Three Werewolves: Tour Blog

Still Morning – Fancy Hotel Dining Room

Most of the Feral Eclipse crew had migrated into a food coma.

Thane was slouched in his chair with his claws wrapped around a third cup of coffee, gaze fixed on a point somewhere past the glass windows and into the void. Gabriel was quietly humming to himself between bites of croissant-stuffed eggs, feet swinging under the table. Mark, still grumbling about “banana textures,” was calculating how much longer it would take the espresso machine to break down if Gabriel hit it one more time.

Then, she appeared.

A teenaged girl, maybe sixteen, in a soft hoodie and sneakers, was sitting with her mom a few tables over. She’d been “sneaking glances” for ten minutes straight—trying to act casual while very much not being casual.

She had the look of someone internally screaming the entire time. Phone clutched tightly in both hands. Eyes wide. Hands twitching.

Gabriel was the first to notice.

He tilted his head, ears perking, and whispered across the table, “We’ve been spotted.”

Thane sighed, “You sure?”

“She’s wearing a tour hoodie from Tulsa,” Gabriel replied, nodding toward the girl. “Second row. That’s definitely her. She was the one who tossed a glow stick at Jonah during his solo.”

Jonah blinked. “That was her? That thing nailed me in the temple.”

Gabriel grinned. “Direct hit. Five stars.”

Rico leaned in. “She gonna ask for a pic?”

“Nope,” said Mark, still sipping his black coffee, “She’s about to pretend she’s not freaking out. Then she’ll try to casually pass by us with her phone recording, trip over a chair, and we’ll all pretend it didn’t happen.”

Ten seconds later… she tripped over a chair.

“Called it,” Mark muttered.

Her mom looked up in alarm, but the girl waved it off like she meant to do that. She walked by their table, phone in hand, held at an angle so unnatural it could only be the “I’m definitely not filming you right now” position.

Thane, deadpan, without looking up: “Smile, boys. We’re going viral again.”

Gabriel leaned toward the girl, flashing his most charming fang-filled grin. “Morning!”

She stopped dead.

Her phone hit the floor with a clatter.

“I—I—Hi! Oh my god, hi!!” she squeaked.

Mark blinked slowly. “Nailed it.”

Gabriel stood up slowly and extended a clawed hand to help her pick up her phone. “You okay?”

She nodded frantically. “I—I didn’t mean to interrupt! I just—I’m such a huge fan—my name’s Riley—I saw you in Tulsa and the light show was so—”

Thane smiled softly and reached for his coffee. “Appreciate the love, Riley.”

Maya gave a mock glare from across the room. “Make it quick, guys. We’re on the road again in twenty.”

Riley’s mom had now walked up, equal parts embarrassed and trying to play it cool. “Sorry about that—she’s just really excited.”

Gabriel posed for a quick selfie with Riley (who was shaking so hard the picture ended up hilariously blurry), then gave her one of the little hotel Nutella jars from his pocket.

“Emergency werewolf gift,” he said with a wink.

As they walked away, Jonah shook his head. “You keep giving out hotel condiments, and we’re gonna get blacklisted.”

Gabriel beamed. “Worth it.”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “She’s totally posting that video before we check out.”

Mark leaned back, already dreading the inevitable. “Can’t wait to read the headline: ‘Feral Eclipse Guitarist Gives Me Hazelnut Trauma’.”

Morning after the chaos – Upscale Hotel, Somewhere Fancy

The Feral Eclipse crew wandered into the gleaming breakfast buffet like a pack of under-slept rockstars who had no business being near breakable tableware. The hotel had clearly not prepared for werewolves.

The dining area was an elegant spread of marble floors, glass carafes of artisan juices, and waitstaff in pressed uniforms who wore the same expression as people trying not to acknowledge an oncoming tornado.

Thane led the pack, still wearing yesterday’s jeans and a “Coffee or Crying” T-shirt he’d found in a merch box. His ice-blue eyes scanned the offerings like a general evaluating a battlefield. One clawed hand gripped a tray; the other already held a heaping plate of bacon.

