The stairs echoed with our footsteps, that soft morning quiet where everything still felt halfway asleep — except for Skyler's mouth, which had apparently had three coffees before sunrise.
"She doesn't talk to anyone," he was saying. "She once told Nate in bio to shut up using only eye contact. People still talk about it."
I grunted in response.
"She's a ghost," Sky continued. "An apex predator in eyeliner. She exists on a separate plane. You, meanwhile, exist in a hoodie that smells like four different kinds of ramen."
"I do laundry."
"Sure you do."
The campus was already buzzing by the time we hit the main courtyard — kids sprawled on benches, sipping iced coffee like it was oxygen, talking about tests, playlists, and God knows what else. A girl was balancing a laptop and a smoothie while skating past a guy carrying a 3D-printed spine. Just another day.
Sky kept side-eyeing me as we walked.
"Still not gonna tell me what happened after the cafeteria?"
"I told you. We talked."
"You disappeared for hours. And you looked like you got hit by a low-budget lightning bolt this morning."
I didn't answer.
He bumped my shoulder. "Dude. If you kissed her, just say it. I'll be shocked, but I'll survive."
I gave him a flat look. "Nothing happened like that."
Sky was about to say something else — probably something sarcastic — when he stopped walking mid-step.
"Speak of the goddess," he muttered.
I turned — and there she was.
Isabella Lopez.
Walking through the courtyard like she hadn't almost bled out twelve hours ago. Hair tied back. Oversized sweatshirt, black jeans, earbuds in. Calm, collected, eyes scanning the crowd like it was a chessboard and she already knew the last move.
She moved through people like water. They made space for her without realizing it.
Sky whistled under his breath. "She's glowing. Like, what is that? She didn't even do makeup and she's still glowing. Is she part vampire?"
I didn't answer. My chest tightened.
Bella didn't even glance our way — but for half a second, as she passed the main sculpture, her gaze flicked toward me. Fast. Sharp. Just one second.
And then she was gone.
Sky turned to me, brows raised so high they nearly left his face.
"Okay. What was that?"
I tried to play it off. "What?"
"That look. She looked at you. Like, on purpose. That doesn't happen."
I shrugged. "Maybe she was checking out my hoodie."
"She looked like she was verifying target coordinates before striking."
"Don't be dramatic."
"You're right. I'm underreacting. Do I need to get tested for radiation poisoning? Are you radioactive now?"
I sighed. "Can we just get to class?"
We turned the corner into the north building. Sky was still muttering something to himself about 'casual eye contact and coded death stares' but I tuned him out.
We arrived before the teacher and took our seats in the oddly cozy room that passed for our Ethics class. I sat next to Sky, who was already slouched comfortably in a beanbag like he'd claimed it as territory. In front of him, Carmilla sat upright with her usual composed elegance, legs crossed, notebook open but untouched.
To my right, in the next row, Isabella Lopez leaned back in her seat, arms crossed like she owned the room. Her dark eyes flicked between everyone, sharp and unreadable.
Behind us was Ferb — full name probably something like Ferdinand, but no one dared ask. He was short, ginger, and unmistakably nosy. Round glasses magnified his already too-curious eyes, and he had a way of leaning forward just enough to make you wonder if he was listening to your thoughts.
Sky leaned toward me. "I swear Ferb's built like a high-end microphone."
I snorted under my breath. "Be nice. He's probably memorizing your DNA sequence right now."
Before Sky could reply, the door creaked open and in walked the teacher.
Dr. Mirela didn't so much walk as glide. She was tall and ageless in that terrifying professor way — long silver-streaked hair pulled into a low braid, dark clothes layered like she'd just walked out of a very quiet cult or a very expensive bookstore. She didn't carry a bag. Just a worn leather notebook and a piece of chalk.
She surveyed the room with a slow sweep of her gaze, then closed the door behind her without a word.
When she spoke, her voice was low, calm, and somehow dangerous.
"Ethics," she said, letting the word linger like smoke. "The only class where everyone is technically right, and yet somehow, someone always leaves mad."
Sky straightened slightly, interested.
Dr. Mirela set her notebook down on the center table — no desk, no podium — and sat in the single upright chair like a judge taking the bench.
"Today's question," she said, "comes from a real situation."
She turned to the whiteboard and wrote just four words:
"Would you save them?"
Then she turned back to us, eyes gleaming.
"You're walking down the street and you see someone about to get hit by a car. You can shove them out of the way, but if you do, you'll get hit instead — not fatal, but bad enough to change your life. Fractured spine. Months in recovery. Chronic pain. No guarantees."
She leaned back, fingers steepled. "Do you save them?"
A silence settled over the room. The kind that felt heavy.
Carmilla was the first to speak.
"Depends on the person," she said quietly. "If it's a stranger, I'd hesitate. If it's someone I love... no question."
Isabella let out a soft snort. "Tough call. One moment of selflessness, and your entire life changes even if no one ever knew you did. You could help them and regret it forever. Or walk away and regret it forever. Either way, you're losing something."
Sky glanced at me. "What about you, hero?"
I hesitated. Everyone was watching now — Carmilla, Isabella, even Ferb, who was scribbling furiously in a pocket-sized 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."
Carmilla turned slightly toward me. Just enough to let a strand of hair fall across her cheek. "That's a good answer," she said, her voice unreadable.
Isabella didn't say anything, but I could feel her gaze like heat on the side of my face.
Ferb raised his hand, unprompted. "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, grumbling something about "emotional illogic" under his breath.
Sky raised his hand halfway. "So what if the person getting hit is someone awful? Like… a war criminal or that one cafeteria lady who yells at everyone."
"Still human thats how it is," Isabella said flatly.
"But does it matter how human?" Sky countered. "We weigh life value all the time. Would you jump in front of a car for someone who'd stab you tomorrow?"
"Maybe," I said. "Because who they are doesn't have to define who I am."
"Even if no one ever knew you did it?" Sky echoed what Bella said.
The room went quiet again.
Dr. Mirela looked around slowly, then stood and underlined the board once.
"Well," she said. "That's why Ethics isn't a math class."
She snapped her notebook shut. "No homework. But I expect everyone to write a one-paragraph answer before next class. Not for a grade — for yourself."
She walked to the door, paused with her hand on the knob, and added, "And remember — who you are in theory means nothing. Who you are in the moment? That's your truth."
Then she was gone.
The silence broke as students stood and grabbed their bags, muttering to one another.
Sky exhaled. "She's spooky. I like her."
"She's sharp," Carmilla said simply, rising to her feet.
Isabella brushed past us without a word, but her eyes lingered on me for a second too long to be casual.
Ferb leaned forward as I grabbed my bag. "For the record," he whispered, "I would've pulled them out of the way and avoided the car. Physics. Timing. Geometry."
I stared at him.
Sky gave him a thumbs-up. "Good luck with that, Spider-Man."
As we filed out of the room, I couldn't stop thinking about the question. Not the car. Not the person. But the part I hadn't said out loud.
That I had already jumped once. That it hadn't been a theory for me — it had been last night.
And I still wasn't sure what kind of person that made me.