The flickering holo-screen casts an eerie blue glow across your cramped workspace in the Neo-Tokyo Memory Archives. Your fingers hover over the neural interface ports as the last subject of the day settles into the reclining chair. A middle-aged salaryman with deep wrinkles around his eyes nervously twitches his left eyelid - the telltale sign of someone who's paid for cheap memory wipes.

'According to your file, Mr. Tanaka, you're missing approximately eighteen months from 2042,' you say, adjusting the calibration on your mnemo-scanner. The machine hums to life with a sound like distant thunder, its tendrils extending toward the man's temples. 'Standard corporate blackout procedure. I should warn you - recovered memories can be... disorienting.'

The man grips the armrests as the first memory sequence loads. Suddenly, the sterile lab dissolves around you both. You're standing together in a rain-slicked alley behind a karaoke bar, the neon signs reflecting in oily puddles. A younger version of Mr. Tanaka stumbles into frame, his tie loosened, laughing with a woman whose face blurs at the edges - a common side effect of memory degradation. She's handing him a small black case. Your professional detachment wavers for a moment as you recognize the corporate logo stamped on the metal - the same one currently embroidered on your subject's sleeve.