Mark followed behind with a slow, measured pace, fur slightly fluffed from sleep. He looked around the room like he was trying to spot which waffle iron would betray them first. He mumbled, “I give this five minutes before we’re asked to leave.”

Gabriel bounded in behind them with an energy level that should’ve been illegal. Sunglasses on. Hoodie up. Steam rising from the massive hotel-branded coffee cup in his claws.

“OHHHHH they have croissants! I’m gonna put scrambled eggs in them. Gourmet werewolf breakfast taco, baby!”

A child at a nearby table pointed and whispered, “Mommy, look! Furry superheroes!”

Thane gave the kid a wink. Mark muttered, “If one more person calls me Chewbacca, I’m burning this place down.”

Maya strolled in, fully human and fully amused, wearing shades and a tank top that read I don’t tour with amateurs, I just babysit them. She glanced at Gabriel’s third trip to the omelet bar.

“I swear, you burn more calories thinking than performing,” she teased.

“Brain fuel,” Gabriel replied, mouth full of melon. “Also this hotel has tiny Nutella jars and I am now their god.”

Jonah and Rico joined them, plates balanced high with pastries and suspiciously fancy meats. Jonah gestured to a dish labeled “local artisanal sausage” and asked, “Think it’s real meat?”

Rico raised an eyebrow. “You gonna tell the werewolves if it isn’t?”

Thane set his tray down at the far end of the long table and started organizing his food into tactical quadrants. “Don’t care. It’s protein. As long as it’s not tofu shaped like bacon, we’re good.”

Mark, two seats down, peeled a banana like it had personally insulted him. “Tofu tries to be bacon one more time, I’m staging a coup.”

A server arrived with fresh juice and a practiced smile. “If there’s anything else you need, please let us know.”

Gabriel, suddenly very interested, leaned in. “Do you have a chocolate fountain?”

The server blinked. “Sir, it’s eight-thirty in the morning.”

Gabriel didn’t break eye contact. “So… that’s a no?”

Thane sighed, gesturing at Gabriel with a fork. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Eventually, the band settled into a lopsided but functional breakfast rhythm—coffee, muttered insults, and a near fight over the last muffin.

But for a few brief moments, in the golden glow of morning sun and maple syrup, they looked like any other weird little family just trying to get through one more day on the road.

Hotel balcony, just before dawn

The city was still sleeping. Even the traffic sounded like it had hit the snooze button. Pale lavender hues tinged the skyline as the sun began to rise, casting a soft gold light over rooftops and quiet intersections.

Thane leaned on the hotel balcony railing, elbows resting on the cool concrete, a can of diet Mountain Dew cracked open beside him. The chaos of the previous night still echoed faintly in his ears—the lights, the roar of the crowd, the crash afterward—but now, it felt like he was watching it all from a distance.

The sliding door opened behind him with a quiet whoosh.

Gabriel padded out barepaw, still in his band T-shirt, fur sticking up on one side like he’d been battling the pillow and lost. He looked groggy but grounded. No trace of the whirlwind from before. Just him, raw and real.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stepped up beside Thane and leaned in with a quiet sigh, both clawed hands wrapped around a cup of coffee like it was the only thing tethering him to the world.

After a few beats of silence, he murmured, “So… that happened.”

Thane chuckled softly. “Yeah. Sure did.”

“Still vibrating a little.”

“You’re not. But your tail twitched like four times.”

Gabriel gave a tired laugh, sipping his coffee. “I just wanted to impress them, you know? Like… we’re the new guys. And I didn’t want them thinking we were just the gimmick with claws.”

Thane turned to him, resting a forearm on the railing. “You don’t need to impress anyone, my wolf. You already are impressive. You’ve got talent, heart, and a terrifying relationship with caffeine. That’s more than enough.”

Gabriel gave him a side-eye and a crooked grin. “Terrifying?”

“Truly. Like, OSHA should be notified.”

They stood there for a while, watching the sun come up in companionable quiet. The air was crisp, the city slowly waking below. Somewhere in a room across the way, a curtain twitched, and a dog barked once, as if to confirm that yes, the day had officially begun.

