You zoom the mnemo-scanner's focus onto the silver-haired executive's face, enhancing the subtle play of expressions across his sharp features. His smile remains perfectly calibrated - the exact warmth expected from a senior board member - but his pale blue eyes flicker with something colder. When he leans in to speak to Tanaka, the tendons in his neck tighten like drawn cables beneath his carefully maintained tan.

The executive's left eyelid develops an almost imperceptible tremor as he mentions 'clinical trials,' his manicured fingers adjusting his platinum cufflinks in a practiced gesture of nonchalance. You notice how his polished smile never reaches his eyes, which keep darting toward a security camera in the ceiling corner. When he passes the data wafer, his lips form the word 'results' with exaggerated care, revealing a hint of canine teeth filed to unnatural sharpness.

As the memory playback continues, you observe the exact moment his mask slips. When Tanaka turns away, the executive's face contorts briefly into a grimace of disgust, his nose wrinkling as if smelling something foul. His tongue darts out to wet thin lips, leaving them gleaming under the chandelier lights. Then, in a blink, the pleasant corporate expression snaps back into place, seamless as a vault door closing.

Mr. Tanaka whimpers in the present, his body remembering what his conscious mind forgot. The scanner picks up on his distress, automatically enhancing the memory's audio. Now you hear the wet click of the executive swallowing between sentences, the faint whistle of air through a deviated septum. These intimate imperfections make the calculated charm even more unsettling.