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