The house lights dropped. A low rumble coursed through the stadium. Murmurs of the crowd grew into a rolling tide of anticipation. The massive LED wall lit up in a crimson glow as the Feral Eclipse logo burst to life—claws slashing through light, sound, and sanity.

Behind the black curtain, the band stood together—werewolves and humans alike, shoulder to shoulder in the breathless seconds before chaos.

Thane adjusted the strap of his utility harness, one hand coiled around the thick black audio cable like a weapon. His ice-blue eyes burned. Gabriel stood beside him, bass guitar slung across his shoulder, grinning like a demon with a caffeine IV. Mark towered nearby, arms folded, legs braced like a statue built for war.

“Let’s tear their souls out,” Thane growled, loud enough for only his pack to hear.

Jonah, drumsticks spinning in his fingers, grinned. “Wasn’t planning to do anything less.”

Maya cracked her knuckles, already halfway snarling in anticipation. “Time to remind the world who we are.”

Rico double-checked his guitar tuning one last time. “If I puke, just play around it.”

The curtain snapped upward with a hydraulic hiss.

A wall of white-hot light exploded over the crowd.

And Feral Eclipse erupted.

Mark launched the light rig into overdrive—six VariLite VL2Bs mounted along the truss above the stage fired pulsing red beams down into the fog, slicing through smoke and madness like laser fangs. The strobes kicked into sync with the first beat.

Gabriel exploded forward, feet pounding the stage, claws digging into the plywood as he slammed the opening bass riff hard enough to rattle teeth in the cheap seats. His hair flared behind him like a shadowy halo. He screamed wordlessly into the roar of the crowd, feeding off their wild energy like fire on gasoline.

Maya, planted to Gabriel’s left, had transformed into a literal rhythm machine—her fingers a blur on the strings, body rolling with each hard riff. She looked feral in her own way, fire blazing in her eyes.

Rico’s solos screamed over the top of it all—beautiful chaos woven into thunder.

Jonah was a human blur behind the kit, sweat flying from his arms like rain in a hurricane.

And Mark—oh, Mark—was a one-man lighting apocalypse. He sent pulsing reds, savage whites, and shadowy blues blasting across the crowd in waves that matched the beat so tightly the audience could feel the rhythm in their ribs.

The crowd? Lost their damn minds.

People screamed, cried, threw shirts, waved clawed hand signs. Several fans in the front row were howling—literally howling—along with Gabriel as he leaned out over the barricade, baring his fangs and slapping hands with total strangers like he’d known them all his life.

By the time they reached their third song, “Lunar Burn,” the entire crowd was bouncing in unison, an ocean of bodies worshiping at the altar of claws and chords.

And then—mid-song, no warning—Thane flipped the fog cannons to full.

A flood of low-lying fog spilled across the stage. The red beams from above tore through it, slicing through the mist like blades. Gabriel stood dead center in it, bass slung low, eyes glowing like embers as he lifted his arms and howled.

The crowd howled back.

No music.

Just that moment.

That shared madness.

Then—BOOM. Jonah’s drumline kicked in. Maya screamed into the chorus. Rico spun into a solo so hot it should’ve come with a warning label.

They had something here.

Something real.

After the final encore, the lights dimmed. The crowd screamed for more, even as the stage went dark.

And in the shadows, Gabriel leaned over to Thane and whispered, breathless:

“We’re not a band anymore.”

Thane tilted his head. “Oh?”

Gabriel grinned wide, fangs flashing.

“We’re a goddamn movement.”