Page 31 of Hymns of the Broken

Just me, the camera, and the music.

The sound tech cues the second band to start their set. The rumble of drums and the feedback from a mic hit like an electric pulse through the crowd, vibrating up through the soles of my boots and into my spine.

I steady the camera, let the beat anchor me, and start shooting.

Click.

The blur of drumsticks midair, a flash of motion caught against the blinding sun.

Click.

The bassist leans into the mic, veins sharp against his neck as he screams into the crowd.

Click.

The front row—sweaty, wild-eyed, screaming like this moment is the only one they’ll ever remember.

I don’t need to shoot the other bands, but I want to prove to Darklight that I can do this. Most importantly, I want to prove to myself who I am.

Sawyer fucking Morrigan.

Professional.

Focused.

Unshakeable.

At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.

Chapter 6

SAWYER

The sunset sky’s bleeding pink across the stage canopy when the last band finally finishes their set.

I should be exhausted, but all I feel is the weight of the moment pressing into my spine.

My fingers check my camera one more time. ISO, shutter speed, battery. I already did this. Twice. I need to chill.

I shift my position near the photo pit, just left of center stage. The barricade groans under the weight of bodies pressing harder, a wall of heat and voices rising around me in pulsing anticipation. Lights dim and screams swell.

They chant his name like it’s holy.

“Jasper! Jasper! Jasper!”

Then he walks onstage and I swear time fractures. He’s not just a man. He’s a storm wrapped in black ink and arrogance, with a voice that could raise the dead or bury you in your sins. Torn black tank clings to his sides, soaked through in places, ripped and raw, exposing muscle and mayhem in equal measure. Every tattoo on his skin appears to be a threat. Every step he takes claims the stage as if it were built for him and no one else.

The crowd loses its mind.

And me? I forget how to breathe. All I can think about is how hot he looks.

What is wrong with me? You don’t want him, Sawyer.

He stepsup to the mic, eyes sweeping the audience like he’s choosing who to ruin first. And then he finds me.

Eyes lock, and everything else dissolves. The stage lights are blinding, but somehow I feel more exposed than he does. His smirk curls slowly, laced with a promise that doesn’t stay innocent.

“Did you miss me already, Little Demon?”