To Whom It May Concern,

Today marks the 25th anniversary of America Rocks, a project I've been pragmatic about since its inception. However, claiming ownership of its success would place me in an awkward position, as I must now inform you that I will not be returning for Season 52.

I've wrestled with the decision to leave Steel's Inc. for years. No amount of medication or endless hours spent in therapy with strangers has alleviated the insidious weight pressing down on me. Thus, with a heavy heart, I formally submit my resignation as both host and lead producer of this company.

"No, no, that sounds rubbish."

To Whom It May Concern,

Dear Steel's Inc...

"Nope. That's far too casual. Bloody hell."

Mark Steel,

This letter serves as my formal resignation—

"Still too stiff. I'll never get this right, will I?"

Mark,

I can't do this anymore. I'm knackered. This is my 72nd hour on shift. My doctor says time is running out, and I can't waste what's left slogging away in this miserable job.

"Bollocks. Breathe, Byron. Maybe if I send this to someone else instead? Mark is the real problem here anyway... Who wouldn't think I've gone completely mad, though?"

Burdy,

I've been lying to myself for ages, pretending I don't need help. I've been on my own so long that I forgot other things even exist. Locked in this metaphorical prison due to my lack of equanimity, I've realized I know far too much about the world—thanks largely to my father, who only pretended to love me for what he could gain.

I can't lie any longer. These 25 years have drained every shred of my soul. I'm not the man people think I am. I've been playing at being a spy for as long as I can remember — sheer escapism, I suppose. And now I'm 52.

This letter will be my final communication with the outside world. No more drugs. No more therapy. No more sleepless nights propping up a career that brings me nothing but misery. Tonight, after the event, I'll be gone.

I know you'll get your hands on this letter. You always snoop around, which is probably why the Fashion Department Police hired you in the first place. I'm sorry for everything. I never set out to ridicule you (though you can manage that just fine on your own). I've admired you since 2004 when you first tried to interview me at the Save the Universe show. I was too shattered to entertain your questions. Things only escalated once the girls entered my life. You were always bitter that you didn't get a chance like theirs, weren't you?

As for me, I'm taking strychnine tonight — quick, clean, no ticking clock. Enclosed are the keys to my flat. There's security, but they all bugger off for a 30-minute break around 4 a.m. That's your window. Take what you want — Yasmin knows how to access my accounts.

Why you? First, the Bratz could never pull this off. Second, I've seen you in action. Third, I owe you one. None of this was ever personal. We had a lot in common — both worked for the CIA, knew all the right (and wrong) people, and loathed each other enough that people asked if we were married. (I almost wish we had been.)

I've already cleared any legal obstacles; my lawyer has the paperwork. Take it all.

Before I go, remember Paris? You climbed up to my hotel room window at the Marriott, in heels, swearing under your breath like no one could hear. We locked eyes for a solid minute, and I laughed so hard I forgot I was chasing a murderer.

Thanks for that.

Take care of the girls. I know you always admired them.

Byron Powell

P.S. Yes, you win — pink does go with punk.