The memory stabilizes again, this time in what appears to be a dimly lit underground laboratory. Exposed pipes run along the ceiling, dripping condensation onto the concrete floor. Younger Tanaka stands before a bank of glowing medical pods, each containing a sleeping figure connected to IV lines. His hands shake as he inserts the blue data wafer into a console, its screen flashing warnings in rapid succession.

A holographic display erupts above the console, showing brain scans that begin rearranging themselves in unnatural patterns. The sleeping subjects twitch violently in their pods, their vital signs spiking on adjacent monitors. You notice the same blur-faced woman from previous memories standing in the shadows near an emergency exit, her fingers hovering over a keypad.

Tanaka's breathing becomes erratic as the console issues a final, earsplitting alert. The lights flicker as one of the pods hisses open, revealing a gaunt man whose eyes snap open with unnatural awareness. His irises glow faintly blue - the telltale sign of successful memory implantation. But something's wrong. The man's mouth moves silently before he collapses forward, dark blood trickling from his nose.

The real Tanaka in your chair begins hyperventilating, his body convulsing against the restraints. Alarms blare on your mnemo-scanner as neural feedback spikes dangerously. The memory starts breaking apart into jagged fragments - flashes of running through corridors, the woman screaming, a gunshot echoing through concrete halls.