The band had barely stepped off the rooftop stage before they were ushered into the studio’s sleek green room—a cozy space clearly not designed for three towering, clawed werewolves and a hyperventilating intern.

Cassie flopped onto the couch first, still glowing with adrenaline, while Jonah immediately began recounting the performance to no one in particular. “Did you see that one drone shot? Dude, I felt famous.”

Emily stood near the wall, clutching a clipboard like it might anchor her to reality. She looked over at Thane, wide-eyed. “We were on national TV,” she whispered.

Thane offered her a calm, proud nod. “And you leaked us there. Good instincts.”

She blinked. “Am I… fired?”

Gabriel, already halfway through his third cup of New York coffee, leaned in beside her and grinned. “Fired? Nah. You’re getting a corner bunk and a lifetime supply of caffeine.” Then, after a beat: “Wait. Thane, can we do that?”

Before Thane could answer, a producer popped her head into the room. “You’re up in five. Interview segment. Just keep it casual and friendly. Oh, and no swearing, please.”

Everyone turned instinctively to Mark.

He frowned. “I don’t swear.”

Gabriel nudged Thane. “That’s technically true, but emotionally false.”

They were herded onto the studio set with minimal ceremony—six band members, three werewolves, and a very nervous crew trying not to stare too hard at the clawed toes tapping under the glass coffee table.

The hosts beamed as the cameras rolled.

“We are thrilled to welcome the band everyone is talking about this morning—Feral Eclipse! Now, let’s start with the obvious: Emily, you leaked the track that broke the internet?”

Emily, seated between Cassie and Jonah, let out a squeak and waved awkwardly. “Um. Accidentally. Maybe?”

The studio audience laughed. The host turned toward Thane. “Now Thane, as the band’s sound engineer… did you know this was coming?”

Thane met the host’s eyes, calm and unreadable. “Let’s just say… I knew what I was doing when I hit record.”

“Is that a confession?”

Gabriel leaned toward the mic, grinning. “He’s pleading the fifth. With fangs.”

Another wave of laughter. The mood stayed light, even when they brought up the surprise Darla appearance.

“She slayed that stage,” the other host gushed. “How did that come about?”

Darla, cool as ever in the guest chair, shrugged with a grin. “They called. I said yes. It’s hard to say no when there’s a werewolf playing bass.”

Gabriel did a mock bow from his seat, tail flicking happily behind him. “Flattery’ll get you free coffee.”

The hosts asked a few more questions—tour stories, the origins of the band name, what it was like having literal werewolves in the crew. Mark, of course, only spoke once.

When asked what it felt like to light up the New York skyline, he gave a simple answer.

“Bright.”

Cassie laughed so hard she nearly fell out of her chair. The hosts seemed a little unsure if it was a joke.

And just like that, the segment wrapped. Applause. Hugs. A few photos. One brave makeup assistant asked for a selfie with Thane—he obliged, politely tilting his head and keeping his claws tucked out of frame.

Back in the green room, the mood shifted from high-energy to awed silence. They’d done it. National television. No disasters. No wardrobe malfunctions. No one bit anyone.

Then Gabriel leaned back in his chair and muttered, “Sooo… we gonna pretend we didn’t just blow up the internet and daytime TV?”

Mark grunted. “I’m not pretending anything. I need a nap.”

Thane checked his messages—dozens of new inquiries, tour offers, endorsements.

The pack had stepped into the spotlight. And for once… it wasn’t burning.