infinityscript has become one of the Missing as of July 15th, 2022. I am sorry to announce it like this, but at this time, we are unsure if he will ever return to us.

infinityscript deeply appreciated the input of his fans and their unwavering support over the years. He really did try to write for them, but with the most recent web novel, Death of a Paladin, he decided to take a new direction. While we were discussing the possibility of a rewrite at the time of his disappearance, I, as his editor, truly believe that is not what he wanted. With this in mind, our team has decided to publish Death of a Paladin as it was written by him, with his voice and wishes in mind.

I apologize to any fans that are displeased with this decision, and respectfully request that you understand this. This may be the last writing we ever receive from infinityscript, and his team wants to preserve his voice and conviction. It was a difficult decision for everyone. With this in mind, please exercise grace and compassion during this difficult time.

Thank you for reading, and thank you for your support.

Jeremy was not a man that belonged on the floor, in a corner, but there he was, sipping on a glass of brandy with a laptop in front of him. His eyes were fixed on the comments scrolling past.

The date on the calendar read July 22nd. It had scarcely been a week. Perhaps some decisions had been made too early, judging from the emails up in a second window, but Jeremy was too preoccupied with the bottle in his hands to worry about rushing things.

His hand slid across the comment section, taking in the scathing comments.

So infinityscript is dead and you’re just moving forward with a badly edited webnovel you probably pushed him to write.

He’s not even cold in the grave and you’re profiting off of it.

He’s missing??? He’s one of the Missing???

infinityscript would be ashamed of everyone here. how can you announce a release and his death in one single go.

Is this really what he would have wanted?

“What he wanted?” Jeremy asked into the bottle, and looked at the empty glass for a long, long time before he just took a swig directly from the bottle. “What the fuck would you know, huh?”

The man rose on unsteady feet, swaying dangerously, and lurched to the open window. There were tracks shining on his cheeks, and he wiped at them with the back of his rumpled blazer sleeve.

“What would you all know?” he asked the open air, and sniffled. “What would I know?”

A phone left out on the desk started buzzing, and he turned to lean against the windowsill and watch it ring. The caller ID read ‘Boss’, and Jeremy wiped at his wet eyes. He made no move to answer it. It was dark outside, shadows being casted over the dark room, with his own shadow stretching on forever over the living room floor.

The editor pushed himself off the sill and shuffled into the kitchen, barely managing to click on the light before he started pulling out peanut butter, jelly, and bread. Drunken, clumsy hands started assembling a sandwich, dripping jelly on the floor and getting peanut butter on the bare counter. The second it was completed, he slumped down to the ground with the bottle of bourbon to bite into his sandwich.

More tears were streaming down his cheeks as he chewed, swallowed with such clear conscious effort, and a bit of jelly dripped onto his slacks. He didn’t pay attention to that, though.

“Six years,” he said out loud, his mouth full of peanut butter.

The words hung in the air, and he suddenly took a long swig of liquor, his throat bobbing with each glug.

“Six years, and I can’t even give you a funeral.”

Tears started to stream anew, and he curled over the bottle.

“You know,” he said and hiccuped, “I tried calling your dad. He didn’t answer. I don’t even know if he knows. I’m so sorry.”

Suddenly, he flung the mostly empty bottle. It clanged against a cabinet before it rolled across the kitchen floor, bourbon sloshing out against the tile.

“I hope he fucking likes Costa Rica!” he snarled, and then started laughing, high and manic. “I hope he likes Costa Rica!”

The laughter turned to sobs, and he moved forward, barely managing to stumble to his feet to get a roll of paper towels. He went back on his hands and knees, mopping up the spilled liquor, leaving the bottle on the floor.

“That was expensive,” he mumbled, and sat back against the cabinets, leaving the bundle of paper towels a sopping mess on the floor. “That was really expensive.”