Hymns of the Broken

Chapter 1

SAWYER

How did I end up here?

On my way to a metal concert to meet my best friend, Macee, so she can sneak me backstage with her while she works.

She’s shooting the show for her job at Darklight Media.

This is a top-tier visual agency that specializes in live tour photography, behind-the-scenes content, and raw visual storytelling.

She’s trying to get me in.

Which is exciting, terrifying, and precisely the impulsive decision I pretend I don’t make. Because nothing screams ‘professionalism’ like slipping past security in combat boots with a camera bag and eyeliner sharp enough to kill a man.

Macee always had the connections. I just had the camera and the obsession.

We used to shoot weddings together in Vegas—messy, underpaid, and full of impulsive tourists making the worst decisions of their lives.

She quit after she caught the groom cheating on the bride (with the maid of honor) twenty minutes before the ceremony.

She took a shot of them together and showed the bride, who said Macee was unprofessional for “photoshopping proof into her memories.”

So she didn’t say another word and shot the wedding. Every posed smile, every lie in white lace. She sent the gallery, deleted her contacts, and declared she was done selling fairy tales to people who didn’t deserve them.

Afterward, she got a job at Darklight and immediately fell in love with the chaos that comes with the job.

She’s been with Darklight ever since.

Me? I stayed behind. I played it safe, convincing myself that it was practical. I told myself that Blake needed my help. I convinced myself I wasn’t ready.

But after all the late-night phone calls, the horror stories, the road stories, and everything in between… I think I’m finally ready to risk something new.

Something scary.

Something selfish.

Something for me.

I’m Sawyer Morrigan, by the way. But if this goes badly, I was never here.

My phone buzzes for the third time in a minute. I don’t even have to look. It’s him.

I swipe up far enough to read the previews.

Blake: “You didn’t even say goodbye. Real professional.”

Blake: “I’m sorry, I just wanted to see you before you left.”

Blake: “Answer your fucking phone, Sawyer!”

Charming as ever. The whiplash is so familiar that my stomach twists before my brain can even catch up. He always starts hurt, misunderstood, right before the leash snaps tight.

I drop the phone into my bag before I can change my mind. My fingers hover for a second, itching to pick it back up. But I don’t. Not today.

Macee said I should’ve left him six months ago, but he’s smart. Strategic. He knows exactly how much to say without crossing a line that other people can see.

Not yet, anyway.

The venue looms in front of me like a cathedral built for chaos. Black walls, flickering signage, the pulse of the bass leaking out from the inside like a warning. There is something unholy about it.

People are already lining up outside, wrapped in leather, lace, fishnets, and enough eyeliner to summon a demon. The air hums with anticipation, smoke, and the scent of something sweet and burned.

And here I am, fumbling with my camera bag and trying not to panic. My heart is pounding like I’m going into a war zone instead of a concert.

This is real.

I spot Macee near the artist entrance, leaning against the barricade with a badge around her neck and a coffee in her hand, looking like she owns the place.

“You made it!” she says. “I was about ten seconds from sending a search party and a priest.”

“Traffic.” I lie.

It was anxiety—the kind that sits in your throat like a stone and makes you wonder if you’re about to fuck up your life or finally start living it.

She doesn’t push as she hands me my pass. It’s black and chrome, with DARKLIGHT MEDIA stamped across the middle and Hymns of the Broken Tour glinting underneath.

It feels heavier than it should. Like a key. Or a warning.

“Okay,” she says, flipping her hair back and heading for the artist’s door. “Tonight’s the warm-up show before the second half of the tour launch. That means chaos, tech issues, and one band might light something on fire. No promises.”

“Great, I forgot my fire extinguisher.”

She laughs. “You’ll be shooting one band only tonight. Darklight tests new hires by throwing them in solo to one band to see how they handle high-pressure with no backup, but don’t stress. You got this.”

“Right, totally not sweating through my bra or anything.” Another lie.

My shirt is sticking to my back, and my stomach is doing slow, flips as she holds a door open.

“You’re assigned to Her Last Confessional. Heard of them?”

I pause. The name’s familiar.

“Wait…”

She grins, smug as hell, as if she’s been waiting for this moment all day. “Lead singer’s Jasper Reign.”

My stomach drops. That name is everywhere. Rumors, viral clips, half the industry trying to cancel him, the other half throwing money at his feet. Unhinged interviews. Fights mid-set. A stare that has you thinking maybe you should lock your doors.

Too late to back out now.

I follow Macee through the backstage hallway. The scent of sweat, spilled beer, and some expensive cologne is strong. She’s still talking about lighting setup and photo pit rotation, but her voice blurs at the edges as my nerves take over.

A sound cuts through everything.

Not a sound…a voice. Low and raspy enough to shred skin, and somehow deeper than the floor beneath my feet.

“Check—one, two…”

I freeze. It’s only a voice, but it hits me like a match along the inside of my thigh.

My eyes snap toward the open stage doors. He’s not in view yet. The stage lights are spilling across the floor, sound curling through the space like smoke with a mind of its own.

My skin prickles and I feel it. Eyes that don’t just look, but slide beneath my skin and hook into my ribs, yanking up everything I’ve tried to keep buried.

JASPER

I catch her just before she steps into the light.

The red and purple wrap around her like they don’t want to let go. She doesn’t notice. Doesn’t realize she’s already in the spotlight, even if she’s not standing center stage.

She’s small, curvy. Dressed in all black, with a camera bag slung over her shoulder, hair like a goddamn storm cloud streaked with venom, dark and wild.

She looks like someone who’s spent her whole life folding herself up.

Someone accustomed to being overlooked, to fading out of the frame before anyone can really see her.

The kind of girl who learns early that shrinking is safer than being noticed.

I wonder who put that look in her eyes; if he’s still breathing.

Because that won’t fucking happen. Not with me.

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.