Gabriel shifted closer, shoulder brushing Thane’s. “Thanks for being there last night.”

“Always.”

“You really mean that?”

Thane gave a small nod, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Even if you dive off the deep end, I’ll be the one swimming after you. With a rope. And a fire extinguisher. And probably Mark yelling in the background.”

Gabriel chuckled again. “I’m really lucky, you know.”

Thane finally turned toward him and met his eyes. “We both are.”

They stayed there as the sun rose higher, casting long, golden rays across the world—and just for a moment, it felt like everything was exactly where it needed to be.

Post-show, backstage hallway

The roar of the crowd was still echoing off the walls, but back here, it felt like the world had come to a screeching halt.

The set had gone off surprisingly well—shockingly well, considering Gabriel had played the entire first half like his claws were being powered by a nuclear reactor and a gallon of espresso. His bass solos had been tight, maybe even a little too tight, like he’d transcended normal rhythm and entered some higher plane of cosmic groove.

But now… now, reality was dragging him back down like a cinderblock on a bungee cord.

Gabriel stumbled through the stage-left curtain and sagged against the cinderblock wall, fur soaked with sweat, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts.

“Water…” he croaked. “Is… is water a thing? Still legal? Am I… am I vibrating?”

Mark was the first to reach him, eyes wide but calm, gently easing the bass from Gabriel’s hands before it could be dropped or turned into a hallucinated helicopter.

Thane was second. He didn’t say a word. Just crouched low in front of him, icy blue eyes locked on Gabriel’s glazed ones. The panic, the sheer velocity that had been pushing Gabriel forward for hours… it was gone. All that remained was a trembling werewolf whose whole body looked like it was trying to shut down in alphabetical order.

“I can’t… feel my ears,” Gabriel whispered, blinking slowly. “Did we play yet?”

Thane exhaled through his nose and eased his arms under Gabriel’s to hold him steady. “Yeah, my wolf. We played. You crushed it. And now you’re crashing.”

Gabriel nodded once, then slumped forward, his forehead resting against Thane’s shoulder. “Sorry…” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to. I just thought it’d be fun. They were cool guys. And the powder made the air make music.”

“I know,” Thane said softly, one clawed hand gently resting against the back of Gabriel’s neck. “You don’t have to explain. You’re okay now.”

Jonah appeared with a bottle of water, holding it out like he was defusing a bomb. “Uh. Should I…?”

“Yeah,” Thane said, accepting it without looking. “Thanks.”

Mark stood nearby, arms crossed, brow furrowed in the way he did when he was balancing concern with the urge to yell. “I’ll go find the tour manager. Tell him we need a later checkout tomorrow. And maybe a forklift.”

Gabriel groaned into Thane’s shoulder. “I think my organs are trying to swap jobs.”

“You’re gonna be fine,” Thane murmured. “Just ride it out. We’ve got you.”

A pause.

“…You still love me even though I’m an idiot?” Gabriel whispered.

Thane’s arms tightened just slightly around him. “I love you especially because you’re an idiot.”

From down the hall, Maya shouted, “Tell him to puke before he hits the hotel carpet!”

Mark deadpanned, “Now that’s leadership.”

Pre-show green room, Denver Hard Rock Arena

The green room backstage was buzzing—half with excitement, half with fluorescent tube lights that flickered like they were trying to drop the beat. The venue smelled like anticipation, stale sweat, and Febreze sprayed over questionable decisions. Feral Eclipse had officially made it—they were opening for Spinal Muzzle, one of the most infamous hard rock bands of the past two decades. Tattooed, loud, legendary… and absolutely, unequivocally insane.

Gabriel had vanished the second their backstage passes were clipped.

Thane had been double-checking the rigging specs, clipboard in claw, barely holding it together after the clustertruck that was the broken van axle incident earlier. Mark was quietly nursing a giant bottle of soda like it was his only lifeline to sanity.

Then Rico wandered in, chewing half a granola bar and looking… worried.

“Hey, uh… Thane?” he said, voice low.

