Page 3 of Hymns of the Broken
The pull is instantaneous. It hooks under my ribs and drags me forward, zeroing in and locking on. I don’t even try to resist it, couldn’t even if I tried.
It looks like they assigned her to my band tonight... to me.
I didn’t ask for her, but for once, the universe finally handed me something worth taking. And I’ll take it.
Her fingers flex around the strap of her bag. She’s nervous. Her lips press together like she’s holding back something bitter.
My blood’s too loud, and pounding in my chest drowns out everything else.
I’m going to get her name.
And once I have it, she’ll never hear it from anyone else’s mouth the same way again.
Because whoever she is… she belongs to me now.
She just hasn’t met me yet.
SAWYER
The hallway feels colder suddenly. I cross my arms and try to shake it off. It must be the nerves or the shitty AC. Or the creeping thought that I’m not supposed to be here. That I snuck into a world that’s going to spit me back out.
“You good?” Macee glances back at me, her brows pulling tight. “You look like you just walked out of a haunted house.”
“I’m fine.” The lie tastes like static in my mouth.
“Sure,” she says, smirking like she’s already planning to roast me about this later. “Just remember to breathe. First-time jitters are normal. But if you pass out, I’m not dragging you offstage in front of these guys. You’ll have to haunt the venue forever.”
“Comforting.”
“Hey, if you’re gonna be a ghost, at least you’ll be a photogenic one.” She winks and pushes open the curtain and I follow her through the side-stage curtain as she throws me a look over her shoulder. “That’s your guy. Don’t drop the camera when you see him.”
“I’m not—” but she’s already moving, ducking under a coil of cables and motioning for me to follow.
We step out of the side-stage shadows.
And I see him standing under blood-red lights. He looks like sin walked out of hell fire and picked up a mic. Black hair, damp and wild. Broad shoulders. Tattoos crawl up both arms like nightmares stitched into skin.
He turns, just slightly, and even with the lights blinding, I know he’s looking at me.
It’s not just sight—it’s impact. Every rumor, every headline, every whispered story about Jasper Reign feels suddenly too small for the reality of him under those blood-red lights. He stands there as if he owns the air around him.
And before I even realize it, I’m leaning forward, heat coiling low in my stomach. The lights flash, the stage hums, and I swear… it feels like he’s already pulled me closer without taking a single step.
“Stage left,” Macee murmurs, pulling me into motion before I can get stuck staring. “You’ll have the best angle from there without getting trampled. Don’t block the guitar techs and watch your step—the cords back here are like a death trap.”
I nod, trying to focus, following her around a stack of cases to the far corner. From here, the view is all angles and shadows. Dark shapes of the band, blinding flashes from the overhead lights, the crowd just a restless ocean beyond.
“Breathe,” Macee says again, softer this time. And then she’s gone, melting into the chaos like she belongs there.
The crowd screams, the lights shift, and he moves, enough for the shadows to slip across the ink on his skin. My camera feels heavier in my hands than usual; fingers tightening around the camera. I’m here to work, to focus, but my focus keeps breaking, drawn to him like it’s not mine to control.
I lift the camera, hands steady, breathing… not so much.
I’m tucked into the shadowed corner of stage left, half-hidden behind a rack of backup guitars I’m absolutely not supposed to touch and a black equipment case. Cables snake across the floor like hazards waiting to trip me if I don’t pay attention.
Macee said to get close enough to capture the moment, embracing all the emotion, energy, and chaos, but not so close that I get crushed. Basically… bleed for the shot, but don’t actually die.
The lights shift from a blood-red wash to ultraviolet haze, casting the crowd in violent purples and bruised shadows. A scream rises, high and primal, swallowed by the thunder of drums exploding behind the kit. Sharp, dirty, unforgiving. Each hit reverberates through my chest like a countdown to something I’m not ready for.
