Dear Traveler,

  When I first sketched the rough map that would send Joshua?Reeves stumbling through a copper portal into a city of shambling corpses, barter?pearls, and pop?up system messages, I assumed I would be walking alone. Instead, every chapter I posted was met by an escort party of readers—you—armed with theories sharper than Anna’s steel pipe and enthusiasm sturdy enough to breach any barricade. You noticed the detail on the engraved skyline of the Gate, counted Joshua’s dwindling dollars, and groaned with him every time the ten?percent tariff bit a little deeper. Your late?night e?mails, emoji?laced DMs, and astonishing fan art lit the alleys of this ruined Manhattan brighter than any solar lantern I could buy with fictional cash.

  Now we have reached the final page of Book?Two. The Gate has closed for the moment, Joshua stands barefoot in a mold?stained basement clutching sixteen thousand salvaged dollars, and Anna is hefting a war?hammer against the coming night. My keyboard, peppered with crumbs and stained by an alarming amount of cold coffee, has fallen silent—and in that hush I hear the muffled alarm of my own stamina bar flashing red.

  This is not a cliff?hanger marketing trick. It is a human reality check: storytellers need cooldowns, too. For the past eighteen months I have drafted chapters in airport lounges, balanced revision pages on gym treadmills (don’t try this), and outlined entire subplots on receipt paper while waiting for take?out. I have loved every breathless minute, but creative exhaustion—like the infection in Anna’s thigh—can spread quietly until the whole body falters.

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  So, before I slot a fresh save file labelled Book?Three, I am going to step away from the copper door. My immediate quests include:

  watching real sunsets that do not end with a horde silhouette,

  hiking trails where the only stat buffs come from fresh air,

  and eating dinners that respawn only when I make a second reservation.

  Yes, I will carry a pocket notebook—plot bunnies are ambush predators—but I promise to jot a single cryptic line (“roamer hive under the Met?”) and then return to the present moment instead of sprint?writing 2,000 words before dessert arrives.

  If a pause makes you uneasy, take heart: the architecture of Book?Three already stands in rough scaffolding. I know which borough Joshua must brave next, Rare item Anna will find, and the exact moment when Richard Reeves’s porch?light story will come due. The Feral’s loot table is taped above my monitor, and the Gate’s next penalty has been calculated down to the penny. All of it will wait, and distance will sharpen it.

  While I recharge, I invite you to embark on side?quests of your own: learn the hobby that’s been in your “someday” inventory, reread a comfort classic, or simply log out of the scroll?feed and let silence render its textures. Stories are co?op campaigns between teller and listener; the richer our separate experiences, the deeper the shared world we’ll build when we reunite.

  If you’d like to know the instant the copper door creaks open again, you can join my mailing list or follow me on the social haunt of your choice. I won’t spam countdown timers—just one flare in the sky when the manuscript returns from its first raid.

  Thank you for every minute you’ve spent wandering these pages and every word of encouragement you’ve hurled like a perfectly timed critical hit. Your support turned a solitary act of typing into a living, breathing apocalypse worth surviving, and it’s the reason this saga will continue once my own mana pool refills.

  Until the next key turns,

  Adrian?Snow