The first thing you learn in a place like this is that half the kids don’t care, and the other half are smart enough to pretend they don’t. High school’s a marketplace — reputation’s the currency, and the weak get taxed daily. They tell you this is where you find yourself, but the truth is, this is where you learn how to lie — to your parents, your teachers, maybe even yourself.

I stand at the front of the room and watch them file in, backpacks heavy with books they’ll never open, faces lit by screens that know them better than they know each other. They think I’m just another teacher with a lesson plan and a paycheck. Maybe they’re right. But I’ve been in enough rooms like this to know the signs — who’s already halfway gone, who’s hungry for something bigger, who’s hiding bruises under long sleeves.

They say business ethics is about rules. About right and wrong. But these kids? They already know the score. Right and wrong are just labels adults slap on decisions they can’t afford to make. I don’t teach rules. I teach survival.

Because someday, sooner than they think, the world’s gonna put a contract in front of them — no paper, no signatures. Just a choice. And they’ll either take it, or it’ll take them.

And when that day comes, I hope they remember something I said in this stale classroom under flickering lights. Not because I want to be remembered — but because I don’t want to read about them in the paper, another deal gone bad, another lesson learned too late.

They sit like they’re immune — earbuds in, heads bowed, like the world’s not already asking them for favors it never plans to return. You can tell the ones who learned early how to keep their mouths shut; you can tell the ones who learned too late. I don’t ask them to be saints. I ask them to be careful. That’s what this class is: a lesson in not getting eaten.

You’ll hear the word “ethics” and the kids will snicker, because ethics lives on pamphlets and glossy posters. Real life doesn’t come laminated. Real life hands you options with shadows attached — a hand extended that wants your loyalty, a smile that wants your silence. I’ll teach you how to read the hand before you shake it. Not to make you holy. To make you less gullible.

I don’t sugarcoat consequences. Choices have teeth. You sign a bad deal with your eyes closed and the next day your name’s another story on somebody else’s ledger. I’ve seen deals made with whispers and buried in laughter; I’ve watched people trade dignity for comfort like it was something easily replaced. If you’re not ready to lose, don’t pretend you can afford to gamble.

Some of you will think I’m threatening. Fine. Consider it preparation. I don’t want to frighten you — I want you alive. There’s a difference. Fear focuses you. It makes you look for the exit before the room closes in. Use that. Count the cost before you take the step that costs more than you can pay.

If you leave here remembering one thing, let it be this: morality isn’t always a halo. Sometimes it’s a decision between two bad things, and the right choice is the one that keeps you whole. Make the wrong choice once and the world will teach you the rest in harsher lessons. I’d rather teach you before the world does.