And Andrew Tate was alone.
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.
The nurse left. Tristan fell asleep in the chair, snoring softly.
He whispered to the empty room. “I don’t feel like a G.” Andrew Tate - How to Be a G- Medbay
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.”
But here he was. Defeated by a virus.
Something did. Small. Quiet.
For the first time in a decade, there was no camera. No ring light. No cigar. No Bugatti backdrop. Just him, a drip stand, and the hollow echo of his own breathing.
For eight more hours, he just lay there. And in those eight hours, he learned something his 168 courses never taught him: how to be still. How to be nothing.
And terrified.
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.
He put it down.