Three Werewolves: Tour Blog

The meet and greet tent behind the Desert Howl main stage was electric, buzzing with fans still high off the show. A long line twisted out the back flap and down the pathway, filled with screaming teens, giddy adults, and at least one guy in a full-body LED wolf suit.

Gabriel signed posters with a relaxed grin, tail wagging lazily. Thane stood beside him, arms crossed, his ice-blue eyes scanning the crowd for trouble out of habit. Mark sat off to the side, quietly sipping water and fixing a minor glitch in the band’s lighting sequence on his tablet.

Then came the moment.

Maya, mid-signature on someone’s guitar case, heard a voice shout from the back of the line:
“¡AY DIOS MÍO, LOOK AT MY BABY ON HER THRONE!”

Her head jerked up.

“Noooo way,” she whispered.

From between two stunned security guards emerged a woman in her fifties, short, stout, with fire in her eyes and red lipstick that could melt steel. A long braid hung over her shoulder, bouncing as she marched forward in wedge heels and a bedazzled denim jacket that read “Mamacita Feroz” across the back.

“MOM?!” Maya yelped, already blushing.

“I told you I’d come see your little rock band someday!”

Gabriel choked on his water. Cassie damn near fell out of her chair.

The security guards looked to Thane, who just shrugged and smiled. “She’s fine. That’s a mami, not a threat.”

Maya’s mom charged in, tackled her daughter in a bone-crushing hug, then turned to the rest of the band like she’d been managing them for years.

“¡Ustedes son geniales! That light thing, the sky-wolf, the fire—Maya, baby, you did that?!”

“Lighting’s Mark,” Maya muttered, still red.

“Pues then Mark, you little genius, if I had three more of you, I’d replace my IT department!”

Mark blinked. “…Thanks?”

The crowd loved it.

Until he showed up.

Bret. Vandal Saints’ own walking ego blister. He strutted through the tent flap uninvited, sunglasses on despite the dusk, and zeroed in on Gabriel and Thane.

“You think you’ve won something? That crowd’ll move on. They always do. You’re a damn meme band.”

Gabriel started to rise. Thane already had one hand curled into a claw.

But before either of them could move, Maya’s mom slammed her purse on the table and stepped forward.

“OYE, CLOWN SHOES!”

The entire tent fell silent.

Bret blinked. “Excuse me?”

She advanced like a bull.

“You come in here, throwing shade at these kids who EARNED their fans? You’re just mad nobody wants to hear your whiny little man-baby sob rock! What’s your band’s name again? Vaginal Stains?”

The tent exploded with laughter.

Bret turned bright red. “It’s VANDAL SAINTS.”

“Ah, perdóname, pendejo,” she fired back. “I forgot. Because nobody cares!”

Cassie covered her mouth. Jonah fell off his stool. Mark simply whispered, “Good grief,” without blinking.

Maya buried her face in her hands. “Mami, please—”

“No, no. Let me finish.”

She jabbed a manicured finger in Bret’s chest.

“You think these people made it ’cause of luck? Gabriel played with his fingers BLEEDING. Thane runs sound tighter than my Tupperware lid drawer. And Maya? Maya grew up watching me work three jobs and still never complain—so don’t you EVER try to cut her down, cabrón.”

Gabriel whispered, wide-eyed, “…Can we hire her?”

Bret backed out of the tent with a muttered curse and nearly walked into the same security guard who’d let Maya’s mom through.

She turned back to the crowd, blew kisses, and grinned. “Now. Who wants a selfie with Mama Feroz?”

Pandemonium.

Maya, hiding her face, muttered to Thane, “I’m never living this down.”

Thane patted her on the shoulder. “You’re not. But damn if she didn’t make a fan outta me.”

Mark, still fixing a script on his tablet, chimed in, “That was… deeply efficient.”

Maya groaned.

Cassie giggled. “So… can she come to all our shows?”

Gabriel just howled with laughter.

The lights went dark.

Not dim — dark.

Across the massive desert crowd, a sudden hush rippled like a shockwave as the giant LED wall went black. Then, a single vertical slash of light split the screen — a slow, burning silver claw mark across total blackness.

