The winter sun cast a pale glow through the tall windows of Benton Hall, the oldest lecture building at Harrington University. Students packed into Room 204—some eager, some half-asleep, others simply fulfilling a requirement. At the front of the room, Professor Lionel Gray, a soft-spoken but legendary scholar of moral philosophy, wrote a single word on the board:
JUSTICE.
No syllabus. No introduction. Just a word.
Then he turned to the class with an expression both calm and unsettling.
“Before we begin,” he said, “I want to ask you a simple question. You are the driver of a runaway trolley. Five workers are trapped on the main track. You can steer onto a side track—where only one worker is trapped. Do you turn the wheel?”
Hands shot up. Voices overlapped. Most students argued that saving five lives at the cost of one was the obvious choice.
Professor Gray nodded slowly.
“Yes. Many of you think so. You’ve just endorsed a form of consequentialism—judging actions by their outcomes.”
He let that settle, then continued.
“Now imagine you are standing on a bridge, and the only way to stop the trolley is by pushing a large man beside you onto the tracks. His body will stop the trolley and save five workers. Do you push him?”
The room fell silent.
Most students shook their heads.
“Interesting,” Gray said. “The numbers are the same. Yet your moral instincts change when you must personally touch the man.”
He moved on:
“You are a doctor in an emergency room. Five patients will die without treatment. One patient, severely injured, needs your full attention. Saving him means the other five die. Who do you save?”
Most students murmured: “Save the five.”
“But,” Gray continued, “what if a healthy patient walks in, and by harvesting his organs, you can save the five? Do you kill him?”
A chorus of No swept the room.
Gray smiled—not with pleasure, but with mystery.
“You see the tension. Your moral instincts conflict with your logic. Why?”
He dimmed the lights and projected a headline onto the wall:
THE QUEEN v. DUDLEY AND STEPHENS — THE CASE OF SURVIVAL CANNIBALISM
Students leaned forward as Gray narrated the infamous story of shipwrecked sailors killing and eating the teenage cabin boy to survive. Some students defended the sailors. Others condemned them outright.
Then Professor Gray revealed something the class did not expect:
“This semester, you won’t simply study philosophers. You will confront their ideas in the world around you. And one of you—”
He paused.
“One of you has already submitted an anonymous pre-course essay arguing that murder can be morally justified if it maximizes survival.”
The room froze.
Gray folded his hands.
“In Part 2, we must answer a question far more disturbing than any thought experiment.”
Who in this room believes killing an innocent person can sometimes be morally right—and why did they write that essay?
PART 2
The next class session began with an unmistakable energy—wariness mixed with curiosity. Professor Gray entered quietly, carrying a thin folder. He placed it on the table without opening it.
“You came here expecting philosophy,” he said. “But philosophy becomes real when a single argument threatens your own moral foundations.”
He tapped the folder.
“This essay is thoughtful. Brilliant, even. But deeply unsettling. It defends the killing of an innocent person in extreme conditions—not out of cruelty, but through meticulous utilitarian reasoning.”
A hand rose.
Julia Merrick, a political science major known for her outspoken activism.
“Professor, is it even ethical to reveal the author? Isn’t anonymity part of the assignment?”
Gray nodded.
“Yes. And I will not reveal them. But the author has agreed to speak—if they choose to.”
A ripple moved through the room.
Before anyone could speculate, Gray changed direction.
“Let’s examine why your intuitions diverge between scenarios.”
He wrote two columns:
OUTCOME-BASED ETHICS
DUTY-BASED ETHICS
He addressed the class.
“Utilitarians, like Jeremy Bentham, believe the right action maximizes happiness. But Immanuel Kant believed some actions—such as murder—are categorically wrong. No exceptions.”
Gray walked between the desks.
“Your essay’s author argues that categorical bans collapse under extreme pressure. That morality must bend to survival.”
Julia raised her hand again.
“Like in the shipwreck case?”
“Exactly,” Gray replied. “Dudley and Stephens killed the cabin boy to save themselves. Yet the court ruled necessity is not a defense to murder. Why?”
He pointed at Eliot Hayes, a quiet economics major.
“Eliot, your thoughts?”
Eliot hesitated. “If killing becomes excusable whenever it benefits more people, then no one is safe.”
Gray smiled gently. “A Kantian answer. Rights protect us even when consequences tempt us.”
He turned to another student.
“Marcus Trent?”
Marcus leaned back. “But if three people die instead of one, isn’t that worse overall?”
“A utilitarian answer,” Gray said. “So we return to our conflict.”
He paused.
“What if the cabin boy had consented? Or if they drew lots? Does fair procedure make killing morally acceptable?”
The room erupted—voices overlapping in heated disagreement.
Gray let the storm build, then raised a hand. Silence fell.
“You see the challenge. Moral reasoning is not math. It is a negotiation between instinct, principle, and consequence.”
He walked back to the folder.
“And now… something new.”
He opened it and held up a sheet.
