The call from Good Morning America had barely ended before chaos exploded across the bus. Thane was already on his laptop rerouting power packs and verifying mic specs for the rooftop gig. Mark was muttering something about needing more haze fluid and “at least six backup bulbs.” Gabriel was spinning in circles, halfway dancing, halfway panic-packing, and still holding his half-empty coffee.
“New York!” he howled. “We’re playing freakin’ New York!”
Diesel didn’t even ask. He just shifted into gear and pointed the nose of the bus eastward like a warhorse on a mission. The rest of the crew scrambled into action. Rico and Maya ran quick rehearsals in the lounge. Jonah built a custom snare pad out of an overturned cereal box just to pass the time. Cassie paced the aisle, rehearsing camera angles in her head. Emily quietly pulled out her hoodie drawstrings and whispered to herself, Don’t faint on national television. Don’t faint on national television.
Darla met them on the tarmac at LaGuardia, her long coat blowing in the winter wind like she was born for entrances. “So,” she said, grinning at Thane, “Heard you leaked my vocals.”
He just handed her a laminated all-access pass and replied, “Welcome to the chaos.”
The rooftop was unlike anything they’d done. Massive LED panels lined the scaffolding, framed by the New York skyline still glowing with pre-dawn hues. Fog machines puffed steady tendrils across the stage, wrapping the risers in mystique. Crew from GMA scrambled around, wide-eyed and whispering “Those are the werewolves. That’s the actual band.”
Thane, as always, was in the wings—wired into the board, ears on every nuance. Mark was managing the lighting desk like a ship captain steering into a storm. Gabriel clutched a steaming cup of Starbucks and bounced on his paws, tail flicking with restless energy.
And then, with a five-count from a very anxious stage manager, the sun broke over the skyline and Feral Eclipse launched into “Bleed Electric”—this time with Darla stepping into the spotlight for the final verse.
The sound was huge. Raw. Alive. Carried through the city like a declaration. Cameras rolled. Social media exploded again. Viewers at home dropped their cereal bowls. The hosts of Good Morning America just stood there, jaws open, while Cassie belted out the chorus and Gabriel flung his whole soul into the bassline like he was born to do it.
By the time the last chord rang out and the crowd roared up from the plaza below, it was done.
Feral Eclipse had arrived.