The crowd erupted.

Drums thundered. Spotlights flared. Pyro cannons spat twin fireballs skyward as the screen exploded to life with a pulse-pounding montage of wolves, storms, and the glowing red logo of Feral Eclipse.

And then… they were there.

Gabriel stepped into the blast of white light with his bass slung low, tail lashing behind him, silhouette outlined in mist and heat shimmer. The crowd surged forward like the tide. He didn’t speak — just locked his icy blue eyes on the roaring mass of fans and struck the opening chord of Howl Reborn with enough punch to make the ground shake.

Mark, stoic and laser-focused, stood elevated behind the lighting rig, fingers flying over his board like a pianist with fangs. Each drop of the beat triggered laser blasts and pulsing red lights that carved through the fog like a heartbeat. He didn’t smile… but his ears twitched in satisfaction every time the crowd screamed louder.

Jonah launched into the drums like a madman. Cassie’s vocals hit like thunder. Rico’s guitar sliced through the chaos with precision, and Maya—fierce and radiant—fueled the storm beside him.

But it was Gabriel’s solo that lit the spark.

Midway through the third song, the lights dimmed save a single spotlight on him. He stepped to the front of the stage — crowd screaming his name — and ripped a wicked bass solo with a wild grin. A howl rose behind him, echoed by fans across the whole arena.

Thane, perched near the monitors, caught his bandmate’s eye and gave the smallest nod.

Gabriel’s fingers blurred across the strings of his red Ernie Ball DarkRay 5, black pickguard flashing under the lights. It was raw, it was perfect, and it ended with him leaping from a riser as flames burst in a ring behind him.

The howl that followed could’ve cracked concrete.

---

Back at the front barricade, somewhere among the crush of screaming fans, a familiar pair of figures stood watching:

Rowan and his father.

The boy wore a new tour hoodie three sizes too big, his eyes lit with joy. When Gabriel saw him, he gave a wink mid-song — and the LED wall immediately cut to Rowan, front and center, beaming into the camera.

The crowd went nuts.

---

The finale was absolute chaos.

Fireworks. Lasers. A synchronized drone show spelling “FERAL” above the desert sky.

And as the last note echoed into the heat-heavy air, Thane took the backstage mic.

“We’re Feral Eclipse,” he growled low, voice like thunder, “and this world’s been asleep too long.”

He dropped the mic.

The lights went out.

Silence… and then a roar of howls that lasted two full minutes.

The sun had dipped low enough to bake the Saints into silence. Their failed side-stage set had wrapped with a sad, sputtering cover of their only semi-viral song, played to a grand total of twelve disinterested campers and one dude selling corn dogs.

Backstage, tension buzzed hotter than the desert air.

Bret stormed into the shared artist tent, still shirtless, still sweating, and now sporting a visible sunburn that made him look like a cooked shrimp in distressed denim.

Gabriel was mid-laugh with Maya and Jonah when the flap whipped open. His ears twitched.

“Oh hell,” Maya muttered.

Bret stomped up, voice already raised. “I don’t care how many drones or light shows or goddamn howling fans you’ve got—you’re a gimmick. Nothing but claws, eyeliner, and PR stunts.”

Gabriel’s smile didn’t budge. He just leaned back against a gear crate, arms folded, icy blue eyes locked on target. “Aw, Bret. Rough crowd out there today?”

“Go to hell,” Bret snapped, pointing a finger in Gabriel’s face. “You’re just a flavor of the month. You’ll burn out and the world’ll forget you.”

Gabriel gave a slow, infuriating grin. “If we’re so forgettable, why are you this mad we played after you?”

Bret turned scarlet — partly from rage, partly from the sunburn — and shoved Gabriel in the chest.

And that’s when it happened.

Not a punch. Not a brawl.

Just one sound.

A deep, guttural, warning growl.

From right behind him.

Bret froze.

Very slowly, he turned.

Thane was standing there.

Six-foot-two. Muscular. Broad. Brown-furred with flecks of gray. Clawed hands half-curled, ice-blue eyes glowing faintly in the filtered light of the tent.

