The nurse rushed out of the changing room, her voice booming down the corridor: "Prepare for an emergency cesarean section in delivery room number three! The baby's heart rate has dropped! Notify the anesthesia team immediately!"

Chen Hao crumpled the calendar in his hand into a ball. He turned to rush inside, but was stopped by medical staff in green coats as soon as he moved his shoulder.

"Family members are not allowed to enter."

"I'm the child's father!" His voice trembled slightly. "My wife is inside!"

"I understand," the man said, his tone unchanged, "but you'll only cause trouble if you go in now."

Carl grabbed his arm from behind with unusual force. "They're already doing it; we can only wait."

Nana stood by the wall, the blue light flashing steadily, her voice calm: "The delivery room emergency protocol has been activated. The chief surgeon, Dr. Li, has 23 years of experience and a 99.8% success rate for cesarean sections. The anesthesia team of five is in place, and the equipment is functioning normally. The incision is expected to begin in four and a half minutes."

Chen Hao took a breath: "Then... what about the fetal heartbeat?"

"Currently, it's 131, and the trend is continuing downward. If it falls below 120, the neonatal resuscitation plan will be triggered."

"Can it go any lower?" Carl asked.

“Yes,” Nana said, “but not for long.”

Chen Hao slid down the wall and landed on his bottom. He was still holding the sterilization suit in his arms, and the corner of the suit scraped against the floor tiles.

He looked down at the crumpled paper, slowly unfolded it, and found on the back a record Carl had written earlier: **21:07 Mother enters intense pain stage; 21:05 Departure; Everyone in the vehicle.**

The handwriting was crooked and messy, like a primary school student's homework.

He suddenly chuckled: "You've taken these notes even more carefully than you would for an exam."

Carl didn't reply; he just stood next to him, staring at the red light on the delivery room door.

Time seemed to stretch out. A cart passed by at the end of the corridor, its wheels making a clattering sound. No one spoke.

Two minutes later, Nana spoke: "The fetal heart rate is 128, and it has remained at that level for 30 seconds without rising. The head of obstetrics has signed off on immediate surgery."

Chen Hao suddenly looked up: "Are we going to use a knife?"

"yes."

Does she know?

"Susan is conscious and has signed an electronic consent form. She has been given a sedative before the surgery."

"She signed it all by herself?" Chen Hao's voice was hoarse.

"yes."

He closed his eyes, then opened them again: "Son, if you dare to get into trouble, I'll play 'The Most Dazzling Ethnic Trend' for you every day from now on, the original version with instrumental accompaniment."

Carl glanced at him: "Is this threat effective on the fetus?"

"Anyway, my mom used to scare me like this when I was a child, and I was afraid of it all the way into college."

Nana suddenly said, "The fetal heart rate has slowed down, which may indicate that the baby is entering a period of oxygen deprivation compensation. I suggest that the family members remain calm and avoid emotional stimulation that could affect the mother's blood pressure."

Chen Hao fell silent. He leaned his head against the wall, his eyes fixed on the door.

A few minutes later, a sliver of light peeked through the crack in the door, and figures moved quickly about.

“They’re moving,” Carl whispered.

Chen Hao sat up straight, his hands gripping his clothes tightly.

Nana reports: "Surgery begins. First incision complete, separating fatty tissue. Baby expected to be delivered within twelve minutes."

Chen Hao counted the seconds.

673, 674...

His mind was filled with the image of Susan's last smile—in the car, when she said that his singing during prenatal education was so bad that the baby was conceived because of the noise.

At that time, he still thought she was joking.

Now he just wants her to scold him one more time.

At 701 seconds, Nana's voice changed: "The uterus is open. Amniotic fluid is flowing out normally. The fetal head is visible."

Chen Hao stood up; his legs felt a little numb.

720 seconds later, Nana: "Arm delivered, body under traction—"

A cry ripped through the air.

Sharp, clear, and slightly hoarse, like a trumpet that has just learned to speak.

Chen Hao was stunned.

