Mr. Tanaka's breath hitches as the memory unfolds before you both. The woman's blurred features seem to dance at the edge of recognition. 'Do you know her?' you ask gently, keeping your voice steady despite the growing unease in your gut. The mnemo-scanner beeps ominously as it detects elevated stress levels in your subject.

The salaryman's hands begin to tremble violently. 'I... I think...' he stammers before his pupils dilate suddenly. The alleyway memory starts glitching violently, the neon signs fracturing into jagged shards of light. A high-pitched whine builds in your auditory implants as the scanner warns of potential memory cascade failure.

Just as you're about to abort the procedure, the woman's face snaps into sudden clarity - sharp cheekbones framing dark almond eyes. Mr. Tanaka screams. The black case tumbles to the wet pavement, popping open to reveal rows of glowing data chips. One bears the same corporate logo, but with a crimson 'X' slashed across it - the mark of discontinued black projects.

Back in the present, your subject convulses in the chair. 'She was a researcher!' he gasps between spasms. 'From the Kyoto branch... they said she transferred...' His words dissolve into choked sobs as the scanner automatically initiates sedation protocols.