Not saying a word.

Just watching.

The growl rumbled again, just under his breath — low and ancient and undeniably predatory.

Bret’s finger dropped. His bravado crumbled like a dry leaf.

Mark appeared in the background holding a sandwich and muttered, “That’s what happens when you run bad code on a garbage system.”

Gabriel leaned in, just a breath away from Bret’s face, and whispered, “You’ve got five seconds to walk away. Or I let him finish the sentence.”

Bret backed up. Fast.

He almost tripped over a folding chair on the way out. Someone near the stage curtain snickered, and a crew member who’d caught the whole thing on their phone immediately started uploading it.

The video would later be titled:
“When You Step To The Pack… And The Pack Steps Back.”

---

A moment later, Mark took a bite of his sandwich and grunted, “Ten bucks says that clip hits a million before midnight.”

Gabriel grinned as he clapped Thane on the shoulder. “You didn’t even raise a claw.”

Thane just shrugged. “Didn’t have to.”

The sun blazed like a vengeful god over the dusty grounds of the Desert Howl Festival — an outdoor rock-and-metal bacchanal held in a sprawling patch of scrubland east of Palm Springs. Massive scaffolds towered over the dunes, strung with LED panels and flame cannons. Tents stretched for miles. Fans wore everything from band merch to full-body wolf fursuits, already dancing, moshing, and shouting as the first afternoon acts wrapped up.

Backstage, chaos brewed.

The Saints had arrived.

---

Vandal Saints’ tour van rolled into the staff lot three hours late, sun-bleached, dusty, and aggressively idling with a crooked bumper and two different wheels on the driver’s side. The bass player was passed out with a Slurpee stuck to his forehead. Their lead singer, Bret, stomped out first — already shirtless, already scowling.

He looked around at the flurry of crew members setting up the headlining act’s rig.

Feral Eclipse.

And there it was — their name in ten-foot letters across the top of the main stage’s lighting truss. Below it, an enormous LED wall played looping highlights of previous shows: fire, fans, rooftop tributes, and Gabriel mid-air, bass slung low, howling into a sea of screaming people.

Bret’s jaw locked.

“They’ve got pyro?” he snapped.

“They’ve got drone coverage,” their manager replied grimly.

“And a damn howl pit cam!” added their drummer, pointing to a rigged GoPro being lowered over the crowd zone like it was setting up for a championship match.

Bret turned and spat on the dirt. “Unbelievable. We should’ve never agreed to open for a bunch of furry freaks.”

The crew tech nearby — wearing a “Team Thane” T-shirt — didn’t even blink. “You guys are on the side stage. First slot.”

Bret spun. “WHAT?!”

“Yeah,” the guy said flatly. “Feral Eclipse requested extra rig time and crowd flow control, so your set got moved. It’s, like… a 3 p.m. slot now.”

“In the sun?” Bret shrieked. “No lighting?! No visuals?!”

“No crowd,” the tech muttered under his breath.

---

And he was right.

By the time the Saints hit their first note, they were playing to a sunburned row of lawn chairs and three fans — two of whom were clearly just using the shade behind the speaker stacks to nap. Every scream from the far-off main stage only made their own vocals sound flatter.

Meanwhile, Feral Eclipse was just arriving — greeted like rock royalty by a sea of fans at the security barricade, phones raised, chants echoing:
“FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!”

---

Backstage, Thane stood under the tailgate of the tour van, arms crossed, watching the dust swirl behind the Saints’ side stage. He heard the mic feedback from across the grounds — a painful screech followed by someone yelling “Aw, come on!” into a dead channel.

Gabriel wandered over, sipping an iced coffee and smirking. “Think they’ll make it to the end of their set?”

“Doesn’t matter,” Thane said. “Nobody’s watching.”

Mark wandered up holding his tablet and snorted. “Correction. Two thousand people are watching… through the livestream titled ‘Vandal Saints Get Cooked Alive in the Desert.’”

Gabriel cackled. “Damn. That sun’s not the only thing scorching them today.”

