The next morning, the band arrived bleary-eyed and still buzzed from Cassie’s accidental takeover at the venue. They’d been booked for a live on-air interview at a local alt-rock radio station—Z95.1 The Foxhole—known less for thoughtful music coverage and more for fart soundboards, obnoxious jingles, and DJs with names like “Dingo” and “The Badger.”

Feral Eclipse stepped into the cramped glass-walled studio at 7:45 a.m., greeted by the overpowering smell of coffee, artificial maple syrup, and whatever unholy body spray Dingo wore like war paint.

“YOOOOO!” Dingo howled, punching the “AIR HORN” button twice. “It’s your boys—and girls—and wolves—from the band that made last night explode harder than a diet soda in a dryer! Say it loud—it’s FERAL ECLIIIIIPSE!”

He mashed the soundboard again. Fart noise. Explosion. Goat scream.

Maya blinked slowly. “I already hate this.”

Cassie flopped into the interview couch, oversized sunglasses hiding the regret in her soul. “I could still be sleeping.”

Jonah groaned, nursing an energy drink. “I should still be sleeping.”

Gabriel was the only one beaming, tail swishing lazily as he leaned into the mic. “Morning, Foxhole!”

Dingo grinned. “So, uh… let’s get into it. For those of you who don’t know, Feral Eclipse is like… part human, part werewolf, part musical hurricane, am I right?”

Badger chimed in: “And last night y’all howled. Literal howling! That’s your gimmick, right?”

Thane leaned forward, eyebrows raised. “It’s not a gimmick. It’s just how we are.”

Dingo gave a wheezy laugh. “Sure, sure. But c’mon — what’s it really like sharing a stage with a bunch of howling, barefoot, clawed-up werewolves?”

There was a pause. A long one.

Maya took off her sunglasses, locked eyes with Dingo, and said in her calmest, most terrifying voice:
“Like standing in front of a speeding train made of teeth and distortion pedals.”

Cassie snorted. Jonah choked on his drink.

Thane grinned just enough to show fang. Gabriel wagged a finger playfully. “You poked the wrong female, Dingo.”

The interview spiraled from there.

They were asked if the band hunted groupies under the full moon.

Maya responded by asking if Dingo hunted brain cells in the dark.

Badger wanted to know if Gabriel’s claws helped him play bass better.

Gabriel shrugged. “Helps me open beer cans.”

Thane was asked if his job as a tech manager was “just plugging stuff in.”

His audio cable was in his hand faster than a viper strike. “Wanna find out what this does if I wrap it around your mic?”

Jonah was asked nothing, because he fell asleep mid-interview with his head on Cassie’s shoulder.

And by the time they wrapped, the station had exactly one usable clip: Gabriel laughing, saying, “We’re a weird band, yeah. But we’re real. We don’t need fake howls or pre-recorded tracks. What you hear? That’s us. Raw, sweaty, and sometimes covered in confetti, but it’s us.”

Outside the studio, walking to the van

Maya muttered, “I should’ve punched that guy.”

Cassie shrugged. “I would’ve held him down.”

Thane just rubbed his temples. “No more radio. Ever.”

Gabriel leaned over to him with a wicked grin.
“But what if the next one has a buffet?”