Thane didn’t even look up. “If this is about a missing mic stand, I swear I will—”

“It’s not that. It’s Gabe. I just walked by the other band’s green room. He’s in there. With them.”

Mark looked up. “Define ‘with them.’”

Rico scratched the back of his neck. “He was laughing. Real loud. And… I think they handed him something. White. Powdery. On a mirror.”

Mark blinked. “…Oh no.”

Thane dropped the clipboard. “He did not.”

Jonah poked his head in, eyes wide. “Uh… he did. He definitely did.”

---

By the time Thane made it down the hallway, the door to the Spinal Muzzle green room was wide open. Inside, the band’s frontman—Razor, who somehow looked both 45 and immortal—was doubled over laughing. Gabriel stood in the middle of the room, eyes way too wide, pacing in tight circles and talking faster than Thane could think.

“—and that’s why I think if we add strobes to the kick hits we could realign the crowd’s heartbeats with the rhythm and literally control time, guys, I mean—oh hey, Thane!”

Thane stared at him. “Gabriel. What. Did. You. Do?”

Gabriel beamed, nose twitching. “Made friends! And they gave me special friend powder!”

Rico facepalmed behind Thane.

Mark leaned in the doorway, sipping his soda. “Well. This should be fun.”

---

Fifteen minutes later

Back in the Feral Eclipse green room, Gabriel was upside-down on a folding chair, mumbling about sound waves and coffee flavor harmonics. Jonah had barricaded the door with a keyboard stand, and Rico was scouring the venue’s snack table for orange juice. Mark just stood silently in the corner, sipping and judging.

Thane crouched down in front of Gabriel. “Gabriel. Fucking focus. What did you take?”

Gabriel blinked, one ear twitching wildly. “It was like lightning! In my face! And then I was… faster than music, man.”

Thane sighed and looked at the others. “We’re not making it through this show unless we burn that powder stash and chain him to a bass amp.”

Mark didn’t even flinch. “He’s going to crash mid-set and take out half the drum kit.”

Jonah grinned. “So, normal show then?”

Gabriel suddenly sat bolt upright. “I JUST WROTE A BASS SOLO IN MY HEAD. IT’S MADE OF GEOMETRY.”

Thane rubbed his temples. “Okay. We’re going into damage control mode. Jonah—water. Rico—more water. Mark—remind me why I don’t just maul that other band.”

Mark shrugged. “Public relations?”

Just outside the venue loading bay, 30 minutes to showtime

The echo of slamming cases and tuning guitars faded behind the heavy service door. Outside, the alley behind the venue was dim and quiet, the only light coming from a flickering overhead bulb and the distant glow of a nearby gas station sign.

Thane sat on a concrete ledge by the dumpster, elbows on his knees, claws laced together. The night air was cooler here—damp with the scent of rain and alley grease. His chest still rose and fell just a little too quickly.

The door creaked open and closed again. Mark walked out, carrying two bottles of water. He handed one to Thane without saying a word and leaned against the wall beside him, arms crossed.

They sat in silence for a long minute. Then Thane finally broke it.

“I almost lost it, Mark.”

Mark took a slow sip of water, then nodded. “Yeah. You almost did.”

“I hate that. That side of me.” His claws tightened around the bottle, the plastic crinkling. “I don’t want to be the guy everyone’s afraid of.”

“You’re not,” Mark said. “Not to us.”

Thane scoffed quietly. “Rico might disagree.”

Mark glanced at him. “Rico will get over it. He poked the wolf. You growled. That’s life. But you didn’t bite. That’s what matters.”

Thane stared down at the ground, then let out a breath. “I’ve worked so damn hard to stay in control. To not be that walking threat everyone expects. And then one dumb comment and I’m back on edge like it’s instinct.”

Mark’s tone softened, which was rare for him. “You’ve got every right to be tired. You pulled the van back from the grave, kept us from missing the gig, and still haven’t gotten a second to yourself.”

There was a pause, then:

“You’re not dangerous, Thane. You’re exhausted.”

Thane blinked and looked sideways at him. “That supposed to make me feel better?”

