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 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 put it down.
“You’ve been puking for 12 hours,” Tristan said without looking up. “The nurse said your blood pressure is ‘concerning.’”
But the words didn’t come. They got lost somewhere between his inflamed throat and the crushing weight of nothing .
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
“You need rest,” she said, her accent sharp. “And fluids. No coffee. No… ‘intense mental warfare’ for 48 hours.”
And Andrew Tate was alone.
And terrified.
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.
The nurse left. Tristan fell asleep in the chair, snoring softly.