You quickly disable the emergency termination protocol, placing a steadying hand on Tanaka's shoulder as the neural encryption attempts to reassert itself. His breathing is ragged, sweat beading on his forehead as the scanner's warning lights pulse ominously. 'Mr. Tanaka,' you say firmly, cutting through his panic, 'who was that woman? Your reaction suggests she's more than just a corporate liaison.'

The memory sequence flickers back to the alleyway momentarily, freezing on the woman's unnerving smile. Tanaka's fingers dig into the armrests, his knuckles turning white. 'She... they called her The Curator,' he whispers hoarsely. 'Department 7's cleaner. I wasn't supposed to remember her at all.' His eyes dart nervously to the security feed in the corner of your lab.

A chill runs down your spine. Department 7 handles memory crimes - the very existence of such a division is technically classified. The woman's too-perfect smile suddenly makes sense; she's had all her imperfections surgically and mnemonically removed to become the perfect corporate instrument. Tanaka reaches for the emergency disconnect, but you intercept his hand. 'What was in that case?' you press.

The scanner picks up a sudden surge of adrenal memory. The alleyway dissolves into another fragmented scene - Tanaka standing over an open black case revealing rows of gleaming neural spikes, their razor tips catching the light. 'Soulcatchers,' he murmurs, his voice distant. 'For the Osaka incident.' Your blood runs cold. Those were banned after the Memory Rights Act of 2039.

Outside your lab door, you hear the distinct click of security boots approaching too quickly for a routine check. The woman's final mouthed words replay in your mind: 'You're next.'