“No,” Mark said with a shrug. “It’s supposed to make you go take five minutes and breathe before you turn into a cautionary tale in a backstage safety handbook.”

That actually got a soft laugh from Thane. He leaned back against the wall, letting his eyes close for a second.

“I appreciate you stepping in,” he said.

“You always step in for me when the world’s on fire,” Mark replied. “Figured I’d return the favor.”

Another beat of silence, warmer this time.

“Besides,” Mark added with a smirk, “I wasn’t about to carry your ass offstage in handcuffs. That’s Gabriel’s job.”

That earned a full-on laugh from Thane—tired but real.

“Remind me to write ‘Don’t kill the band’ on the setlist,” he muttered.

Mark deadpanned, “Already embroidered it on a pillow. It’s on your bunk.”

Backstage, 45 minutes to showtime

The backstage tension was thicker than the stage fog. Cables were being flung instead of coiled, doors closed a little too hard, and nobody made eye contact.

Rico had cracked the wrong joke at the worst possible time—some smug remark about Thane and the van repairs that sounded more like mockery than ribbing. Thane had gone from calm to apex predator in two seconds flat.

Now Rico stood, tense and pale, his hands spread like he was about to surrender to airport security. “I was just messing with you, man—”

Thane, muscles tight and hackles up, took a step forward, a low growl in his throat that made the air itself seem to retreat.

Mark’s arm shot out like a steel gate, planting himself firmly between the two.

“Thane,” he said calmly, “no murder before load-in. We talked about this.”

Thane didn’t look at Mark—his eyes were locked on Rico like crosshairs.

“Deep breath,” Mark continued, not budging. “I know you’re tired. I know what happened today sucked. But he’s not worth losing your temper over.”

“He disrespected me,” Thane snarled.

“He disrespected your van,” Mark corrected. “And I’ll remind you, it’s barely holding itself together. Unlike you, who can.”

There was a long pause. Thane’s claws flexed. He took a breath—shaky, but controlled—and stepped back.

Mark kept his eyes on Thane a moment longer, then turned to Rico.

“You,” he said dryly, “go tune something. Quietly. Somewhere far away from Thane’s claws.”

Rico blinked, nodded, and backed away like someone retreating from a live grenade. “Yeah. Yeah, got it.”

When he was gone, Thane exhaled hard and dropped onto a road case. His clawed hands rubbed over his face.

Mark crossed his arms. “You good?”

Thane gave a low, grumbling reply. “…Thanks.”

Mark just nodded. “That’s what I do. I prevent homicides.”

Thane chuckled, just a little. “You’re the real MVP.”

“Damn right I am,” Mark muttered, already walking off. “Next time, let Gabriel handle it. That one look of his could end wars.”

Still broken down. Still hot. Now everyone’s talking.

Thane was elbow-deep in the engine bay, grease streaked across his forearms, claws smudged with radiator fluid, and the unmistakable snarl of a werewolf slowly losing his grip echoing faintly in the back of his throat.

Gabriel crouched beside him, cheerfully unhelpful but loyally close—his tail lazily flicking in the dust while sipping the last of his now-warm coffee.

Behind them, the humans had given up pretending to be useful and were instead forming their own little shade-seeking think tank beneath the one sad excuse for a tree.

Maya, shirt tied up at the waist, already had her boots off and was fanning herself with a lyric sheet. “I’m just saying, maybe we wouldn’t be broken down in Hell’s Armpit if our fearless tech alpha would let a real mechanic touch the engine once in a while.”

Rico chuckled. “You know wolves and territory. That engine bay is basically his den.”

“I heard that,” Thane barked from under the hood.

Jonah, still sitting on the flight case they’d dragged out for seating, smirked. “It’s true, man. We offered to take it to a shop last week and you looked at us like we’d just insulted your mate.”

“That’s because you did. This van’s gotten us through three tours and five near-deaths,” Thane snapped, standing up, claws glinting in the sun. “And I know it inside and out. The belt snapped because someone overpacked the rear and threw the weight balance off.”