Thane just chuckled. “Play stupid games…”

Gabriel grinned back. “Win Feral Eclipse.”

They were supposed to be grabbing coffee.

That’s it. Just coffee. One calm morning, no crowds, no chaos — just Thane, Gabriel, and Mark ducking into a hip little indie shop called The Howling Bean (yes, they picked it for the name), trying to exist like normal people.

It lasted all of three minutes.

Thane had just gotten the lid on Gabriel’s triple-shot macadamia cold brew when someone outside shrieked, “OH MY GOD IT’S THEM!”

Thane tensed. Mark sighed. Gabriel turned with a hopeful grin. “Maybe it’s a nice shriek this time?”

It wasn’t.

Because barreling down the sidewalk was a shirtless guy in neon green body paint, wearing paper mâché wolf ears and dragging behind him a banner that read “MOUNT ME, GABRIEL!” in hand-scrawled glitter paint.

Mark blinked. “What the actual—”

“WOLF BOMB!” the fan shouted, launching himself off a sidewalk planter toward the café window like it was a wrestling ring ropes setup.

“NOPE!” Thane shouted, lunging forward with speed only a werewolf could pull off.

He caught the guy midair in a full-claw chest grab and planted him into the pavement just inches from the front window — not hard enough to hurt him, but firmly enough to break the momentum and his dignity.

The guy wheezed.

The entire café froze.

Gabriel stepped up beside Thane, coffee in one hand, shaking his head with mock pity. “You really committed to the bit, huh?”

“Th-thought you’d be impressed…” the guy croaked.

“Oh, I’m impressed,” Gabriel said. “But mostly by Thane’s ability to not yeet you into the next zip code.”

---

Within hours, the incident was everywhere.

📸 A customer inside had caught the whole thing on video and uploaded it under the title:
“Werewolf Body Slam: Feral Eclipse Fan Tries To Impress Gabriel, Gets Yeeted By Security Bandmate”

🧃 A smoothie brand quote-tweeted it and offered Thane a sponsorship.

📺 TMZ tried to run it as “Feral Eclipse Fan Violence Scandal” — until a follow-up clip showed Gabriel helping the guy up and giving him a fist bump, followed by Thane offering to pay for his hospital bill (which turned out to be just a scraped elbow and bruised pride).

🐺 Fan art of Yeetwolf Thane became a meme within the day.

---

Back in the van that night, Mark was cackling while watching one of the animated re-creations on his tablet.

“This one’s got you doing a spinning suplex,” he said to Thane. “With glitter trails.”

Gabriel leaned against Thane’s shoulder, laughing. “You’re a legend now, my wolf. Hope you’re ready for more acrobatics.”

Thane groaned and muttered into his claws. “Next time I’m bringing a net.”

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.

The house lights dropped like a hammer.

A split second of darkness… then boom — the first hit of pyro ignited in a vertical plume of flame as the stage exploded into red. Spotlights ripped through the fog like hunting beams, and the crowd lost their minds.

From the haze emerged the unmistakable silhouette of Gabriel — tall, lean, and absolutely electric in a black sleeveless tee, claws curled around his Ernie Ball DarkRay 5 like it was a living thing. Behind him, Thane stepped out into a wash of icy blue light, jeans scuffed from the road, black polo tight across his shoulders, claws flexed and eyes locked on the roaring crowd.

The sound that followed was seismic.

Cassie’s voice soared as they launched into “Wolves Awake,” the opening track from their upcoming album — a driving, snarling anthem that hit with the force of a freight train. Jonah’s kit lit up with programmable LEDs synced to every beat, and Mark had rigged vertical trusses with moving head beams that scanned the crowd like sentient floodlights.

“THIS IS SAN DIEGOOO!” Cassie screamed between verses, and the entire amphitheater shouted it right back.

---

Rico tore into his solo during “Midnight Collapse”, sparks flying — literally — as the new stage rig dropped a curtain of cold pyro behind him. Maya and Cassie stood back-to-back, guitars screaming, silhouetted in rotating blue strobes. Every camera phone in the crowd was locked on.

