The crowd inside the venue was a roaring, electric sea of black t-shirts, homemade signs, and pure devotion.
Every seat packed.
Every inch of floor swaying.
And on the very edge of the front row, the police chief’s son beamed like the sun itself—wearing a vintage Feral Eclipse hoodie and holding a cardboard sign that said:
“My Dad Thinks Y’all Are Loud. I Think Y’all Are EVERYTHING.”
Backstage, Gabriel cracked his neck, tail flicking. “Alright. Let’s do this.”
Cassie checked her mic, narrowed her eyes toward the rising screams. “They’re starving out there.”
Mark, from the lighting booth: “Let’s feed ‘em.”
Thane gave one final nod. “Let’s rock.”
But just as the intro music rolled — just as fog machines hissed and the first strobe snapped —
BOOM.
Everything. Went. Black.
The amps silenced.
The lights died.
The crowd gasped like one organism losing its breath.
Inside the pitch dark, Gabriel muttered, “…That wasn’t us, right?”
From backstage, Emily’s voice: “Guys, we’ve lost mains. Like… outside.”
Diesel cracked the back door just as the emergency lights kicked in — and saw it:
A protestor.
Older, bearded, absolutely unhinged—swinging a FIRE AXE into the venue’s main electrical disconnect, arcing sparks everywhere. Screaming something about salvation and wolves of the apocalypse.
And just as he swung again —
ZAP.
He crumpled like a sack of potatoes, smoking, groaning, but somehow still alive.
And charging at him across the parking lot like a freight train of law and fury:
The Chief of Police.
“YOU MADE MY SON CRY!”
The zealot didn’t make it two feet before the chief full-body tackled him to the gravel with the kind of force reserved for football finals and righteous parental rage.
The crowd hadn’t seen what happened — just that the show had stopped.
Inside the venue, chaos brewed. Fans chanting “FERAL! FERAL!” Others asking what was going on. Lights flickering. Kids crying. Phones up.
Thane stepped out the back door, ice-blue eyes locked on the scorched power box.
He turned to the chief, who was still breathing heavy, cuffing the half-conscious zealot with unnecessary enthusiasm.
“Easy,” Thane said quietly. “He believed something too hard to see the truth. It doesn’t make him right — but it makes him… human.”
The chief stood, still bristling.
“My son was happy,” he growled. “This lunatic tried to take that away.”
Thane nodded once. “Then let’s give it back to him.”
He turned, knelt down by the fried panel, claws glinting in the emergency light.
Diesel hovered nearby. “You’re not gonna touch that thing —”
“I’ve seen worse,” Thane muttered.
He pulled a crescent wrench from his back pocket. Found an old screwdriver buried in the tool bin by the loading ramp.
Gabriel poked his head out. “Are those… fuses?”
“Nope,” Thane growled. “But they’ll do.”
With careful movements, sparks crackling just inches away from his muzzle, Thane rigged the connection.
Click.
Whine.
THUNK.
The power surged back online.
The amps kicked.
The lights strobed.
And the venue ERUPTED.
Onstage moments later:
The band stood in a line under the lights — smoke curling up from the floor like ghosts on fire.
Cassie raised the mic, grinning like a beast about to break the world open.
“Somebody tried to shut us down tonight.”
The crowd BOOED.
“Didn’t work.”
SCREAMS.
Cassie pointed toward the soundboard, where Thane stood like a battle-worn sentinel, claws still faintly singed.
“Because nothing — not hate, not fear, not fire axes — is gonna stop this pack.”
The first note dropped like thunder.
The fans lost their minds.
The police chief’s kid wept openly and danced harder than anyone in the room.
And under the stage lights, with cables humming and voices raised, Feral Eclipse tore through the most cathartic, fierce, soul-ripping set they had ever played. The crowd inside the venue was a roaring, electric sea of black t-shirts, homemade signs, and pure devotion.