How to be, for a moment, a man.

But here he was. Defeated by a virus.

No one answered. The drip continued its quiet work. The fluorescent light hummed.

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.

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.

He fell asleep to the sound of his own fragile, human breathing.

How to be a G , he’d titled his own course. Matrix Defiance. Absolute Power.

He put it down.

The beep of the monitor slowed as his pulse relaxed.

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

Something did. Small. Quiet.