Paris, of course, welcomed them with open arms. Or rather, open cafes, flashing phones, and an increasing number of people running across cobblestones to shout, scream, or sob at the sight of them.
“Did we win something?” Gabriel asked, spinning a borrowed beret on one claw as they navigated a narrow alley that led out into a bustling plaza.
“You mean besides the hearts of half of Paris?” Cassie replied, ducking as a drone buzzed overhead.
Thane looked up and exhaled slowly. “There’s another one. That’s the fifth drone I’ve seen tonight.”
“I will throw a baguette at it,” Mark said, holding one menacingly. “Don’t think I won’t.”
“You literally just paid €3 for that,” Rico said.
“Exactly,” Mark grumbled. “Weaponized carbs aren’t cheap here.”
The plaza opened up like a stage. Café tables were filled. Music poured from nearby speakers. Someone spotted them — someone always did—and then it was on. A flash of recognition, a shriek, a call to friends. In under five minutes, the small crowd had doubled, then tripled. The wolves were surrounded.
Gabriel — never one to miss an opportunity — leapt onto a wrought-iron bistro table with the grace of a caffeinated jungle cat and flung his arms wide.
“PARIS! WHO’S STILL AWAKE?”
The crowd responded with a roar. A baguette flew through the air. He caught it and raised it overhead like a gladiator’s blade.
“Who dares challenge me in battle?!”
A fan accepted, armed with a second baguette and questionable judgment. The duel commenced.
Mark groaned and turned away, muttering, “We are never getting invited back to this country.”
Rico and Jonah were instantly taking bets. Emily tried to take video but was laughing too hard to keep the camera straight. Cassie was chatting with a woman who had painted Feral 4Ever across her cheek in glitter and tears.
And Thane — still carrying a half-coiled XLR like it might come in handy — stood in the middle of it all, watching the way the lights from streetlamps shimmered on cobblestones, the laughter that bounced between buildings, and the way their little chaotic pack somehow brought joy to strangers a world away from home.
“This is getting unhinged,” he said aloud to no one in particular.
“It’s Paris,” Mark replied beside him. “Pretty sure it’s supposed to be.”
The cops did show up — eventually. But they just smiled, recognized the band, and ended up helping redirect traffic while posing for a group photo.
At some point, someone bought them all espresso shots. At some later point, Gabriel tried to convince a passing mime to join the band.
And when the hour grew late and the adrenaline finally wore off, they made their way — slowly, surrounded by fans and laughter — back toward the waiting hotel vans. Thane looked back once more at the glowing Eiffel Tower, now distant behind the rooftops.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to.
Tonight, Paris would remember.