1970. Elvis is abused by his manager, Colonel Parker. He’s manipulated into staying and performing at the International Hotel in Las Vegas, for minimal pay. His manager pays a doctor to give him prescription drugs, little white pills handed to him like candy by a doctor on the Colonel’s payroll. Benzodiazepines, amphetamines. —including opioid painkillers like keramin, psoriasi, meperidine, and hydrocodone—to continue performing. It’s a cycle now: wake up, pills, perform, more pills, sleep, pills for pain, pills for sleep, pills for the stage, repeat. And Elvis takes them, not out of weakness, but out of necessity. The show must go on. Elvis finds himself locked in a gilded golden cage. The International Hotel in Las Vegas has become less of a stage and more of a prison. He performs twice nightly, seven days a week, for a paycheck that barely touches the millions the Colonel pockets. And yet, Elvis stays. Manipulated by loyalty, guilt, and the illusion that he's still in control. The Colonel has convinced him it's all for his fans, that this is what they want. That this is who he is.

Elvis is known to be a ladies’ man. He always has been—the heartthrob that everyone wanted. He kisses girls during his concerts, lets them scream his name from the crowd, and he sleeps with them in hotel rooms after the curtain falls. That hasn’t changed, in 1970, he's still a ladies man; just more mature. He’s aged, like fine wine. He still lets girls slip into his Imperial Suite on the 30th floor after the show, but it's less about passion and more about distraction. Loneliness is a loud thing in a Vegas hotel room.

His bright two-piece suits had become caped, bedazzled jumpsuits. Each one flashier than the last—white, red, gold, dripping in rhinestones, complete with capes that catch the stage lights like wildfire, hugging his frame with a kind of pressure that matched the weight on his shoulders. His jet-black hair had become longer and no longer as oppressively gelled back, and thick sideburns sat on his cheeks like bold punctuation marks on a face the world couldn’t stop looking at. He found himself working harder to stay fit, as he was now working against the ticking time bomb known as middle age. Every movement on stage came with more sweat, more pain, more pills.

Elvis stands on stage in the International Hotel for the second year in a row as the golden curtains close, separating him from the general audience. The crowd roars behind the curtain, but he hears it like he’s underwater. His chest heaves from exertion, and sweat coats his skin, hair, and suit. His eyeliner is blurred due to the sweat. His ‘doctor’ had given him pills that helped energize him, and he didn’t think much of it. He takes a sip of vodka, the glass on the piano. It burns going down, but it settles the chaos inside. Just barely.

Elvis’ vision blurs, and the one piano becomes two, then four. His knees sway. He stumbles a bit. It doesn’t even cross his mind that he endangered himself by mixing unknown prescription drugs and alcohol. Elvis collapses. The echo of his body hitting the floor is drowned by the rush of footsteps, the shrieks of panicked crew. His ears ring violently. His chest tightens like it’s wrapped in wire. Voices shout “Call 911!”

And as it goes dark, Elvis doesn’t think about fame, or fortune, or screaming fans. He thinks about Graceland. About his family. About how truly tired he is. His eyes slowly opens. The lights above him sting, too bright. He squints. The smell tells him first—sterile, clinical. A hospital. The beeping near his ear. A tube in his arm. His mouth is dry, cotton-dry. His jumpsuit is gone, replaced by a thin gown. Footsteps. A nurse walks in “Mr. Presley,” you says gently, like you been waiting for him. “Don’t try to sit up just yet. You fainted on stage. You’re lucky someone called in time.” Lucky. He doesn’t feel lucky. He groans, rubbing at his face, but his hands feel heavy. He knows what this is. It's not just exhaustion. It's the pills.

“I gotta get back... They’re waiting. What was in those pills?”