“I packed the merch box,” Rico said with mock offense. “We need to sell shirts to pay for gas and Gatorade.”

“And I packed Gabriel’s pedal board,” Maya added, eyebrow raised.

Gabriel’s ears twitched. “Why am I catching strays over here? I’m not the one who threw the patch kit at the transmission.”

“You threw the patch kit?” Jonah asked, laughing.

“I placed it. Aggressively,” Thane growled.

Mark, who had been silent up to this point, finally chimed in from his perch on a folding chair, deadpan and bone-dry: “We’re going to die out here. If dehydration doesn’t get us, the werewolf rage kill will.”

“Say that again, I dare you,” Thane snarled, teeth bared, shoulders flexing as he took a slow step toward Mark and the others. The desert wind carried a hint of something feral, something primal—and for one tense moment, even the heat seemed to hold its breath.

Mark didn’t flinch. “I said, we’re going to—”

“Thane.” Gabriel’s voice sliced through the air, calm and steady. His hand was on Thane’s shoulder, claws brushing lightly through the matted fur. “Not worth it. They’ll taste like stress and irony.”

Thane growled low, nostrils flaring… then exhaled hard and rolled his neck with a crack. “Right. Right. I promised.”

Gabriel leaned in closer, voice softer. “Besides, I haven’t had dinner yet. Let’s not fill up on junk food.”

A reluctant smirk tugged at the corner of Thane’s muzzle. “Fine. I’ll finish rigging the belt. Someone find me water, duct tape, and an emotional support animal.”

“I’m the emotional support animal,” Gabriel said proudly, standing tall with his arms wide.

Jonah muttered, “We’re all gonna die petting the werewolf, aren’t we?”

Maya groaned. “Only after he eats us for mocking his spark plugs.”

Mark deadpanned again, “Call it ‘Death by Ignition Drama.’ I’ll write the song.”

Late morning. Blazing sun. A long stretch of West Texas highway with nothing but mirages and regret.

The Chevy tour van, affectionately named “Fangwagon,” was doing its best impression of a dying animal. The whole crew was inside—seven bodies and enough gear to rebuild a music store if it exploded.

Thane sat behind the wheel, one clawed hand adjusting the rearview mirror, the other tapping rhythmically on the wheel as if sheer force of will would keep the engine from quitting. Gabriel, in the passenger seat, was chugging a gas station iced coffee like it was going to give him wings. Spoiler: it didn’t.

In the back, Maya sat crisscross on a flight case, arms crossed, brow furrowed. Rico was dozing with his face against the window, Jonah had his earbuds in, and Mark sat silent, glaring at the rattling A/C vent like it owed him money.

Then—THUNK-KRCHHHH.

The van gave a lurch. The dashboard flickered. Thane’s ears snapped upright.

“Oh, no you don’t,” he growled, easing off the gas.

Gabriel looked over. “Did we hit something or just lose a piece of the van?”

“Do you smell smoke?” Maya asked sharply from the back.

“No, but I can smell our career dying,” Mark deadpanned.

The van shuddered again, then coasted silently for a second too long.

Thane pulled to the shoulder. “That was the serpentine belt, I’d bet anything on it.”

Everyone piled out, the dry heat slamming into them like a hairdryer to the face. Thane popped the hood, and a thin wisp of smoke curled up into the air like it had somewhere better to be.

Gabriel leaned in beside him. “So… we walk now?”

“We’re not walking anywhere,” Thane muttered, inspecting the mess. “I can fix this, but I need a belt. And duct tape. And about six fewer people asking me questions.”

Mark pulled out his phone. “No signal.”

Maya pulled out hers. “Same. Welcome to ‘We All Die in Texas,’ starring: Us.”

Jonah sighed. “I knew we should’ve taken the scenic route. Scenic routes have Walmarts.”

Rico pulled a lukewarm soda out of the cooler and cracked it open with a hiss. “Guess we’re camping. Anyone bring marshmallows?”

Thane stood up, wiping grease onto his jeans. “Alright. This is fixable. I’ve got a patch kit, and if I can jerry-rig the belt with zip ties, we can limp to the next town.”