Gabriel didn’t just play — he prowled. His basslines growled and throbbed through the subwoofers like heartbeat thunder. At one point, during “Howlcore”, he stepped up onto a riser at the edge of the stage and pointed directly at a cluster of fans in the pit.

“You’re pack now!” he roared.

They howled back.

Thane was everywhere — checking mics on the fly, adjusting monitor levels, giving hand signals from behind the amp stacks, and still finding time to stand beside Gabriel during “Blood Anthem” for a spine-shaking chorus that had fans weeping and headbanging at the same time.

---

And then came the closer.

The lights dimmed. The crowd held its breath.

Cassie stepped forward slowly, the first soft chords of “Run With Me” echoing through the night air. But this wasn’t the acoustic rooftop version — this was the full, fiery, soul-splitting storm version.

A video montage played across the massive LED backdrop — fan-submitted clips, rooftop footage, and that silent hug between Gabriel and Rowan. As the final chorus hit, the entire crowd raised their arms in a tidal wave of movement, singing back every single word.

Tears. Cheers. Fire.

When the lights went out, the silence lasted a full five seconds before the scream returned.

It was deafening.

---

Backstage, soaked in sweat and grins, Gabriel collapsed onto the nearest bench and gasped, “I’m gonna need another root beer and a ten-minute nap.”

Thane handed him a towel and a chilled bottle. “Or both at once.”

Mark looked up from his tablet, still processing the camera feeds. “Y’know what this show looked like?”

Gabriel leaned in. “A freakin’ thunderstorm with guitars?”

Mark smirked. “No. It looked like a band that can sell out Madison Square Garden.”

The walls behind the San Diego stage pulsed faintly with bass vibrations — each kick of Jonah’s drum during soundcheck rattling the metal braces and fiberboard like a distant storm. The crowd hadn’t even seen the band yet, and already they were screaming loud enough to shake the rafters.

Backstage, the band was scattered — Maya pacing in circles with her guitar, Rico adjusting a pedalboard for the sixth time. Mark was double-checking the DMX sequences at a folding table nearby. Gabriel had vanished moments earlier, mumbling something about needing to pee and definitely not getting nervous.

Thane stood near the wing curtain, arms folded, clawed feet planted wide, just soaking it in.

Then a stranger walked in.

Clean-cut, collared shirt, laminated badge clipped to a polished belt. Not security. Not press.

Label rep.

Thane stiffened as the man casually approached.

“You’re Thane, right?” the guy asked, all smiles and perfectly practiced warmth.

Thane gave him a slow look up and down. “Who’s asking?”

“Just someone with an opportunity,” he said smoothly, sliding a card from his pocket like a magician. “Colt Rainer. A&R. Apex Records.”

Mark groaned from the rigging table without looking up. “Tell him we already have a label. It’s called ‘screw you, we’re wolves.’”

Colt chuckled. “Cute. But come on, guys. Viral videos, rooftop concerts, sold-out tours — I’ve got execs begging to sign you before you bolt to Europe or Asia.”

Gabriel reappeared behind Thane, towel around his neck, eyebrow raised. “Oh, we’re international now?”

“You could be,” Colt said smoothly, already launching into his pitch. “Full creative control. Unlimited studio time. Worldwide promo. Stadium partnerships. And Rowan? We’d make him a mascot—hell, a whole docuseries. This could go global overnight.”

Thane took the card.

Then ripped it clean in half.

“No thanks,” he said quietly. “We already went global the night that boy gave us his heart.”

Colt blinked. “You’re seriously turning down —”

Gabriel stepped forward, eyes flashing, voice low. “You heard my bandmate. Now get out before I let the fans in here.”

Colt paled slightly and made a quick retreat, brushing past Maya who offered a chipper “Bless your heart” and absolutely no smile.

---

Back in the prep zone, the whole band grinned.

Cassie rolled her eyes. “They never stop, do they?”

Thane smirked and looked toward Gabriel, who was already heading for the stage entrance.

“Nope,” Thane said. “But we do.”

“Do what?” Jonah asked.

Gabriel turned, tail flicking.

“We play.”

