With practiced ease, you reroute the mnemo-scanner's pathways, dialing back the temporal coordinates by three weeks. The alleyway shimmers like disturbed mercury before resolving into a different scene - a lavish corporate banquet hall. Crystal chandeliers hang above circular tables where impeccably dressed executives sip champagne. The younger Tanaka stands near a towering ice sculpture of the company logo, engaged in tense conversation with a silver-haired man whose tailored suit probably costs more than your monthly rent.

The audio feed crackles to life: '--can't keep delaying the clinical trials,' the older man says, his voice a velvet-wrapped threat. He slips something into Tanaka's palm - a data wafer glowing faintly blue. 'The board wants results by quarter's end. Those slum test subjects won't remember a thing anyway.'

As Tanaka pockets the wafer, your view shifts to reveal a balcony where that same blur-faced woman from the alley observes the exchange through half-lidded eyes. Her cocktail glass trembles slightly, sending ripples through the scarlet liquid. The memory stutters suddenly - not from degradation, but because the real Tanaka is shaking in the chair beside you. Sweat beads on his forehead as his fingers dig into the armrests hard enough to tear the synthetic leather.