The perspective shifts fluidly as you focus the scanner on the blur-faced woman. She sets her drink down with deliberate care and slips through the banquet crowd, her movements graceful yet purposeful. The memory's edges darken as you follow her into a service corridor lined with stacked champagne crates. She pauses to check a slim silver watch - an outdated model with cracked numerals - then removes a hairpin with surprising deftness.

A hidden panel beside a fire extinguisher clicks open beneath her fingers, revealing a retinal scanner. She leans forward, and for a fleeting moment, her face comes into shocking clarity - high cheekbones framing strangely familiar violet eyes before the scanner's red beam distorts the image again. The panel slides aside to expose a narrow elevator shaft where cold air rushes upward, carrying the scent of ozone and something metallic.

Inside the descending elevator, the woman presses a sequence into what appears to be a maintenance panel. The corporate logo on the wall flickers, replaced by a projection of neural maps scrolling too fast for conscious reading. She reaches into her clutch purse and withdraws the same black case you saw in the alley memory, running her thumb along the biometric lock with clear apprehension.

The elevator shudders to a stop seven sub-levels below the banquet. The doors part onto a sterile white corridor lined with identical doors, each bearing a small red light. The woman moves to the third door on the right, pressing her palm against a scanner you recognize as military-grade. Behind it lies a laboratory that makes your mnemo-scanner look like a child's toy - rows of glass pods containing floating human figures connected by glowing filaments to a central core.