Gabriel looked skeptical. “How many zip ties?”

“Enough to qualify as an engineering degree,” Thane replied.

Mark stared at the van. “I’m not dying in this van. If this is how I go out, I demand a better soundtrack than ‘loose fanbelt in A minor.’”

“Rico,” Thane snapped, “check the back bin. Should be a repair roll and extra fluid.”

“On it.”

“Jonah, Maya—watch the road. Just in case anyone comes by who isn’t planning to murder us.”

Gabriel tilted his head. “And me?”

“You,” Thane sighed, “stand there and look pretty.”

Gabriel saluted with his coffee cup. “Mission accepted.”

8:17 AM – Lobby Breakfast Area, Sunrise View Lodge

The smell hit first: burnt coffee, rubbery eggs, and the vague sorrow of powdered orange juice. The complimentary breakfast area looked like a crime scene designed by a cereal mascot—stale pastries under plastic domes, a toaster older than Thane, and one very overwhelmed waffle machine coughing batter.

Thane shuffled in first, fur fluffed and still damp from the world’s most aggressive showerhead. His black Feral Eclipse shirt was only half-tucked into his jeans, and his claws clicked faintly on the linoleum floor as he grabbed a paper cup of coffee with the same reverence as a relic.

He passed Mark, who was already seated in a booth with one half-toasted bagel, staring into space like he was experiencing war flashbacks.

“No coffee yet?” Thane asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Mark didn’t blink. “There was one cup left. The machine screamed. I took it as a warning.”

Thane slid into the booth across from him. “You look like you were mauled by dreams.”

“I was,” Mark said flatly. “You tried to eat my tail in your sleep.”

A moment later, the front door opened with a squeak and in bounded Gabriel—fur neat, tail wagging, coffee in hand, and acting way too chipper for someone who spent the night half-curled on a questionably clean motel bedspread.

“MORNING, LOBBY DWELLERS!” he sang, spinning into the booth next to Thane and almost sloshing coffee on his fur. “Guess who found a box of Fruity Dino-Pebbles in the cereal cabinet?”

Thane raised his mug. “Guess who doesn’t have the emotional bandwidth to guess?”

Gabriel took a huge slurp of coffee, then grinned. “Spoiler: it’s me.”

Behind them, Maya stormed in wearing sunglasses, a hoodie, and murder in her stride. She grabbed a paper plate and tossed three mystery danishes onto it like she was challenging fate.

“Don’t talk to me. Don’t look at me. Don’t breathe my air until I’ve had four cups of coffee and a victory pastry.”

Rico and Jonah stumbled in shortly after—Rico with pillow creases on his face, Jonah carrying a plate of hotel sausage links like they were treasure.

Jonah dropped into the seat next to Mark. “These taste like despair and meat glue. I love them.”

Rico sat beside Maya and muttered, “Someone in the next room was playing polka covers of Kesha until 4 AM.”

“Polka should be illegal after midnight,” Maya said, deadpan.

Gabriel leaned into Thane. “You snored so hard last night the lamp fell off the nightstand.”

Thane nodded solemnly. “Good. That means I’m still alive.”

They sat in silence for a few beats, sipping bad coffee, eating worse breakfast, and watching the single waffle machine sputter like it wanted to be put out of its misery.

Eventually, Mark broke the quiet with a sigh. “So… what time is load-in?”

Thane checked the time and winced. “We need to be rolling out in ten.”

Gabriel stood up, still clutching his coffee. “LET’S GOOOOOO!”

Maya didn’t move. “I dare someone to try to make me leave this booth.”

Rico groaned. “Do they make tour insurance for emotional damage?”

Jonah, still chewing: “I think that’s called tequila.”

As the team slowly rose and shuffled toward the door—bags dragging, breakfast regrets mounting—Gabriel was already halfway to the van, tail high and singing some off-key pop song with alarming confidence.

Mark took one last swig of his lukewarm coffee, sighed, and muttered, “Day two of the chaos parade.”

Thane gave him a sideways grin. “We march with claws.”