The crowd was already a boiling stew of denim jackets, faded concert tees, and plastic cups sloshing mystery beer. Some were legit superfans—wearing Feral Eclipse merch with pride—others were curious locals drawn in by flyers, friends, or the promise of “something weird but loud.”

Backstage, Thane gave a last glance across the stage setup. Lighting rig was holding, mics were hot, and the monitors were about as dialed in as they’d get without selling a soul to the audio gods. The VariLites were humming like a six-eyed predator waiting to pounce—just the way Mark liked them.

“All right,” Thane called, looping his coiled audio cable over his shoulder like a shoulder snake of judgment. “Thirty seconds. Everybody breathe.”

From stage right, Jonah spun his sticks between his fingers and cracked his knuckles. “Let’s light it up.”

Maya flexed her hands, already gripping her guitar like it owed her money. “I swear, if my strap fails again, I’m going to play the whole set with my teeth.”

Gabriel gave a confident smirk as he stepped up beside Thane, bass already slung low. “You ready to see me not rip my shirt this time?”

“You mean the one you safety-pinned together with gaff tape?” Thane raised a brow.

Gabriel puffed out his chest. “Fashion-forward.”

From the wings, Mark’s voice echoed dryly over comms. “Fog in three… two…”

The first hiss of the machine pumped out a thick red mist from the back truss, catching in the downbeams of six VariLite VL2Bs aimed like lasers through the haze. The house roared in anticipation. Somewhere, a dude screamed, “PLAY THE HOWL SONG!”

“Drums,” Thane called.

Jonah clicked in. One-two-three-four—

And then it hit.

Maya launched into the first crunching riff, distorted and raw. Gabriel’s bass slammed in behind her like thunder rolling through a graveyard. Jonah drove it like a madman, hair flying, sticks a blur. Cassie, center stage with the mic, stepped forward, hair whipping, eyes blazing, and snarled the opening lyric like a wolf leading the pack.

The crowd went feral.

Three notes in, Thane caught the monitor on stage left start to slide off its perch.

“SHIT—Mark, tilt three is slipping!”

Mark’s voice snapped back instantly, calm as death. “I see it. Already rerouting the signal. Tell Jonah not to kick it again with his damn boot.”

Jonah yelled mid-verse, “TELL MARK I’LL KICK WHAT I WANT.”

Stage left haze grew thick as a second fogger fired—too early. Thane coughed. “Mark—timing?”

“Fog unit two’s brain just exploded. You’re welcome.”

Gabriel danced around a puddle of mystery condensation and somehow made it look cool, even throwing a cheeky wink to the crowd. A rogue beam of red light cut across him like a spotlight from hell.

Maya, dead center, ripped through her solo like she was casting demons out of her guitar. Sweat glistened on her forehead. One of her strings snapped and she didn’t even flinch—just kept going, eyes locked in.

A beer cup landed near the front wedge. Gabriel kicked it aside without breaking rhythm.

Thane didn’t have time to breathe. One of the DI boxes was making a high-pitched whine, and the lead vocal compressor was dancing like it was on fire. He hit two knobs, shoved a fader, and punched a mute button that probably saved a speaker’s life.

Cassie shouted into her mic between verses, “We’re flying without landing gear, baby!”

The crowd loved it.

Pure chaos.
Pure lightning.
Pure Feral Eclipse.

By the time the opening song ended, half the venue looked like they’d just walked out of a thunderstorm—sweaty, stunned, and already screaming for more.

And on stage, every member stood grinning like lunatics.

Mark’s voice came through the comms again, dry as ever:
“Show’s going fine. Just used a guitar cable to tie off a fogger. No big deal.”