The private showcase room at Warner Records was sleek and sterile, outfitted with top-of-the-line equipment and plush seating arranged in a semi-circle around the raised performance platform. Spotlights dimmed low, the room buzzed with a mixture of curiosity and skepticism.
Executives murmured to each other as they glanced at their tablets and phones, scrolling through early analytics from The Four Horsemen and Seek and Destroy. They hadn't expected a third song so soon—and certainly not something called Angel of Death.
Samuel Owen stood near the back, arms crossed, quietly confident. He knew what was coming. He had seen it in Rex's eyes—the fire, the defiance, the unshakable belief in his music.
Then the lights shifted.
A blinding white spotlight cut across the room as Rex Kade stepped into the light. His long black hair hung over his shoulders like a war banner, his eyes burning with purpose. Behind him, Ash tuned his guitar with the poise of a sniper. Kai ran his fingers along the bass strings, and Silas—ever silent, ever bald—twirled a drumstick between his fingers like a knife.
Rex stepped up to the mic.
"This one's called Angel of Death," he said flatly. "Hope you're ready."
No countdown. No greeting. No warm-up.
Just the riff.
Ash struck with a ferocity that made some executives flinch. A wall of guitar snarled through the sound system, raw and precise. Kai's bass thundered beneath it, pulsing like a heartbeat under attack. Then Silas exploded into a cascade of double-kick drums, machine-gun fast and unrelenting.
And Rex—he screamed.
"Auschwitz, the meaning of pain..."
The words hit like a dagger. Heads jerked. Mouths dropped.
Some executives instinctively leaned back in their seats, faces caught somewhere between awe and horror. Others leaned forward, drawn in by the sheer audacity.
By the time the first verse ended, the air was thick with tension and disbelief.
But the Obsidian Saints didn't care.
They weren't here to make anyone comfortable.
They were here to burn the place down.
Rex was a man possessed. Every word dripped with menace and meaning. The solo tore through the room, Ash's fingers blurring on the fretboard while Kai held the low end like a storm anchor. Silas drove the beat into the crowd's chest, not missing a note.
When the final chord screamed into silence, the room didn't move.
Not for a second.
Then Aaron Bay-Schuck stood up, slowly clapping. His face was unreadable—but his eyes were on fire.
"Holy shit," he muttered. "That was… savage."
An executive to his left cleared her throat. "Aaron, did you hear the lyrics? This is dangerous material. If this leaks without context—"
"I hope it leaks without context," he snapped, turning to her. "Do you realize what we just heard? That wasn't just music. That was a fucking declaration."
Another suit spoke up. "It's brilliantly composed, yes—but the subject matter, the delivery... It's going to be controversial."
Aaron turned to them, suddenly animated.
"Controversial sells. Controversial matters. This isn't a band trying to ride a wave—they are the wave. That kid"—he pointed at Rex, now sipping water like he hadn't just screamed his lungs out—"he's not playing a part. That's who he is. And that makes him real."
He looked around the room.
"Since when did we get scared of real?"
Samuel smiled slightly. He'd bet on the right horse.
Another exec hesitated. "But we'll need a PR strategy. This kind of thing could ignite backlash from—"
Aaron cut him off.
"We'll put out a statement. Something simple. Let the band speak for themselves. I'm not sanitizing this. If you try to market them like some safe, punk-adjacent nostalgia act, you'll kill what makes them special. They're not here to be digested—they're here to rip throats."
Silence.
Then Aaron clapped his hands once, sharp.
"Get legal. Get marketing. Get a damn plan on paper. I want Angel of Death on every platform by next week. Push the video. Push the story. Push the fury."
He turned toward Rex and the band.
"You've got my full backing. All of it. Just don't lose that fire."
Rex gave a single nod.
"We don't plan to."
Ash smirked, cracking his knuckles.
Kai adjusted his bass strap, still buzzing.
Silas didn't say a word. Just grinned under the fluorescent lights.
Obsidian Saints had just declared war—and Warner Records was their battlefield.