The day rolled on like a freight train — gear moved, mics were checked, and fans outside the arena were already howling every time someone so much as cracked a stage door. Inside, the mood was electric. The opener sets were tight, loud, and full of nervous energy. Everyone knew what night this was. Feral Eclipse wasn’t just headlining—it was an arrival.
Thane was finishing the final sound check cues while Emily prepped her camera rig side-stage. Mark had vanished into the catwalks to set his opening lighting sequence. And Gabriel?
Gabriel was getting up to no good.
The moment Vandal Saints took the stage, Bret came out like he was launching a Vegas residency — dramatic arms, glittered mic, a long scream that might’ve once passed for cool. Gabriel was watching from the wings, sipping a cold brew and grinning like a kid at a clown show.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Bret shouted into the mic, “ARE YOU READY TO BURN THIS PLACE DOWN —”
Gabriel leaned just close enough to the comm mic line to whisper, “…with secondhand embarrassment?”
Emily snorted behind her hand.
The Vandal Saints drummer missed a beat.
Later, during a power chord breakdown, Gabriel made a finger-puppet version of Bret’s overdramatic hand gestures using two mic clips and whispered in perfect timing, “My music is pain, my eyeliner is rage.”
The backstage crew tried so hard not to laugh. One of the lighting guys choked on his gum.
That was the moment Thane appeared.
He stood behind Gabriel, arms crossed, ears slightly back, tail low.
“…Gabriel.”
The black-furred bassist froze mid-sip, claws hovering in the air.
“Yeah?”
“You having fun?”
“…maybe?”
Thane grabbed him by the scruff — not hard, just enough to haul him gently like a misbehaving pup — and guided him out of the wings with that quiet authority that always hit just a little deeper than yelling.
Inside the green room, Thane shut the door behind them.
“Gabriel,” he said, turning to face him, “you’re better than that.”
Gabriel scratched the back of his neck. “I mean, I didn’t say it to him…”
“That’s not the point.” Thane’s voice was calm but firm. “We’ve been on the other side of that kind of mockery. You remember what it felt like. People see us — werewolves — and treat us like freaks before we even plug in an amp.”
Gabriel’s ears drooped slightly. “…yeah.”
“And we didn’t get here by acting like them,” Thane added. “We got here because we play our hearts out and treat people right — even if they’re jerks in eyeliner.”
Gabriel winced. “Okay, that one was really good though.”
Thane cracked the tiniest smile. “It was. But still.”
Gabriel looked down, rubbing the back of his neck. “Alright. You’re right. I’ll fix it.”
Just as they returned to the wings, Vandal Saints finished their set. The applause was polite but tepid, and Bret’s final note cracked just enough to cause a ripple of sympathetic cringing backstage.
As the band came offstage, sweat-drenched and clearly irritated, Bret spotted Gabriel waiting.
“What now? Here to mock me in person?”
Gabriel held up both hands. “No. I was a jerk. I get it. You did your thing out there, and you deserve respect for it.”
He extended his hand.
A long pause.
Bret looked at it like it was covered in fleas.
Then he scoffed, brushed past, and stormed down the hallway.
The rest of the Saints followed, quieter, but not one of them spoke.
Gabriel let his arm fall and turned to Thane with a shrug. “I tried.”
Thane nodded. “That’s all that matters.”
From the main floor, a deep bassy chant started to rise — “FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!”
Thane turned toward the stage entrance. “Now… let’s go give them something they’ll never forget.”