Three days after the awards show, the band was holed up in a quiet desert Airbnb somewhere near Palm Springs—a rare break in the storm, surrounded by dusty hills, blooming cacti, and the buzz of far-off cicadas. A chance to rest. Recharge. Maybe even do laundry.

They’d spent the morning lounging on a sun-bleached patio. Jonah floated face-down in the pool like an off-duty lifeguard. Maya was perched in a hammock scrolling hate-comments from angry music critics and replying with GIFs of flamethrowers. Cassie napped under a wide-brimmed hat with a paperback resting on her chest. Rico strummed acoustic guitar lazily, half-singing nonsense lyrics about coyotes and cheap tequila.

Thane was inside, at the table, laptop open, half-finished protein shake sweating beside him.

Gabriel wandered in, barepaw and shirtless, toweling off from the outdoor shower. “Please tell me we have, like, three more days of this.”

Thane didn’t look up. “Two.”

Gabriel flopped into a chair. “Ugh. That’s not enough. I haven’t even traumatized the cacti yet.”

Thane reached over and slid his screen so Gabriel could see the inbox. “Also… this.”

Gabriel squinted. “Who the hell is Brennan T. Halbrook and why does he sound like he owns a yacht named Dissertation?”

Thane scrolled. “Documentary director. Works with Rising Sun Films. Did that Foo Fighters piece. Wants to do a full-length doc on us.”

Gabriel blinked. “Us? Like… Feral Eclipse?”

“No,” Thane said dryly. “The other werewolf-led arena rock band.”

Gabriel reached for the shake, took a sip, made a face, and passed it back. “Are they… serious?”

Thane scrolled further. “They sent a proposal. Said our ‘meteoric rise, unconventional band dynamics, and supernatural presence offer a once-in-a-generation story arc.’”

Gabriel nearly spit out his next laugh. “Did they watch us?”

“They saw the award show performance,” Thane said. “Called it ‘the most anarchic televised event since the Moonlight-La La Land mix-up.’”

Gabriel was already texting the others. “Oh, we’re so doing this.”

Twenty minutes later, the band had gathered inside, in various degrees of disbelief and sunburn. Mark leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, staring like someone had suggested filming a documentary on radioactive squirrels.

“They want to film everything?” Jonah asked.

“Rehearsals. Interviews. Fan interactions,” Thane said, glancing at the email again. “Maybe some family backstory. On-the-road moments. The works.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow. “You think they know what they’re getting into?”

“Nope,” Thane replied. “Not a clue.”

Gabriel stretched his arms overhead, tail flicking in excitement. “We’ll be legends.”

“You’ll be a blooper reel,” Maya muttered.

Mark sipped his soda. “Let me guess… they want to start tomorrow.”

Thane didn’t even flinch. “They land at LAX in twelve hours.”

Groans all around.

Gabriel grinned. “Better hide the chaos while we still can.”

Jonah grabbed a sharpie and wrote “WELCOME TO THE HOWL ZONE” on the back of a pizza box.

“Or,” he added, “we just lean into it.”

Thane chuckled. “No leaning required. Just don’t scare the interns.”

Mark grunted. “No promises.”

And with that, the band packed up the quiet… and prepared to give the world a front-row seat to their beautifully unhinged reality.