Your fingers fly across the interface, executing an illegal bypass sequence you learned during your black-market mnemo-training. The termination order dissolves into static as you force the scanner into overdrive, its cooling vents screaming in protest. Mr. Tanaka's body arches against the restraints as you plunge deeper through the neural firewalls.

The white lab memory stabilizes into horrifying clarity - rows upon rows of the black cases now visible as neural upload caskets, each containing what appear to be human brains suspended in glowing blue fluid. The younger Tanaka stands at a control console, his hands shaking as he flips switches labeled 'CONSCIOUSNESS TRANSFER.' The woman from the alley moves between the caskets with inhuman precision, her crimson lips now stretched in a rictus grin.

Suddenly, the memory fractures again, this time revealing a third location: a corporate boardroom where twenty identical versions of the woman sit around a table, their synchronized voices chanting stock prices. The original woman turns to the younger Tanaka and peels back her cheek like synthetic flesh, revealing circuitry beneath. 'Welcome to the merger,' she says in a voice like grinding servos.

Back in the present, your workstation erupts with security alerts as physical locks engage on the Archive doors. Mr. Tanaka's eyes snap open - but the pupils now glow with the same eerie blue as the casket fluid. When he speaks, it's with the woman's voice layered beneath his own: 'You weren't cleared for this security level, archaeologist.'