The tour van pulled off the freeway into San Diego just after sunset, the sky soaked in violet and gold. Palm trees lined the boulevards like guards for a kingdom built on ocean air and rock ‘n roll dreams. The roar of beach traffic, neon bar signs, and distant music felt like an invitation.

Cassie peeked out the tinted window and grinned. “You smell that?”

Jonah sniffed. “Is that… fried fish and reefer?”

“No,” she said, eyes gleaming. “That’s the scent of a damn good crowd waiting for us.”

---

Outside the venue — an old coastal arena-turned-modern amphitheater — fans were already lined up in looping clusters, snapping photos of the fully wrapped tour van as it glided into the artist loading zone.

The band’s name stretched down the side like a claw slash across chrome: FERAL ECLIPSE — flanked by stylized silhouettes of the pack and blazing orange-red beams that shimmered under the streetlights.

Someone shouted, “THAT’S THEM!” and a small mob broke into cheers.

Inside, the green room was stocked, sleek, and echoing with last-minute soundchecks. Gabriel sat cross-legged on a couch, plucking gently at his backup bass with one ear cocked toward the door.

Thane paced slowly, scrolling on his tablet, reviewing audio feeds, setlists, and pre-show tech notes. He glanced toward Gabriel, who was humming softly between notes.

“You ready for this one, my wolf?”

Gabriel looked up with a spark in his eye. “Always.”

---

Outside, reporters jostled for better angles. One young journalist from a local station turned to her cameraman, nearly breathless.

“This show sold out in nineteen minutes. It’s their first time in San Diego and the venue literally had to upgrade the stage rigging just to accommodate their lighting load.”

Behind her, a drone buzzed up over the crowd for an aerial livestream. A fan in a Feral Eclipse tank top shouted, “ROWAN SENDS HIS LOVE!” and several people nearby howled in unison.

The energy was electric.

And back inside, Mark leaned into the control booth with a devilish grin. “Alright,” he muttered. “Let’s see how far we can push this system tonight.”

---

The crowd was chanting before the house lights even dropped.

“FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!”

And when they did?

The stage exploded in red.

The studio lights dimmed as the band’s clip played — that rooftop version of “Run With Me”, lit by LA starlight and raw emotion. The audience was dead silent. Not because they were bored. Because they were glued to it.

On-screen, the moment where Gabriel wrapped an arm around Rowan played again.

As the video faded, the camera swung back to the host of “The Crawley Hour Live!” — a smug-faced, salt-and-pepper-haired cynic who’d made headlines just a few weeks ago for sarcastically declaring:

“Feral Eclipse? More like Feral Ego. Give it two months and they’ll be back to busking with a cardboard sign.”

Tonight… he looked like he’d swallowed a lemon.

He cleared his throat and stared directly at the lens.

“Okay… so… I may have been a little harsh on the werewolves.”

Laughter rippled through the studio audience.

“I mean, don’t get me wrong,” he said, hands raised. “I still don’t understand how a band of clawed, barefoot, howling creatures has taken over the rock charts, and Billboard’s Top 10, and late night streaming. But after watching this…” He gestured toward the screen again. “…I get it.”

He leaned forward.

“That wasn’t a PR stunt. That wasn’t a label-pushed viral campaign. That was just… a pack. A real one. Taking care of someone who once believed in them when no one else did. And if that doesn’t make you feel something?” He paused. “Then you’re the beast, not them.”

The audience broke into applause.

He waited for the sound to die down, then grumbled, “Damn it. My producer said not to cry on air again…”

More laughter.

Then, surprisingly, he leaned back and cracked a small smile. “So here it is. I was wrong. They’re not just claws and fire and noise.”

He held up a glossy still image from the rooftop shoot — Gabriel and Rowan, side-by-side under the stars.

“They’re heart.”

---

Gabriel saw the clip the next morning while lounging shirtless on the couch in the van, tangled in a blanket Thane had tossed over him.

“Hey,” he said, ears flicking. “Crawley’s crying on camera again.”

Thane peered over from the kitchenette, sipping coffee. “Good.”

Mark, from the driver’s seat, just muttered, “Should’ve cried the first time.”