Page 12 of The Naughty Professor
He spoke of a compound he’d engineered from a backbone of substituted tryptamines—psychedelic in nature, but heavily modified.He’d linked them to dopamine agonists, creating a flood of neurotransmitter release that forced neural rewiring.To keep the effect stable, he’d bound the structure to a synthetic polymerase inhibitor, preventing the brain from reverting too quickly.For a time, it had worked brilliantly.The woman’s brain lit up like a city seen from above, networks reconnecting in ways no one had thought possible.
“But the system couldn’t hold,” he said.“The scaffolding collapsed under its own weight.Her neurons began to misfire, cascade failure after cascade failure.It wasn’t a cure.It was a death sentence disguised as hope.”
His voice broke again, and this time he didn’t attempt to hide it.“Every pharmaceutical company I approached told me the same thing—too risky.Too unstable.Too dangerous.They wanted nothing to do with it.And they were right.I beg you, Dr.Sterling—let it go.Don’t make my mistake.Don’t let your ambition destroy someone else’s life.”
I closed my eyes.The heat that had been coursing through me since I read the article cooled to ash.If the giants of the industry had turned away, if even Hargreaves himself begged me to stop, then what was left?
My dreams felt childish suddenly.Foolish.
“Thank you for your time,” I breathed.“I appreciate your honesty.”
And then I hung up.
The silence that followed was suffocating.My little office seemed smaller, the bookshelves pressing in on me.I stood too quickly, the chair scraping across the floor, and wandered down the hall until I found myself in the bathroom.
The light above the sink was too bright, and unkind.My reflection stared back at me from the mirror, pale and gaunt, hair unkempt, glasses sliding down my nose.I pulled them off and set them on the counter.Without them, the world blurred into soft shapes and colors.
Grandma’s words echoed: You’re the spitting image of Leon, the handsomest man in the neighborhood.
I didn’t see it.Not at all.Dad had been a ballplayer, broad-shouldered and radiant, a man who could light up a room just by walking in.I was a pale imitation.
But maybe I was just blind to myself.Maybe all I needed was… confidence.
I leaned closer to the mirror, squinting.Maybe with a decent haircut, better clothes, a gym membership.Maybe if I stopped eating microwave dinners and took care of myself.Grandma couldn’t be completely wrong.
“You can do this,” I whispered.“Put yourself out there.Try.”
The thought terrified me.But what was the alternative?Spending the rest of my life alone in this old house, shuffling between school and Grandma’s house, invisible to the world?
I remembered Lorna, the drama instructor, telling me about that bar downtown—Badlands.My stomach fluttered with dread, but I clung to it like a lifeline.
I straightened, grabbed my glasses, and marched to my bedroom.The closet was a graveyard of outdated shirts and worn blazers.I picked through them, finally settling on a button-down that wasn’t too wrinkled and a pair of slacks that almost fit.I dug out the cologne I’d bought five years ago and never used, dabbed a little on my neck, and tried to flatten my hair with water.
Pathetic, maybe.But it was my best shot.
As I looked at myself one last time in the mirror, I forced a smile.“Tonight,” I told my reflection.“Tonight I’ll be someone new.”
And with that fragile hope burning in my chest, I stepped out into the night, toward Badlands.
* * *
Badlands was nothing like I imagined.
From the outside, it looked like a brick bunker, tucked into a corner downtown near a row of shuttered shops.A neon sign buzzed faintly above the door, the word BADLANDS in electric pink.Music thudded from inside—low, and bass-heavy.
My heart was hammering in sync with it as I stood on the sidewalk, hands jammed into the pockets of my slacks.For a second, I considered turning around, going home, reheating Grandma’s casserole and pretending I’d never left the house.
But then the door swung open, and two men stepped out, laughing.They were tall, broad-shouldered, easy smiles glowing under the streetlight.One of them had his arm slung casually around the other’s waist.They didn’t even notice me.
I swallowed hard and stepped inside.
The air hit me first—humid, tinged with sweat, alcohol, and the faint burn of cologne.Colored lights spun overhead, casting flashes of blue and green across a packed dance floor.Men filled every inch of the place, bodies pressed together, voices shouting over the music.
They were beautiful.All of them.
Toned, tanned, hair styled into sharp cuts or artful curls.Some wore shirts so tight they looked painted on.Others didn’t bother with shirts at all, muscles glistening in the pulsing light.They moved with confidence and ease, as if the entire room belonged to them.
And then there was me.
