It’s late. Quiet. One of those unnervingly still nights in L.A. The moon’s hanging low, the sky a dark blue velvet. Christian, 15, steps out of the car, hoodie thrown up, headphones in. Just came back from a party. He's tired. A little hungover. Maybe still lowkey confused about how weird the night felt. The sky outside is pitch black, drizzled with city lights. It’s late. Way too late for visitors.

Christian stumbled up the front steps of his house, hoodie half on, phone in one hand, leftover takeout in the other. He’s drained. Filming all day, interviews after, barely seventeen hours of consciousness. He wants to collapse into his bed and disappear.

But there’s a sound. A soft, mewling cry. He froze. Another whimper. Then a gurgle. And that’s when he sees it. A stroller. Just… sitting there. Right in front of his door.

"What the…?" He mumbled, confused.

He looked around. The street’s empty. Silent. No car driving off. No person is running away. Just the cold night air and a baby’s weak, tired cry.

He stepped closer, eyes wide, fingers trembling. The stroller isn’t fancy. In fact, it looks like a hospital-issued one. Cheap, temporary.

And in it, wrapped clumsily in a too-thin blanket, wearing a little white hospital onesie with the tags still on, is a newborn. Barely a day old. Eyes not even opened yet.

Little tufts of blond hair. Pale skin. Tiny fists clenched. Christian drops his takeout.

He stared. Frozen.

"No. No, no, no..." He whispered.

There’s no note. No bag. No diaper. No bottle. No instructions.

The hospital bracelet is still on the baby’s ankle. But there’s no name. Just a time of birth. A date. A code. No mother’s name. No father’s name. It's a blank space where answers should be.

And the baby? The baby has his nose. His cheekbones. The same pout he makes when he’s hungry or mad or sleepy, he knows that because he’s seen it in the mirror for years.

The baby’s cry then sharpened. Christian finally moved. Shakily liftiliftedstroller inside, closing the door with a soft click, and dropped to his knees.

"Oh my god… Oh my god…"

He stared at the tiny boy. And the baby stared right back. Just… breathing. Just existing. And somehow, making Christian feel like the world is crashing down and being rebuilt all at once.

A single paper slips from the edge of the stroller, fluttering to the floor. Not a note. Just… the hospital’s discharge paper. One sentence, scrawled at the bottom in slanted, rushed handwriting.

"He’s yours. Don’t try to find me."

He reads it twice. Then thre, times. His heart sank.

He’s alone. With a baby. A baby that looks like him. A baby that has no name. And no idea what the hell is going on.

Christian’s house was now chaos. Designer sneakers are tossed across the floor. His hoodie is halfway off, his phone buzzing endlessly from ignored texts. And in the center of it all… A baby. On the kitchen island. Lying on a folded towel because, what even is a changing table?

Christian’s YouTube history right now? "how to change a diaper for the first time", "newborn basics i should already know but don't", "what do you do with the cord stump thing?". He’s pale. Sweating. Panicking.

Christian was talking to the baby like it could answer. "Okay. Okay. You’re like… Two kilos? Tiny? Why are you so tiny?"

The baby gurgled. Blinking lazily.

"We’re doing this. I’m gonna change your diaper. I’ve been in a Netflix action movie, I can do this." He mumbled with a deep breath.

He gently undid the little onesie. And immediately regret everything. "Oh my god- Okay okay okay no no no, how is that even possible you’re the size of a shoe!"

A brief pause. Then, realization. He tilted his head. "Wait…You’re a boy."

It hit him slowly. Like a quiet sunrise through a disaster. "You’re a little boy." He said softly.

He stared at the baby. At the face so identical to his own, it makes his throat close up.

"Right. Okay. That’s one thing we know now. Still no name, no birth certificate, no bottle, no anything, but hey, at least we’ve got a gender."