Page 2 of Hymns of the Broken

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.