And there, floating in the null space, were the other Cole Phelpses.

He remembered the war. He remembered the beach, the flames, the medal he tried to refuse. He remembered the badge, the suits, the lies in every suspect’s eyes. But he did not remember the syringe.

But the deepest option was the one simply labeled

One rainy night, after clearing the Homicide desk, Phelps used it. The camera lifted from his body. He floated up through the ceiling of the Central Police Station, through the invisible walls of the game world, past the low-resolution rooftops and into a gray, untextured void.