The alleyway vision shimmers as you initiate a partial withdrawal sequence, pulling just enough awareness back to monitor the physical world. Your fingers dance across the biometric display floating beside Mr. Tanaka's chair. His pulse races at 140 bpm, sweat beading along his hairline despite the climate-controlled chamber. The mnemo-scanner's safety protocols automatically reduce stimulus intensity when it detects adrenal spikes.

'Deep breaths, Mr. Tanaka,' you murmur, activating the stabilizer subroutine. A cool mist emits from the chair's headrest, carrying synthetic lavender and chamomile. The man's eyelids flutter wildly behind the neural interface visor - his pupils dilated to black pools swallowing the irises whole.

Back in the memoryscape, the younger Tanaka accepts the case with trembling hands. The mysterious woman leans closer, her blurred features resolving momentarily into startling clarity - high cheekbones framing eyes that seem to glow faintly amber. Then the image fractures like broken glass just as the case's latch clicks open. Inside glints something metallic and organic-looking, pulsing with unnatural rhythm. The real Tanaka's breathing turns ragged, his fingers clawing at the armrests.