Your fingers dance across the holographic controls, increasing the scanner's resolution parameters. The memory sequence stutters for a moment before stabilizing, the woman's features coming into sharper focus. She has high cheekbones framed by sleek black hair cut in a razor-sharp bob, her lips painted the same crimson as the bar's neon signage. There's something unsettling about her smile - too perfect, like a corporate training hologram.

Mr. Tanaka's younger self accepts the black case with uncharacteristic reverence. As his fingers brush against hers, you notice both their hands bear identical silver rings - not wedding bands, but corporate loyalty markers. The woman whispers something that makes the younger Tanaka's face drain of color, just as the memory begins to fracture at the edges.

The present-day Tanaka suddenly convulses in the chair, his pupils dilating. 'I remember... the project codename...' he gasps. The scanner's warning lights flare red as it detects unauthorized neural encryption attempting to reassert itself. The alleyway memory dissolves into static, replaced by fleeting images of a sterile white lab where dozens of identical black cases sit on a conveyor belt.

Your workstation's security system suddenly pings with a priority override from Archives HQ. The message header flashes 'TERMINATE SESSION' in urgent crimson, followed by an unfamiliar encryption signature. The woman in the memory turns toward you - impossibly, as if aware of your observation - and mouths two words before the connection severs completely.