“The essay is not abstract. It contains a real scenario. Something that happened to its writer.”
Whispers rippled through the room.
“The author faced a life-and-death decision last year. One life against several. They made a choice—and the essay argues it was the right one.”
Julia gasped.
“Professor—someone in this room killed someone?”
Gray answered carefully.
“No. But they believe they would have been justified if they had.”
The room chilled.
He continued.
“They describe being trapped during a mountain rescue gone wrong—six people stranded. One severely injured climber slowing the group. A storm approaching. The author argues that leaving that climber behind, even if it meant their death, would have maximized survival.”
A stunned silence blanketed the lecture hall.
Julia whispered, “That’s horrifying…”
Marcus muttered, “But also logical…”
Eliot pressed his palms together, conflicted.
Gray asked softly:
“What would you have done?”
No one answered.
Then, unexpectedly, a voice from the back of the room:
“I wrote the essay.”
Everyone turned.
Alec Rowan, a quiet engineering student who rarely spoke, stood slowly. His hands trembled, but his voice was steady.
“I was on that rescue trip,” he said. “We didn’t leave the injured climber—but we almost died trying to save them. If we had left earlier… my friend Jackson would still be alive.”
The room froze.
Alec continued:
“I’m not saying murder is right. But sometimes survival forces choices that don’t fit into tidy philosophical boxes.”
Professor Gray studied him carefully.
“Alec… do you believe your argument? Truly?”
Alec swallowed hard.
“I don’t know. That’s why I’m here.”
Gray nodded.
“And that,” he said, “is philosophy: confronting the unbearable.”
But he wasn’t finished.
Gray closed the folder.
“There is more to Alec’s scenario—something he did not include in his essay.”
Alec stiffened.
Gray continued:
“The injured climber… didn’t simply slow the group. They made a choice too. A controversial one.”
He looked around the room.
“And in Part 3, you will learn why the injured climber’s decision may challenge everything we’ve discussed about moral duty and survival.”
PART 3
The next class session felt different. Less academic. More personal. Alec sat near the front, visibly anxious. Professor Gray entered silently and placed a sealed envelope on the podium.
“This,” he said, “contains the rescue team’s official incident report. I have permission to share what matters.”
The room leaned forward collectively.
Gray opened the envelope and read:
“The injured climber, Daniel Keene, knew he was slowing the group. He told the others to leave him behind.”
Julia gasped.
Alec closed his eyes.
Gray continued reading:
“He insisted they go. He argued that one death was preferable to six. He begged them.”
Marcus exhaled sharply.
“That changes everything.”
“Does it?” Gray asked. “Why?”
“Consent,” Julia said. “He chose to sacrifice himself.”
Alec shook his head violently.
“No. You weren’t there. Daniel wasn’t thinking clearly. He was delirious. We couldn’t honor that.”
Gray nodded.
“So is consent invalid under duress?”
The room stirred.
Eliot raised a hand.
“If Daniel chose to die… isn’t that morally different from killing him?”
Gray countered:
“But could the group morally leave him? Could they say: ‘He wants it, so we’re justified’?”
Julia frowned. “It still feels wrong.”
Gray folded his arms.
“You have now met every variable we study this semester:
- Consequences
- Rights
- Consent
- Procedure
- Necessity
- Human emotion”
He looked at Alec.
“Alec, you wrote that leaving Daniel would have saved Jackson. With this new detail, does your argument change?”
Alec took a long breath.
“I don’t know anymore,” he whispered. “Daniel begged us to go. But Jackson refused. Jackson said leaving Daniel would break us as human beings. That surviving without our humanity wasn’t surviving at all.”
The room fell silent.
Gray let the weight settle.
“Jackson’s view,” he said softly, “reflects Kant’s belief that some actions are morally forbidden—even if they save lives. Daniel’s view reflects utilitarian reasoning. And Alec’s view reflects the human conflict between them.”
The students stared ahead, absorbing the moral labyrinth.
Gray dimmed the lights.
“You came into this classroom thinking philosophy was about clever puzzles. But it is about this—the impossibility of perfect answers.”
He continued:
“Many of you supported utilitarian logic in the trolley problem. But when faced with real suffering, real people, real faces… your moral instincts revolt.”
He walked slowly across the room.
“And that is why we study justice: to understand why you believe what you believe. To question your certainty. To grow.”
Alec raised his hand shakily.
“Professor… what should we have done?”
Gray paused.
Then answered the only way a philosopher can:
“There are questions you must live with—not solve.”
The class ended in silence.
As students gathered their things, Alec approached Gray.
“Professor,” he asked quietly, “do you think I’m a bad person for what I wrote?”
Gray placed a hand on his shoulder.
“No, Alec. I think you’re finally beginning to ask the right questions.”
Alec nodded, exhaling deeply.
The class walked out into the winter air, their minds changed—if not their answers.
Thanks for reading—share your own stance: consequentialist, categorical, or conflicted? Which moral instinct guides you most?