Carl was also stunned.

The hallway lights seem brighter now.

Nana's blue light flashed three times, with a light and quick rhythm, like clapping.

"Newborn baby, weighing 2,600 grams, male. Apgar score of 9 at 1 minute, strong breathing, and good limb movement."

Chen Hao opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

“You cried.” Carl looked at him.

"No." He wiped his face. "The air conditioning is too dry."

"The delivery room is required to be kept at a low temperature," Nana added. "There is no air conditioning."

Chen Hao wiped it again.

The door opened a crack, and the nurse peeked out: "You can see the baby, but you can't touch him. He's still under observation."

The two followed them inside.

The incubator was placed in the corner, under a transparent cover. The child was wrapped in a blue checkered blanket, his face wrinkled like a walnut, his little mouth opening and closing as if he were chewing air.

"This is our son?" Chen Hao leaned closer. "So young?"

"They're all like this right after they're born," the nurse said. "They'll become rounder in a couple of days."

“His eyes are open,” Carl pointed. “He’s looking at the ceiling.”

“The newborn’s vision is blurry,” Nana said. “He probably thinks it’s the moon.”

Chen Hao reached out to touch the glass, then pulled his hand back: "Who does he look like?"

“Currently, facial edema makes it impossible to accurately determine gene expression tendencies,” Nana said. “However, based on the shape of the auricle, the folds in the outer ear are quite similar to those of Chen Hao.”

“That’s like me.” Chen Hao grinned. “I’m doomed, I’ll be a lazy fatso forever.”

“They might not look the same when they grow up,” Carl said.

“Impossible.” Chen Hao shook his head. “When I was a kid, people said I looked like an ordinary passerby, but I ended up looking more and more like my dad. It’s fate I couldn’t escape.”

The nurse chuckled and said, "You can watch over her for a while. Mom still needs stitches. She'll be transferred to the recovery room in half an hour."

The door closed, leaving only three people inside, huddled around the insulated box.

The child suddenly moved his hand, his fingertips touching the edge of the blanket and flicking it.

Chen Hao held his breath: "He touched something."

“Tactile reflex,” Nana said. “It’s normal.”

“But he’s looking for something,” Chen Hao said. “I bet he is.”

Carl took out his tablet, turned on the recording function, and lowered his voice: "21:43 Newborn's first attempt at independent grasping: Right side of the incubator fabric edge, movement lasts about two seconds."

He paused, then added, "Brother's verification is valid."

Chen Hao laughed out loud: "You really think you're the older brother?"

“Both the law and biology support it,” Carl said. “And I took notes the whole time.”

"Then you'll have to treat him to a meal later."

"Let's talk about it when he's old enough to eat solid foods."

Nana suddenly said, "Susan's vital signs are stable, and the suturing is 60% complete. She is expected to be transferred to the recovery room in 20 minutes."

Chen Hao looked towards the door: "When can she see the child?"

"The decision will be made after the doctor's evaluation."

"Then I'll wait here."

"You haven't changed your clothes yet."

"I won't change it," he said. "It's fine as it is."

Carl put the tablet away: "I'll wait too."

The three of them stood back in front of the incubator. The baby moved again, this time kicking its feet twice, as if kicking off the blanket.

Chen Hao placed his hand on the glass, palm facing the tiny toes.

“Your mother pulled through,” he said softly. “You pulled through too. In our family, no one backs down.”

The child burped.

Carl said, "Is this a response?"

“Definitely,” Chen Hao laughed. “He recognizes my voice.”

The blue light flickered slowly, like it was breathing.

The door to the recovery room wasn't open yet, but the corridor lights had been turned on sometime during the night. The smell of disinfectant was still there, but the air didn't seem so cold anymore.

Chen Hao stood still, his hand still pressed against the glass.

Carl stood to his right, his back ramrod straight.

Nana stood quietly on the left, the screen displaying a real-time data stream.

The baby in the incubator turned over, facing the glass, opened its mouth, and spit out a small bubble.

It snapped open.