The curtain ripples like the breath of a monster. Behind it, tension crackles. The crowd outside is deafening—thousands of bodies, crammed shoulder to shoulder, pulsing with raw anticipation. A rhythmic chant rises from the front row: FERAL! FERAL! FERAL!

Backstage, it’s a war party.

Gabriel—sleek black fur gleaming under the stage rig, bass slung low across his chest like a weapon of mass destruction—paces like a predator. His icy blue eyes flash toward the curtain, already hearing the beat in his blood. He’s a god behind strings, and tonight, he’s ready to baptize this crowd in thunder.

Maya, rhythm guitar in hand, stands planted like a damn hurricane—sharp-eyed, hair wild, a sneer tugging at her lips. She’s already snarling under her breath: “If someone flubs this opening riff, I will bite a throat.”

Jonah, the drummer, is a machine at the kit—fingers loose, sticks spinning, heart already two measures ahead. His entire body buzzes like a live wire. “Let’s break the f***ing ground,” he mutters, cracking his knuckles.

Rico, lead guitarist, is all energy and nerves—shoulders bouncing, fingers twitching over the fretboard as he tunes. “Please don’t set anything on fire this time,” he says, not sure if he’s talking to Gabriel, Jonah, or God.

And in the wings—

Thane, towering and tense, stands with coiled audio cable in one clawed hand and a storm in his ice-blue eyes. His bare feet flex against the risers. “Mark—lighting’s ready?”

Mark, cool and composed, eyes narrowed from beneath thick gray brows, grunts. His hands hover over his custom DMX board like a conductor over a symphony of lasers. “You’ll know when I start,” he says.

Then—BOOM.

The curtain snaps upward in a blinding flash of red.

Gabriel charges forward like a bullet, slamming the opening bass line down hard enough to rattle the bones of the security guards.

Maya follows, rhythm roaring, power chords blasting through the stadium like shotgun fire. Her hair whips with every crunch of her strings.

Rico dives into his lead line, fingers blurring, mouth twisted in a grin that says hell yes we’re doing this.

And Jonah—oh god, Jonah—he detonates behind the kit, each drum strike a thunderclap, cymbals crashing like lightning at war.

The crowd. Explodes.

People scream. Cry. Climb over barricades. There’s a guy in the fifth row literally howling at the moon.

And above it all—Mark drops the hammer.

Six VariLite VL2Bs mounted along the upper truss fire down jagged red beams through the fog, slicing the stage into ribbons of fire and fury. The lights are choreographed with surgical precision—ripping, flashing, biting the beat with every strobe.

Gabriel jumps to a monitor, slams his foot down, and howls into the crowd with his arms raised high.

And the crowd?

The crowd howls back.