Your fingers fly across the interface, executing a series of emergency protocols before the Archive's termination command can complete. The mnemo-scanner whines in protest as you force a raw data dump, watching corrupted memory fragments cascade across your display like shattered glass. A progress bar flickers - 47% salvaged - as the system attempts to quarantine the files.

Mr. Tanaka's body goes rigid in the chair, his fingernails digging bloody crescents into the armrests. Sweat beads on his forehead as the encryption worms through his neural pathways. You slap the emergency release, detaching the scanner tendrils just as his eyes roll back. The older man slumps forward, unconscious but breathing.

Your private drive pings with acquisition confirmation seconds before the workstation purges all active sessions. The holographic display goes dark except for one final image - the woman's crimson lips frozen mid-syllable, her eyes locking onto yours with impossible awareness. The workstation's speakers emit a burst of static that resolves into three chilling notes of a corporate jingle you haven't heard in years.

Outside your pod, the Archives' security drones begin their sweep, their red scanning beams cutting through the hallway's artificial fog. You pocket the drive, its casing already growing warm against your thigh. The unconscious Tanaka twitches, his lips forming the same words the woman spoke: 'Eclipse Protocol.'