Andrew Tate - How To Be A G- Medbay -

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.

“You need rest,” she said, her accent sharp. “And fluids. No coffee. No… ‘intense mental warfare’ for 48 hours.”

His brother, Tristan, sat in a plastic chair by the door, scrolling on his phone. “You look like shit, Top G.” Andrew Tate - How to Be a G- Medbay

But the words didn’t come. They got lost somewhere between his inflamed throat and the crushing weight of nothing .

And Andrew Tate was alone.

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.

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. He looked at his hands

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.