You quickly stabilize the memory sequence and withdraw from the neural interface, your hands still tingling with residual energy. Mr. Tanaka sits bolt upright in the chair, his face drained of color. Sweat beads along his forehead as he clutches at his temples. 'That symbol...' you begin carefully, watching his pupils dilate. 'The red hourglass beneath your company logo. What do you remember about it?'

Tanaka's breathing becomes ragged. He stares at his own sleeve, fingers tracing the embroidery as if seeing it for the first time. 'Experimental division,' he whispers. His voice cracks like thin ice. 'Project Hourglass. They said it was...' His words dissolve into choked silence for a moment. 'Temporal asset retrieval. But the subjects kept... coming back wrong.'

A sudden tremor runs through his body. His left eyelid begins twitching violently, the cheap memory wipe struggling to contain whatever horrors are resurfacing. 'There was a woman,' he continues, his voice distant. 'She warned me. Said the calculations were off by 0.3 seconds. That tiny discrepancy...' Tanaka's hands fly to his throat as if something invisible is choking him. His next words come out strangled: 'It accumulates.'

The temperature in your workstation drops noticeably. The holographic display flickers, showing ghostly afterimages of the alleyway scene superimposed over Tanaka's contorted face. From somewhere deep in the Archives, you hear the distinct sound of a black sedan's engine turning over.