The next morning, the pack rolled up to KFOR’s gleaming new studio like a rock band arriving at a late-night talk show — because, well, they kind of were.
The tour bus — still coated in tour grime and social media stickers — rumbled into the parking lot with all the subtlety of a thunderstorm. Diesel threw it into park with a grin and leaned out the window, casually announcing, “Delivery for Channel Four. Contents may be loud, furry, and prone to spontaneous music.”
A few interns peeked out the front doors of the studio lobby and squeaked. One of them dropped her phone. Another ran to get her supervisor. All of them were visibly vibrating.
The studio itself was slick, modern, and surprisingly serene. White tile floors, soft LED lighting, giant panels of backlit glass. Clearly designed to impress. But the moment the doors opened and nine very-not-average rockstars walked in, serenity took a coffee break.
Gabriel was first through the door, adjusting his black tee with a smirk. “Smells like… TV and nerves.”
Emily followed close behind in her lavender hoodie, eyes wide at all the production tech humming quietly around her. “Oh my gosh, this place is so clean.”
Cassie, Rico, Maya, and Jonah spilled in behind them, already making snide remarks about how not rock and roll this place felt.
Then came Thane and Mark, bringing up the rear like the wolfish bouncers of a very well-behaved chaos brigade.
They were greeted instantly by a flustered studio coordinator, who seemed equal parts thrilled and terrified. “Um — hi! Welcome! Mr. Maxwell is just finishing a meeting, he’ll be right with you. Can I get anyone water? Coffee? Sparkling water? Bourbon?”
Thane arched an eyebrow. “Do you have Gabriel’s coffee?”
The coordinator’s face turned serious. “Yes. Triple espresso, splash of oat milk, two pumps cinnamon dolce, served at exactly 130 degrees.”
Gabriel gasped theatrically. “MARRY ME.”
While the coordinator scrambled to retrieve the sacred brew, the rest of the crew began exploring the studio. Jonah somehow found the boom mic rig and started spinning it around like a lightsaber until a stagehand tackled him with a desperate “Please no!”
Diesel — somehow already buddy-buddy with one of the camera ops — was leaning against a light stand and telling a story about how they once rewired an entire stage rig with a coat hanger.
Mark? He was off in the corner, staring down a high-end LED wall like he was pricing it for home installation.
Then Darren Maxwell himself strode out from behind a glass office partition. He looked composed, well-dressed, and — most importantly — genuinely relieved to see them.
“Good morning, everyone,” he said warmly. “You have no idea how grateful I am that you came.”
Thane gave a nod. “We came. Let’s see if it was a good idea.”
Gabriel leaned over and whispered, “That’s his friendly tone. If you hear the other one, duck.”
They were ushered toward the interview set — a sleek, clean platform bathed in neutral lighting. It looked like it belonged on a late-night panel show, with couches, chairs, and a central roundtable adorned with discreet microphones.
As they were mic’ed up, an eager young sound tech was shaking trying to clip Gabriel’s lav mic. Gabriel smirked. “Hey, deep breath, bud. I don’t bite.”
“Y-you’re just… really tall and have claws and — ”
“Fair.”
Cassie helped by adjusting her own mic and giving the nervous tech a wink. “Don’t worry. They’re the nice kind of rock wolves.”
They settled into their seats. Lights dimmed slightly. Cameras panned. Audio went live in the control room.
Darren took his place across from them with a deep breath.
“Okay,” he said softly. “Let’s get it right this time.”
And with a silent countdown from the floor director — five… four… three… two…
The lights came alive. The mics went hot. And the screen at home faded in from black to the most anticipated interview in the state of Oklahoma.
Feral Eclipse.
Live. Unfiltered.
And ready.