The limo rolled up to the glowing white tent stretched across the entrance to the Opaline Theater in Beverly Hills. Gold carpet. Crystal pillars. Polished marble steps. Celebs and camera flashes like a feeding frenzy of flashbulbs and feigned perfection.

And then… Feral Eclipse stepped out.

Gabriel was first, sleek black fur freshly brushed, wearing a tailored black-on-black suit with no shirt beneath—just smooth chest fur, silver jewelry, and a confident grin that could melt paparazzi lenses.

Thane followed, still barepaw (because of course), fur dusted with gray streaks, ice-blue eyes scanning the chaos. He wore a simple black button-down and dress slacks that did nothing to hide the powerful claws on his hands.

Cassie stunned in a sequined crimson gown with matching combat boots. Maya and Rico went full rock chic and punk prince. Jonah wore a bowtie that looked like it was trying to escape. Mark just wore his best dark polo, black slacks, and a thousand-yard stare that dared anyone to comment on his complete lack of tux.

As they posed for the cameras, someone whispered from the press line, “Are they even allowed here?”

Gabriel turned and bared a perfect smile. “We’re not here to ask permission.”

Inside, the Opaline was all glass chandeliers, velvet curtains, and tense elegance. The band was seated near the back… until they were moved closer to the stage “for optics.”

Cassie leaned over. “Translation: they want reaction shots when we lose.”

“Oh, we’re not losing,” Gabriel said, flashing a grin. “We’re just playing in a rigged game.”

Thane muttered, “Good. I brought wire cutters.”

Their category came near the end of the show: Best Rock Performance.
The presenter—a pop diva in a rhinestone suit and half-hearted smile—opened the card.

“And the award goes to…”

She paused. Blinked.

“…Feral Eclipse, for Blood Moon Revival!”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then the band exploded in celebration. Fans in the balconies howled. Cassie shrieked with joy. Maya nearly decked Rico hugging him. Jonah tripped over his chair.

Gabriel bounded down the aisle, bass still slung across his back (because of course he brought it). Thane followed, a little slower, stone-faced but glowing inside. Mark brought up the rear, looking like he had somewhere better to be—until the camera zoomed in and caught the faintest flicker of a smile.

Cassie took the mic first, thanking the fans, the team, and “everyone who ever screamed our lyrics into the night.”

Then Gabriel stepped up.

“We were never supposed to be here,” he said, voice clear and proud. “We started on street corners. Lost our gear. Played in the rain. Got mocked for being different. Called monsters.”

He looked out over the glittering crowd of pop royalty and whispered into the mic:
“Tonight… the monsters win.”

Applause. Murmurs. Whispers. And then—

“Oh!” the presenter blurted. “We have a surprise performance!”

A trap? A stunt?
Nope.

A storm.

Feral Eclipse took the stage. The lights dropped. A single red beam pierced the darkness.

Mark triggered fog that curled across the stage like breath from a waiting wolf. Thane, crouched offstage, counted in the audio cues.

Cassie’s voice came first—haunting and raw—cutting through the velvet hush like a blade.

Then Gabriel struck the first note.

And the chandeliers trembled.

The crowd gasped. Some of the front row flinched. The bass growled again, deeper this time—rattling glasses, shaking the columns. The overhead crystal groaned.

Maya slammed her chord, Rico bent fire out of the guitar, Jonah’s drums pounded like thunder…

And when Gabriel hit the drop in the bridge—

CRASH.

An enormous side chandelier—decades old and worth more than the limo they arrived in—broke free and slammed to the marble beside the front tables. It missed people by inches.

And the crowd… erupted.

Celebs in gowns and suits jumped to their feet. Fans in balconies threw fists in the air. The velvet-rope elite lost every ounce of composure and joined in the primal chorus.

Security panicked.
The host fainted.
Someone screamed, “This is the greatest award show ever!”

Backstage afterward, the press was a frenzy.

“What happened with the chandelier?!”

Gabriel shrugged. “Bass drop too sick.”

“Were you worried about the safety of—”

“Did you die?” Cassie asked. “No? Cool. You’re welcome.”

Mark, still expressionless, was asked if this was intentional.

He muttered, “I would have warned them not to cheap out on ceiling anchors.”

The show’s ratings doubled.
The video went viral.
Feral Eclipse became the most talked-about moment in award show history.

And as they left in their soaked, glitter-dusted limo, Thane turned to Gabriel and deadpanned:

“…We’re not getting invited back next year.”

Gabriel smirked. “We’ll crash it anyway.”

And every single one of them howled into the LA night.