The Electric Grove Theater was buzzing.

People packed every row—some leaning over the balcony railings, others gathered near the front of the pit, hands curled around drink cups and merch bags. The stage sat quiet and expectant, lit by soft amber washes. A single fog streamer drifted lazily through the air like a ghost waiting for its cue.

From the third row, a teenage girl with a sketchbook in her lap whispered to her friend, “That’s the real Gabriel, right? Like… that’s not a costume?”

The friend nodded. “They’re always like that. Real werewolves. No shifting, no suits. That’s just them.”

A guy in his twenties stood nearby wearing an older tour shirt, sleeves rolled up, arms folded tight. “I saw ’em play at a dive in Oklahoma two years ago. They blew the roof off that place. Literally. The lights caught fire.”

Laughter. Murmurs. A rising hum of expectation.

Then—

The house lights dropped.

And a low, reverberating bass note rolled through the theater like thunder.

From the shadows, a single red spotlight blinked on.

Mark. Back of house. Lighting desk. Calm, surgical hands. He sent a sweep of crimson arcs crawling across the crowd like searching eyes. The fog pulsed. Anticipation twisted into electricity.

Then the curtain rose.

They came out in silhouette—Cassie front and center, one hand raised, mic in hand, fire in her stance. Behind her, Rico and Maya flanked the stage, guitars slung, power barely restrained.

Jonah kicked the beat in with a sharp, rattling burst of drums that hit like a body slam.

Then the bass.

Gabriel. Black fur shining under the strobes, claws dancing across the strings like poetry and violence mixed together. The crowd howled.

The sound erupted—tight, clean, massive. The kind of mix that makes your chest vibrate and your bones want to dance. Every voice, every string, every cymbal mattered.

The girl in the third row stared, wide-eyed, sketchbook forgotten.
“They’re not just a band,” she whispered. “They’re… a pack.”

During the breakdown of the second song, Cassie growled into the mic—feral and flawless. The lights cut out for just half a beat.

And when they slammed back on, every single spotlight hit Gabriel, who stood with his arms wide, tail whipping, teeth flashing in a perfect, chaotic grin.

The place exploded.

By the third track, fans were climbing on seats, chanting along. The man with the tour shirt was headbanging with tears in his eyes.

Even the ushers had given up trying to keep people in line.

And at the side of the house, near the tech booth, that same little boy from the plaza the day before sat on his dad’s shoulders—sound-reducing earplugs in, hands waving with pure joy.

The dad looked over at him, smiling.

Then back to the wings at side stage, where a brown-furred werewolf adjusted the mix and locked eyes with him—just for a second.

Thane gave him a nod.

The man nodded back.