The Den was nearly finished.
It stood like a monument rising from the Oklahoma prairie, hulking and beautiful in its angular black-and-silver skin. The bones of the beast were steel and glass, wrapped around a massive central arena and flanked by soaring LED towers that would soon blaze the sky with the Feral Eclipse logo. Massive fog-friendly ventilation grilles ran discreetly through the rafters. Exterior landscaping was underway—though the presence of Gabriel had stalled progress more than once when he mistook decorative stone piles for “potential wolf napping zones.”
Two weeks out, the worksite still buzzed with motion, voices, and just enough danger to make the safety officer consider early retirement.
Inside the main arena, Thane stood with his arms folded and tablet in hand, eyes sharp and posture tense as a massive rolling truss moved into final position overhead. Above him, high-speed motors whined softly as the rigging came to rest with surgical precision. Rows of VariLite VL2600s glinted from the newly mounted bars, each secured and wired with obsessive care.
Mark stood at the lighting console, checking DMX line routing for the third time that morning. A red Sharpie dangled from his clawed fingers as he double-checked his personal cue notes, muttering under his breath.
“Red wash. Center tilt. Downstage haze split. If anyone touches this, I will bite.”
Thane smirked faintly. “Noted.”
A crash echoed from backstage. Not heavy—just a metallic clatter.
“Jonah?” Thane called.
“Everything’s fine!” came the reply. “Nothing was on fire!”
Thane paused. “Was something almost on fire?”
“Technically, no!”
Technically.
The final milestones checklist had grown smaller by the day. Seating? Installed. Sound system? Tuned. Emergency lighting? Tested. Pyro safety? Certified, much to the dismay of everyone hoping for “just a little more fire.”
Even the backstage rooms were coming together. The green room now had velvet couches, a stocked fridge, a custom arcade cabinet Jonah built from scrap plywood, and a framed sign on the wall that read NO DRUM SOLOS BEFORE 10AM.
The dressing rooms were individually themed. Cassie’s was all velvet and black leather. Maya’s had incense, mirror lights, and a “NO BOYS ALLOWED (Except Rico)” sign. Rico’s was chaos incarnate, decorated with band posters, guitar strings, and a couch that somehow always had a cat on it. Gabriel’s was still just a pile of beanbags and Christmas lights.
Mark’s had blackout curtains and silence.
Thane didn’t have one. He had a server closet and a walkie.
The final load-in began that Monday morning. Production gear rolled in on trucks while sound engineers and lighting techs buzzed like bees across the floor. Diesel took over loading dock logistics with brutal efficiency, barking orders and double-checking crate manifests like he’d been born in a warehouse.
Emily ran cables with a harness around her waist and a grin on her face, swinging across catwalks like a pint-sized stage ninja.
Even Earl the kitten had a hardhat now. Gabriel fashioned it out of a soda can and duct tape. It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
Then came the Great Banner Incident.
With the clock ticking and the last media walkthrough scheduled for the next day, Gabriel insisted that the banner behind the main stage wasn’t “epic enough.” So he climbed the lift with three extra rolls of vinyl and a bucket of glow paint.
Twenty minutes later, the entire upper backdrop was coated in phosphorescent claw marks.
“It looks like a glowing bear got drunk and lost a fight with a fog machine,” Thane muttered.
Gabriel beamed. “So… it’s perfect?”
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t see it until after the press leaves.”
Mark deadpanned, “I’m not even mad. This is the exact level of chaos I expected.”
That afternoon, the city inspector returned for the final walkthrough. Same guy. Same clipboard. Slightly more dead inside.
Thane met him at the front doors with a firm handshake and a thin smile. “No tunnels this time.”
“I’m still not sure I believe you,” the inspector replied, stepping into the echoing lobby where polished concrete floors met dark metal arches. “This place looks like a Bond villain’s concert hall.”
“We consider that a compliment.”
Behind them, Gabriel passed through the hall dragging a box labeled “WOLF-FLAVORED SNACKS – NOT ACTUAL WOLF” and waved enthusiastically.
The inspector did not wave back.
By early evening, the final checks were marked green. The HVAC was humming. The box office kiosk went live. The floor crew cleaned every square inch, down to the scuffed vinyl that Jonah insisted gave “character.”
At the edge of the main floor, Thane stood beside Mark and Gabriel, watching the crew filter out through the wide doors, all of them pausing to glance back once—like they were leaving something sacred behind.
Gabriel let out a low whistle.
“Hard to believe we built this.”
Mark folded his arms, fur catching the last light from the roofline.
“We didn’t just build it,” he said quietly. “We earned it.”
Thane looked up at the towering steel above them, at the thousands of empty seats waiting to be filled, and then down at the clipboard he finally didn’t need anymore.
“No more rentals,” he said.
Gabriel grinned wide, arm slung around both of them. “No more crash couches. No more wondering if we’ll fit in someone else’s spotlight.”
Thane smiled, soft and tired. “This one’s all ours.”
The Den was finished.
And opening night was coming.
Ready to roll into the grand opening performance scene next? Because this show’s about to blow the roof off Edmond.