The Portland morning was cool and misty, the kind of Pacific Northwest gray that clung to your fur and made your coffee taste even better. The band had just wrapped sound check at the Keller Auditorium, groggy from another night crammed into the battle-worn tour van.

Everyone stood in the parking lot, bleary-eyed and half-awake—until Mark stepped forward and clapped his hands loudly, getting everyone’s attention. “Hey,” he said with a rare grin, “We figured it was time.”

That’s when the sleek, custom black-and-silver tour bus pulled around the corner with a deep rumble, chrome polished to a mirror shine, LED underglow lighting winking faintly in the fog. The back bore the Feral Eclipse logo, massive and proud.

Gabriel’s jaw dropped. “No way…”

The door hissed open, and out stepped a grizzled, stone-faced man in a black leather vest, faded jeans, and mirrored aviators. Silver beard, weather-beaten skin, and an air of pure “seen it all.” He nodded once, slowly. “Name’s Diesel. I drive. You don’t bother me before coffee. And you never puke in my rig.”

Thane grinned wide, arms crossed. “Told ya we were done slumming it.”

Inside, the bus was a dream: high-end lighting, plush seating areas with fold-out tables, a soundproof back lounge with console hookups, and eight pristine sleeping bunks with personal reading lights and charging stations.

But what made Gabriel actually yelp with joy? The full Starbucks-grade espresso bar tucked near the kitchen, gleaming and humming.

He bolted straight to it. “I AM NEVER LEAVING THIS BUS.”

Cassie blinked. “Is that a—does that say La Marzocco?!”

Rico muttered, “Oh, we’re gonna live on this thing.”

Diesel just leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the chaos unfold with an amused grunt. “Y’all are gonna be fun.”