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 .

He whispered to the empty room. “I don’t feel like a G.”

Something did. Small. Quiet.

“You’ve been puking for 12 hours,” Tristan said without looking up. “The nurse said your blood pressure is ‘concerning.’”

And Andrew Tate was alone.

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.

No one answered. The drip continued its quiet work. The fluorescent light hummed. Andrew Tate - How to Be a G- Medbay

The nurse left. Tristan fell asleep in the chair, snoring softly.