Chapter 360: The First Skirmish

The satisfaction of his first day had evaporated, replaced by a low, simmering vigilance. Andrés’s smirk at his doorway, his pointed comment about Ethan’s "dramatic" family, had been a direct shot across the bow. The cloak of anonymity, which had felt so secure just hours before, now felt like it was hanging by a thread. Ethan had spent the evening mentally replaying the video call, cursing his carelessness. He’d resolved to be more guarded, to ensure the two worlds of Ethan Blackwell and Ethan, the student, never collided again.

His first class the next morning was Economic Theory with Professor Davis, a man renowned for his Socratic method and his intolerance for unprepared students. The air in the lecture hall was thick with a mixture of caffeine-induced alertness and low-grade anxiety. Ethan chose a seat in the middle of the room—not so far back as to seem disengaged, not so forward as to attract undue attention. It was the perfect spot to be unremarkable.

He was meticulously organizing his notes when a wave of subdued chatter signaled a new arrival. Andrés walked in, flanked by his usual cohorts. He moved with an easy, swaggering confidence, as if he owned the space. His eyes scanned the room, a predator casually surveying his territory. For a heart-stopping second, his gaze landed on Ethan. A flicker of recognition, followed by that same infuriating smirk, and then he looked away, taking a seat a few rows ahead.

"He’s marked you," a voice in Ethan’s head whispered. "He’s just deciding what to do with you."

Ethan ignored the voice, focusing on the steady rhythm of his own breathing. "Pass unnoticed. That’s the goal."

Professor Davis began the lecture, his voice a dry, monotone drone that belied the sharp intellect behind his words. He outlined the fundamental principles of market equilibrium, drawing complex graphs on the whiteboard with swift, sure strokes. Ethan followed along easily, the concepts familiar from a lifetime of dinner table conversations he’d never asked for but had absorbed nonetheless.

—Therefore, —Professor Davis concluded, wiping his hands clean of chalk dust, —the natural price is the central price to which all commodities continually gravitate. Smith’s invisible hand, while a useful metaphor, fails to account for the frictions we see in modern oligopolistic markets. Can anyone elaborate on this friction? What disrupts this perfect gravitation?

The room fell silent. Students glanced down at their notebooks, suddenly fascinated by the grain of the paper. It was a question that required more than rote memorization; it demanded synthesis and opinion.

Andrés, after a moment of calculated silence, raised his hand. The professor nodded at him.

—Government intervention, —Andrés stated, his voice clear and carrying. —Price controls, subsidies, tariffs. They all create artificial barriers that prevent the market from finding its true equilibrium. It’s a simple case of bureaucracy stifling natural efficiency.

It was a textbook, surface-level answer, the kind that sounded intelligent without actually being insightful. Professor Davis gave a non-committal grunt. —A valid, if somewhat simplistic, point. Anyone else?

Ethan kept his head down, his pen poised over his paper. "Don’t engage. Don’t stand out."

—Come now, —the professor prodded, his eyes scanning the rows of silent students. —Is there no one here who can think beyond their textbook?

A dangerous idea began to form in Ethan’s mind. It was an argument he’d once had with his father, a nuanced debate about market failures that had lasted through three courses of a formal dinner. He knew the terrain. His hand twitched. This was the exact opposite of passing unnoticed.

But then he saw Andrés glance back at him, a glint of challenge in his eyes. It was as if he was daring him, testing him.

"He thinks you’re nothing. A quiet, drama-ridden nobody."

Before he could stop himself, Ethan’s hand went up.

Professor Davis’s eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. —Yes? You. The young man in the gray sweater.

Every head in the room turned to look at him. Ethan felt the weight of their collective gaze, but he met the professor’s eyes steadily.

—It’s not just government intervention, sir, —Ethan began, his voice quieter than Andrés’s but firm. —That’s an external force. The friction is also internal. Information asymmetry, for one. If buyers and sellers don’t have perfect information, the market can’t function perfectly. It leads to adverse selection and market collapse, like in Akerlof’s ‘Lemons’ problem.

He paused, letting the reference settle. Professor Davis leaned forward, intrigued.

—Furthermore, —Ethan continued, gaining confidence, —even without government, private monopolies or cartels can manipulate supply to control price, completely distorting the so-called ‘natural’ gravitation. The friction isn’t an exception; it’s woven into the fabric of the system. The invisible hand isn’t just nudged by the government; it’s often paralyzed by the very participants it’s supposed to guide.

The room was utterly silent. Ethan’s answer had been precise, layered, and delivered with an authority that seemed at odds with his reserved demeanor.

Professor Davis stared at him for a long moment, then a slow smile spread across his face. —An excellent distinction. You’ve separated the symptom from the disease. Internal versus external friction. And your name is?

Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs. This was it. The moment of identification.

—Ethan, sir. Just Ethan.

—Well, ‘Just Ethan,’ —the professor said, the hint of a smile still playing on his lips, —that was a perceptive analysis. Thank you.

As the professor turned back to the whiteboard, Ethan risked a glance toward Andrés. The smirk was gone. In its place was a cold, hard stare. There was no amusement now, only a sharp, calculating anger. Ethan hadn’t just answered a question; he had publicly dismantled Andrés’s “simplistic” answer and, in doing so, had stolen the spotlight Andrés clearly believed was his by right.

For the rest of the class, Ethan could feel the heat of that stare burning into the back of his head. He had achieved his goal from moments before—he had answered the question and then successfully faded back into the background for the remainder of the lecture. No one else paid him any mind.

But as the students filed out of the room, Andrés fell into step beside him, his voice a low, venomous whisper.

—Think you’re smart, don’t you? A regular philosopher-king in a gray sweater.

Ethan didn’t break his stride. —It was just an answer to a question.

—It was a performance, —Andrés hissed. —And I don’t like people performing on my stage. You should learn your place, "new guy". This isn’t your fancy house with swans. This is my territory.

He shouldered past Ethan, hard, and disappeared into the stream of students.

Ethan stood still for a moment, watching him go. The solution was a success; he had passed the class without further incident, proving his intellect on his own terms. Professor Davis knew him only as “Ethan,” a bright student. To everyone else, he was already forgotten.

But the problem was now cemented, deeper and more dangerous than before. Andrés wasn’t just suspicious anymore. He was offended. He felt challenged. And he had officially marked Ethan not just as an oddity, but as a rival. The game had begun, and Ethan, despite all his intentions, was now a primary player.