Page 29 of Hymns of the Broken

The bass hums low beneath my boots as the first band gets ready to go on.

I lift my camera, framing the empty stage. The lighting tech calls out numbers, and a flash of warm orange floods the platform before it shifts to cool violet. It paints the floor like fire and ice.

I adjust my aperture, dial in my ISO, and take test shots, snapping one after another. No room for error.

Her Last Confessional is the headliner.

One of the biggest names here.

Fifteen bands. Two days. Three nights at this stop—two back-to-back shows, then a “rest day” that’s code for interviews, press photos, and pretending anyone actually sleeps.

And somehow, I’m here—camera in hand, working the tour of a lifetime.

I drop to one knee, angling the shot to catch the swirl of smoke machines curling off the stage when I feel it.

That slow, creeping burn of eyes across my skin.

“Careful.” Comes from the sinful voice behind me.

I blink once to ground myself, then I lower my camera and turn to look over my shoulder.

Jasper stands there in a black, sleeveless muscle tee that hangs loose over his frame, sliced low on the sides to expose his inked ribs. Black jeans, ripped and worn, molded to his legs. High-top converse, laces loose, scuffed from nights spent in chaos. He’s sweat-slicked from soundcheck, or maybe just the heat, and the way the sun hits the black of his lip ring makes it flash like a blade.

One hand runs through his black hair, pushing it back, leaving it perfectly messy—like a sinner fixing his tie before confession. Composed, but dangerous.

And I have no doubt he could ruin me in the worst, or the best, way.

JASPER

She goes to stand, and her shirt shifts when she turns—exposing more skin. A teasing edge of red lace under the slashed sides of black fabric.

“You keep aiming that thing at everyone else, I might get jealous.” I say as I make my way over, every step measured. Gravel crunches under my shoes until I’m close enough to steal her shadow, close enough that the air between us changes.

“Hope you’re not wasting your best angles on them.”

She startles slightly but doesn’t show it. Points for composure.

“I’m not sure who ‘them’ is,” she says, voice clipped. “But I shoot what looks good.”

I smile, she’s feisty. I must have gotten to her a little earlier. “Guess that’s why your camera always ends up on me.”

She laughs, sarcastically. “Pretty sure you photobombed the one I got last night on the bus, plus it’s literally my job.”

I tilt my head, eyes narrowing just enough to unsettle her. “Or maybe I just wanted your attention.”

Her gripon the camera tightens and her mouth opens, as if a comeback is on the tip of her tongue, but nothing comes out.

“I have to be honest, I saw your file,” I say. “The ones you sent in for Darklight.”

Her eyes flicker—something unreadable flashing there. “Didn’t think the talent got to rifle through resumes.”

“I’m not just talent, sweetheart. But I handpicked you.”

“Why?” She looks shocked.

“You’re talented, Sawyer. But I also chose you because you don’t look at me like the rest of them do,” I say. “I’m not just a rockstar to you. You see a normal person, even if I do make your heart beat faster when I’m near you.” I say, trying to make her laugh, and it works. “You look like you’re trying to figure out how much of me is real…and how much is about to ruin you.”

Her throat bobs with a swallow. “I look at a lot of people like that.”