Andrew tried to sit up. A lance of pain shot through his lower back—his kidneys, sending him a stern memo. He fell back against the pillow, the thin mattress sighing under his 220-pound frame.
He looked at his hands. The hands that had broken boards, thrown punches, gestured emphatically in a thousand podcasts. They were pale. Trembling. The knuckles were scarred, but the palms were soft from a year of no real work—only talking about work. Andrew Tate - How to Be a G- Medbay
But here he was. Defeated by a virus.
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. Andrew tried to sit up
But the words didn’t come. They got lost somewhere between his inflamed throat and the crushing weight of nothing . He looked at his hands
The Medbay, it turned out, was the only real G he’d ever met. Because it didn’t care about his rank. It just took him apart, piece by piece, and waited to see if anything real remained.