The studio lights were harsh. Too clean. Too cold. Everything about The Midnight Mic with Grayson Thorne felt sanitized — from the pastel stage to the overly waxed desk, to the thin smile of the host himself.

Grayson was a known cynic. His brand was sarcasm, snark, and smug superiority, and he hated anything that disrupted his vision of “serious music culture.” Feral Eclipse? Instant bullseye.

“You’re on in two,” a PA said nervously, glancing sideways at Gabriel, who was currently spinning in a guest chair like a feral barstool tornado.

Thane sat still and composed, claws folded in his lap, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else but too dignified to show it. Cassie was checking her lipstick. Rico and Maya leaned back in their chairs, swapping quiet jokes. Jonah adjusted his collar like he was about to attend a trial.

Mark sat furthest from the host’s desk, arms crossed, sunglasses on, radiating quiet nuclear potential.

“Don’t maul the host,” Thane said under his breath.

“No promises,” Gabriel grinned.

The band theme played. The crowd cheered. Lights went up.

Grayson Thorne shuffled his notecards and smirked at the camera.

“Our next guests are… let’s see…” He fake squinted. “Feral Eclipse. The werewolf-themed band from Oklahoma who recently caught fire — literally — at Rocklahoma, set the internet ablaze, and somehow convinced a chunk of the world that claws and eyeliner are music’s next great hope.”

Scattered laughs. Some boos. Mostly silence.

“They’ve sold out shows, caused property damage, and made a name for themselves by, quote, ‘howling with the fans in a fire circle.’” He looked up with the world’s smuggest expression. “How very… primal.”

The curtain lifted. The crowd erupted. Phones flashed. The pack walked onstage like they owned it.

Gabriel strutted with a wink and took the chair closest to Grayson. Cassie followed with a royal wave. Thane walked with measured calm, nodding once. Mark didn’t even remove his sunglasses.

They sat.

Grayson leaned in. “So, uh… Thane. Tell me. What’s it like getting famous for doing the same thing feral dogs do in back alleys?”

Thane raised an eyebrow. “You’ve clearly never heard a dog hit a D-sharp.”

Scattered applause. Cassie smiled.

Grayson tried again. “Gabriel, you crowd-surfed on a mattress in the campground. Do you actually consider that… artistry?”

Gabriel shrugged. “I consider it gravity. It worked. You’re just mad no one caught you.”

Laughter broke out.

Grayson’s smile thinned. “Do you worry that you’re more of a meme than a band?”

Maya leaned in. “Memes spread. That’s the point.”

Jonah added, “You’re a meme and a host. See? It can work.”

The crowd lost it.

Thorne looked to Mark, clearly fishing. “You don’t talk much. What, no comment? Growls only?”

Mark slowly turned his head, ice-cold behind his shades.

“You invited a pack of werewolves to your studio to boost your ratings. I think you know why we’re here.”

Oooooh. The audience collectively leaned back.

Grayson fumbled with his cards. “Right, well, let’s talk about your single. No Chains Left. Cute metaphor. Tell me, who’s writing your lyrics — someone who failed a poetry class in middle school?”

Cassie smirked. “No, just someone who remembers how to feel something.”

Rico added, “But hey, if you want to come to a show and get those feelings back, we’ll comp you a ticket. One with an emotional support seat cushion.”

Gabriel leaned into his mic. “He’ll need it when we start the bridge.”

Grayson finally waved a hand. “Okay! That’s enough. We’ll be right back with a… special performance by Feral Eclipse. Don’t go anywhere — or do. Whatever.”

The moment the lights dimmed for commercial, the band burst out laughing.

“Holy shit,” Jonah wheezed. “We destroyed him.”

“I kept it classy,” Mark said, sipping his soda.

“You didn’t blink,” Thane said, still a little stunned.

Gabriel leaned back in his chair and kicked his feet up. “Guys… remind me to get that segment on a T-shirt.”