Page 172 of Hymns of the Broken

I’m tired of waiting.

I’ve stapled a hundred flyers to telephone poles, taped them to gas pumps and fast food windows, andhanded them to strangers in every language I know. But every mile, every hour, makes the hole inside me grow wider.

We have fans everywhere—across the country, hell, across the world. Ifshe’sout there, someone has to seeher. Someone has to seehim.

I beeline into the war room, hands shaking, jaw clenched. Jasper’s hunched over the table, staring at the map like he can force it to give up her location. The rest of the crew look up, hollow-eyed, hoping for something, anything, that isn’t more waiting.

I slam my fist on the table. “We’re not doing enough. The cops, the feds—they’re moving too slow. What if she’s not even in this state anymore? We could waste time.”

Ash raises an eyebrow. “You got a better idea?”

“Yeah.” I shove my phone in front of Jasper, meeting his gaze. “We tell the fans—all of them. We’re making a video right now. Ask for help. Plead. Threaten, beg—I don’t care. We don’t step foot on a stage again until she’s home.”

Micah nods, already grabbing his camera. “He’s right. There are more of them than there are cops in this whole fucking state. If anyone can find her, it’s your people.”

Jasper finally looks up, pain and fury burning in his eyes. “We tell them everything. Name, face, every detail. We’ll burn it all down if we have to.”

I stand next to him, shoulders squared, voice hard. “We’re not going back on tour. Not until Sawyer’s safe. The fans deserve to know why. And we need every set of eyes we can get.”

Dex puts a hand on my back, voice steady. “Let’s do it. We’ll get the word out in every city. Every show.Thisends now.”

Micah props the camera on a stack of books, aiming it straight at Jasper and me. The living roomis trashed—maps everywhere, laptops open, coffee gone cold, and all of us looking like hell. I swipe my hand over my mouth, fighting down the nerves, then glance at Jasper. He looks as bad as I feel, but when the little red light on the camera goes on, we both lean in. No hiding. No filters. No rockstar bullshit.

I look straight at the lens and force myself to speak. “This is Riot from Reckless Saints. And this is Jasper from Her Last Confessional. I know this isn’t the video you want from us, but you need to hear this.” My voice cracks, but I push on, fingers drumming out a frantic beat on my knee. “Sawyer Morrigan—our tour photographer, our friend, our family—was kidnapped. She’s missing. We don’t know where she is. We don’t even know if she’s still in the state. And we’re out of time.”

I hold up the flyer, my hands shaking so badly that it rustles in the microphone. I make myself hold it still. “You’ve seenher. Five feet tall. Black hair on top, blue and green underneath, tattoos, facial piercings, short as hell, and loud as hell. You’ve seen her in the pit, or at the barricade, or maybe you follow her photos. She’s one of us. She’s one of you.”

Jasper’s jaw flexes. He leans in, elbows on his knees, and says, “This isn’t a joke.Thisisn’t a PR stunt. We’re not coming back to the stage, we’re not releasing anything else, until Sawyer’s home. If you see her, or a white van, or a man in a mask—if you hear anything, even if you think it’s nothing—tell us. Message us. Call the number. Wake us up in the middle of the night. We don’t care. We want her back.”

The comments are already rolling in—hearts, fire emojis, #FindSawyer, hundreds of fans tagging each other. I swallow hard. “We know our fans. You guys are everywhere. You’re the ones who sneak backstage, who meet us at the bus at three in the morning, who know every city, every alley, every face. We need you now more than ever. Don’t let this be a headline. Flood every feed, every street, every corner of this country until Sawyer comes home.”

Jasper’s voice breaks, just for a second, but he doesn’t look away. “She’s not just our photographer. She’s important. And we’re not doing anything else until she’s safe. Please—help us.”

I want to punch a wall. I want to scream. But I clench my fists and say, “You guys call yourselves family. Prove it. Help us bring her home.”

Micah cuts the feed. The room is silent for a second, just the sound of all our phones blowing up, fans from every time zone already working, searching, already making noise. For the first time since she vanished, I feel hope pushing through the panic.

I look at Jasper. He nods. And I promise myself—and her—

I won’t stop. Not until she’s home.

SAWYER

The ache in my wrists, the rawness in my throat, the pounding of my heart—those are the only things that feel real anymore. The world shrinks down to pain and the heavy weight of the chains, to the memory of Jasper’s touch, Riot’s laughter, and the comfort of friends who feel galaxies away now.

My body and my brain are at war. My mind screamsno, but my body—traitorous, weak—still responds, every nerve hypersensitive from fear and exhaustion. I’d read about girls like this in those dark romance books I used to devour, the ones where twisted power and desire blur into something dangerous and intoxicating. Sometimes Iwondered what it might be like to lose control that way, to trust someone enough to let them take it.

But not like this.

Not withhim.

The thought alone makes me want to crawl out of myskin.

I almost slip under again when the door slams open—so hard the wall shakes, a jolt of terror snapping me back to the present. Blake barrels in, breath wild behind the mask, fists clenched around his phone.

He’s shaking with rage. I shrink against the mattress, every muscle tense. He doesn’t say a word at first. Just shoves the phone in my face—an image filling the screen. It’sthem—Jasper and Riot, haunted and desperate, pleading with the world to help find me. My name is everywhere—in the flood of comments, tags, the world set on fire for me.

He plays the video, holding it so close to my face that I can see the crack in his screen and the trembling of his hand.