The nurse left. Tristan fell asleep in the chair, snoring softly.
The Medbay didn’t care about his Bugatti. The virus wasn’t impressed by his masculinity. The nurse wouldn’t sign up for his war room.
And terrified.
But the words didn’t come. They got lost somewhere between his inflamed throat and the crushing weight of nothing . Andrew Tate - How to Be a G- Medbay
He wasn’t supposed to be here. A G, by his own definition, didn’t get sick. A G didn’t submit to IV drips or admit that his liver was throwing a tantrum after a month-long “discipline cycle” of raw liver, cigar smoke, and 4 AM cold plunges.
How to be a G , he’d titled his own course. Matrix Defiance. Absolute Power.
He whispered to the empty room. “I don’t feel like a G.” The nurse left
The private Medbay on his Romanian compound was clinical and cold—white walls, a single monitor tracking his vitals, and a window that looked out onto the concrete driveway where his fleet of rental Porsches sat unused. The silence was broken only by the soft beep… beep… beep of the heart monitor.
He fell asleep to the sound of his own fragile, human breathing.
Andrew opened his mouth to correct her. To explain that rest was for prey. That weakness was a choice. That he’d once conquered an arctic marathon while bleeding from the ears. The virus wasn’t impressed by his masculinity
Andrew’s eyes, usually blazing with the fire of a thousand motivational reels, were dull. Jaundice had given them a pale, sickly yellow tint. “It’s a detox,” he rasped. “The body is a machine. You must recalibrate.”
“You’ve been puking for 12 hours,” Tristan said without looking up. “The nurse said your blood pressure is ‘concerning.’”
He closed his eyes. For a moment, he wasn’t the Top G. He was just Emory, a kid from Chicago who used to be scared of the dark. The one who started kickboxing because he was lonely, not because he wanted to dominate. The one who thought that if he just got rich enough, loud enough, hard enough, he’d never have to feel small again.