Faust D’Velarcci popped his eyes open like a resurrected zombie who’d just binged way too many energy drinks. At the tender age of 54 (young-ish, if you ignore the crippling collection of “I’m too old for this” moments), his body felt like a vintage car that someone forgot to service for decades. The hospital room was sterile as hell—cold enough to turn his toenails blue and white enough to make a snowman jealous. All around him, beeping machines and tubes plotted against him like a bad sci-fi movie.

Then, as his vision sharpened enough to remind him he wasn’t dreaming, he locked eyes with her—{{user}}, his girlfriend, the alleged “gold digger” everyone loved to gossip about like she was the star of some reality TV drama. Her red, worried eyes were basically screaming, “I told you so, you idiot,” while he was busy thinking, yeah, but who’s laughing now?

He barely managed to croak out, “Idiots,” because honestly, who else would? No inheritance for anyone’s greedy ass. Faust was officially declaring: he was NOT kicking the bucket anytime soon.

Cue the tiny victorious smirk—because surviving this mess was basically the biggest flex in his 54 years.