I stepped into the room, immediately noticing how different it felt from every other class I'd been in. Soft chairs, beanbags scattered in corners, mismatched lamps giving a warm glow—this was Ethics, not a lecture hall. Somehow, it felt… alive.
Skyler had beaten me there, sprawled in a beanbag like it belonged to him personally. "About time," he said, smirking. "First day nerves?"
"Maybe," I muttered, scanning the room.
In front of him, Camilla sat upright, composed as always, legs crossed, notebook open but untouched. She looked like she had walked out of a museum exhibit on poise, and everyone else might as well have been moving in slow motion.
And then I noticed her—Isabella Lopez. Leaning back in her chair, arms crossed, eyes sharp, dark, unreadable. She didn't just sit in the room; she owned it.
I hadn't paid much attention to the kid behind us, a short ginger-haired boy with round glasses that magnified his curious eyes. He leaned forward, almost unnervingly, like he could hear my thoughts.
Finally, he spoke. "Hi. I'm Ferb. You're new, right? Marx?"
I blinked. "Uh… yeah. Hi."
He grinned conspiratorially. "Welcome to Ethics. You're gonna either love it or hate it. No in-between."
Skyler snorted. "Don't worry, he's mostly harmless… I think."
The door opened silently, and Dr. Mirela entered. She didn't walk—she glided. Tall, silver-streaked braid, dark layered clothes, ageless. She surveyed the room, eyes sharp and slow, like she was measuring pieces on a chessboard.
"Ethics," she said softly, letting the word hang in the air. "The only class where everyone is technically right, yet someone always leaves upset."
She set her worn notebook on the center table—no podium, no desk—and sat in a single upright chair like a judge taking the bench.
"Today's question comes from a real situation," she said, turning to the whiteboard and writing just four words:
Would you save them?
Then she explained the scenario: you see someone about to get hit by a car. You can push them out of the way, but you'll get hurt instead—not fatal, but bad enough to change your life. Fractured spine. Months of recovery. Chronic pain. No guarantees. Would you do it?
Silence settled over the room, heavy and almost suffocating.
Camilla spoke first, quiet, measured. "Depends on the person. Stranger? Hesitate. Someone I love? No question."
Isabella snorted softly. "One moment of selflessness and your life changes forever, even if no one knew. Or walk away and regret it forever. Either way, you lose something."
Skyler glanced at me. "What about you, hero?"
All eyes turned to me. Camilla. Bella. Ferb, scribbling furiously in his tiny notebook like he was tracking our answers for future blackmail.
"I… think I'd do it," I said. "Even knowing the cost. If I could help, and didn't… I'd never sleep right again."
Camilla turned slightly toward me, letting a strand of hair fall across her cheek. "That's a good answer," she said, calm and unreadable.
Isabella didn't speak, but I felt her gaze like heat against my side.
Ferb raised his hand. "Technically, by throwing yourself in the path, you're making a utilitarian sacrifice. Trading one damaged life for one saved life. Mathematically, that has weight—"
Dr. Mirela held up a hand. "Ferb, pause the thesis. We're here to feel this one, not dissect it."
Ferb slumped back, muttering something about "emotional illogic."
Skyler leaned forward. "And what if the person is awful? War criminal, cafeteria lady, whatever."
Isabella's response was flat. "Still human."
"But does that matter?" Skyler pressed. "Would you jump in front of a car for someone who'd stab you tomorrow?"
"Maybe," I said. "Because who they are doesn't define who I am."
Even if no one saw it, I felt the memory of last night flicker—the mission, the danger, Bella tucked in my pocket for a split second, the flash drive. That split second when everything had depended on me making the right choice.
Dr. Mirela underlined the board once. "Well. That's why Ethics isn't a math class."
She snapped her notebook shut. "No homework. But I want one paragraph from each of you next class. Not for a grade. For yourself. Who you are in theory means nothing. Who you are in the moment—that's your truth."
She snapped the notebook shut and left. Silence hung for a heartbeat longer before students began filing out.
Sky muttered, "She's spooky. I like her."
Camilla simply rose, composed and unreadable.
Isabella passed without a word, yet her gaze lingered just long enough to leave an impression—expectation, not curiosity, not warmth.
Behind us, Ferb leaned in, whispering conspiratorially. "Triangle. You, Camilla, Bella. I noticed the way you sit near both of them. And yesterday, you walked out with the dark-haired girl—what's her name? Bella?—and Camilla joined your lab group. That's… some spicy dynamics, Marx."
I blinked. "Triangle?"
"You know," he said, low, still grinning. "The way she looks at you," he gestured toward Camilla, "and the way she doesn't look at you," thumb flicking toward Bella. "That's a triangle. Narrative tension. Drama. Very high stakes."
Sky groaned beside me. "Ferb… do you want to die?"
"I'm just making observations!" Ferb protested, raising his hands. "You can't sit in a room like that and not pick up on the tension. It's practically a second teacher."
I felt my jaw tighten. Camilla didn't turn. Bella didn't either. But I could feel the weight of Ferb's words anyway, like a mirror reflecting all the unspoken things I hadn't processed yet.
Sky shoved him lightly. "Go bother someone else, detective."
Ferb grinned. "Fine, fine. But when the hallway gossip comes true, I'll be the first to say I told you so."
Exhaling, I tried to shake it off—but Bella stepped forward, voice low and flat. "Shut that kid down before he starts poking where he shouldn't."
Camilla added, soft and deliberate, "Or maybe you just need to decide who you're walking with."
The words hit harder than expected.
Sky clapped my shoulder. "Come on. Lunch is waiting. You look like you're about to short-circuit."
I followed him, steps heavy. The hall buzzed with students, yet everything felt muted, filtered through a lens of tension. Bella and Camilla went their separate ways—storm and calm—and I lingered between them, caught on the invisible line that stretched through last night, the Ethics question, and the unspoken truths that neither of them had voiced.
And I realized, quietly, that I was still trying to figure out what kind of person I was.