The Final Question

I should’ve stayed home.

That was the first thought that came to mind when Mr. Halvorsen walked out of the classroom, the door slammed shut behind him, and the lock clicked.

Loud. Final.

I’m Elise. Seventeen. Not loud, not quiet, just… there. I’m the kind of student who doesn’t cause trouble, who turns things in on time, who floats under the radar like a ghost with decent handwriting. Logic class was the one place I felt solid. There were rules, patterns, and right answers.

But this—this wasn’t a test.

It was an ambush.

We were halfway through our final exam—all normal stuff. Pattern recognition. Logical fallacies. Deduction puzzles. I had my pencil in hand and my head down.

Then I turned the last page.

“Final Question: One of your classmates will not leave this room alive. Who is it, and why? Provide your reasoning. 20 points.”

“A riddle,” I murmured, smiling. Then I looked up.

No one else was smiling.

The lights flickered. A low clunk echoed. The hum of the air-conditioning stopped. Then the windows slid shut with the shriek of steel on steel.

I didn’t even realize I was holding my breath until a countdown appeared on the screen in front of the classroom:

“59:59”

One of my classmates, Liam, stood up and tried the door. It didn’t budge.

“This is a joke,“ Jack muttered, his arms crossed, brows furrowed. “It’s, like, a social experiment or something.” But his voice wasn’t steady.

I looked at the question again.

One of your classmates will not leave alive. Who is it? Why?

Just then, I had a thought.

“This is a test of morality,” I realized, “Mr. Halvorsen is testing whether we would write down someone’s name, effectively killing them. Therefore, the right thing is to refuse to answer.” Fingers shaking, I picked up my pencil and wrote “No one”.

The light above me blinked red, and words appeared on the screen: “INVALID RESPONSE”.

Immediately, my classmates turned to look at me. No one said anything, but their eyes were loud enough for me to know I screwed up. Face flushing and palms sweating, I quickly erased my answer.

As the clock continued to run, people started fidgeting. Then whispering. Soon, whispering turned into arguing.

“This is about guilt!” someone suddenly shouted.

Before I could see who it was, more voices erupted from around me.

“Tyler fought someone last year!”

“That’s nothing! Chloe hacked the school system, remember?”

“What about Lincoln?! His dad’s a criminal!”

I could feel the room heating up, even though the AC was off. Everyone suddenly looked like strangers–dangerous ones. They weren’t classmates anymore. They were suspects. Threats. Targets.

Suddenly, I came to a realization. My eyes widened, and my heart dropped to my knees.

It was me.

I’d seen something.

Last month, I was walking past the staff lounge when I caught a glimpse of Mr. Halvorsen inside. His back was turned towards me, with one hand holding a clipboard and the other pointing at it. But that wasn’t what piqued my interest. It was the man in front of him. He was wearing a long black coat, and a hat pulled down covered his eyes, but I could still see that his mouth was turned in a deep frown.

As I was trying to figure out who this mystery man was, my footsteps halted. That was enough for Mr. Halvorsen to stop talking and turn around. Immediately, I lowered my head and quickly walked off, breath trembling and praying that he didn’t see me.

However, just before I left, I heard something.

“They’ve already been selected.”

I hadn’t told anyone. I didn’t know what it meant. I wanted to believe it was nothing.

But it wasn’t nothing.

It was this.

I stared down at the paper in front of me and realized: I wasn’t being asked to solve anything. I was being asked to confirm what was already decided.

So I wrote:

“Elise Harris. Because she already knows.”

My heart was pounding as I looked up at the light above me.

It flashed green.

Correct.

The room fell silent as all eyes turned to me, but I kept my eyes firmly on the door, waiting for it to open. For the test to be over.

But on the screen, the clock kept ticking.

“21:44:

Then, a click from above.

A ceiling panel slid open, and something dropped onto my desk. It was the size of a fist. Matte black, like a mechanical spider with a single red eye.

Then it moved.

It turned to me. Scanned me. A red laser beamed from its eye to my chest, right where my heart was pounding.

My whole body locked up. I didn’t breathe. I couldn’t.

Someone beside me whispered, “Elise, don’t move.”

Then another voice came, flat and robotic: “Student Elise Harris identified. Target acquired.”

And then followed by: “Override initiated. Discrepancy in data integrity. Recalculating.”

The laser blinked out, and the spider retreated.

I collapsed back into my seat, barely breathing.

Around me, people started whispering. My pulse was still thundering in my ears when a new message appeared on the screen:

“Secondary answer required. Two students must now be identified. Collaborative logic requested.”

“17:45”

The room exploded.

“We have to pick two people now?!” someone yelled.

“No way. I’m not picking anyone.”

“Okay, so we all die?”

Voices rose. Arguments started. Desks were shoved. Chairs were knocked over. It felt like a bomb went off, and the shrapnel was blame.

I backed into a corner, trying to stay out of the storm.

That’s when Kaira found me.

“Elise,” she whispered, eyes wide. “You saw the clipboard too, didn’t you?”

I stared in shock. “You saw it?”

She nodded. “They said, ‘They’ve already been selected.’ I remember. It was real.”

My hands curled into fists. “Then we’re not solving anything. They just want us to guess the same thing they already decided.”

Kaira glanced at the clock.

“10:13”

“This isn’t logic,” I said. “This is manipulation.”

Kaira looked around. “No. It’s proof. They want to see if we reach the same conclusions their data already predicted.”

Then, something clicked. The pieces started falling into place. I flipped back through the test. The earlier questions weren’t just puzzles—they were profiles.

One question involved someone’s suspicious music library. Another hinted at a cheating scandal. Another mentioned a family crime.

Each student had been dissected.

Each question was them.

Except me.

And Kaira.

We weren’t being tested.

We were the controls.

“They’re tracking how the rest of the class reacts,” I said. “They want to see if the group will justify a decision that matches the algorithm’s.”

Kaira and I scanned the room, cross-referencing questions with real-life events. Cheating, violence, family secrets—nothing was random.

It was all input.

And we were supposed to generate the same output.

“Do we tell them?” I asked.

Kaira shook her head. “They won’t listen.”

She was right. Everyone was too scared to hear the truth.

We picked two names. The ones we were sure had been flagged by the system. The ones with the clearest trails. The ones the algorithm would’ve chosen.

We wrote them down.

“1:56”

The room went still.

Then:

“Submission received. Candidates accepted. Executing protocol.”

This time, two spiders dropped from the ceiling.

Flashes of red and a quick hiss. Then two thuds.

That was it.

No screams. No blood. Just the smell of burning flesh.

The screen went white.

The door unlocked.

And a voice, cheerful and robotic, said:

“Thank you for participating in the Ashbridge Ethics Pilot Program. Your scores will be available by email. Have a great summer.”

No one moved.

Eventually, someone opened the door.

We walked out into the sunlight.

No one said anything.

On the bus, no one said anything.

And when I finally got home, I didn’t say anything.

A week later, I got an email from the school:

“You passed. But never forget, you were willing to become the villain to survive the question.”

I sat in front of my laptop and just stared. I wanted to delete the email, smash my laptop, and scream at the top of my lungs.

They weren’t wrong.

But I’m still alive.

And next time, I won’t play their game.