ChemDraw didn’t just open. It exploded .
And somewhere in the dusty server room of the chemical sciences building, a single, forgotten process on a university license of ChemDraw logged a tiny, impossible error:
The 2D page vanished. In its place, a wireframe rendering of his molecule burst into full 3D, spinning gently in the air above his keyboard. Atoms glowed with soft, neon colours: carbon in grey, hydrogen in white, oxygen in pulsing red.
The stylus, warm again in Leo’s pocket, hummed, waiting for the next sleepless student to find it.
He slid it into his pocket.
He sighed, leaning back. The library was a mausoleum of exhausted overachievers. Across from him, Mia from chemical engineering was asleep on a pile of thermodynamics papers. Next to him, a first-year was watching cat videos.
This wasn’t just drawing. This was seeing .
He looked across at Mia. She hadn’t moved. The cat video first-year was still frozen mid-yawn.
That’s when he noticed the stylus. It wasn’t his. It was a sleek, silver thing lying on the edge of his mousepad, humming with a faint, residual warmth. He didn’t remember picking it up. He shrugged, desperation winning over caution, and tapped it on the screen.
He reached out a finger to touch the oxygen atom. It buzzed. The molecule shimmered, and a ghostly, transparent version of the protein it was supposed to bind to materialized beside it. He could see the lock and key—his molecule was a terrible fit. Too bulky on the left side.
“That’s the answer,” Leo breathed.
Finally, he was done. Compound 47 was perfect. The synthesis was a masterpiece of brevity. He saved the file as Albright_Final.cdx .
Leo looked at the stylus. It was now cold, inert, just a piece of metal. He had a sudden, chilling thought. He checked the file’s creation time: 2:17 AM.