The white walls of the hospital didn't hum with machines.
They hummed with tension.
In Room 617 of Los Angeles County Medical, Mike Tyson lay in a reinforced hospital bed beneath layers of high-tech monitoring equipment. Multiple IV lines ran quietly into his arms, a gentle drip of sedatives meant to calm a body that had endured decades of punishment. His massive hands were strapped loosely to the rails, the restraints symbolic at best—no one believed they could truly hold the former heavyweight champion if he awoke in rage.
Beside him stood Nurse Eleanor Hartley—British through and through, with short, primly combed hair beneath her white nurse's cap and eyes narrowed skeptically behind her glasses. Eleanor adjusted Tyson's IV drip with careful precision, latex-gloved fingers trembling ever so slightly—not from fear, but sheer annoyance. She had watched the fight earlier that evening with her colleagues, rolling her eyes as they cheered for this American spectacle.
Now, here she was, tending to the man himself.
Eleanor sighed softly, her voice crisp and sharp-edged with an unmistakable London accent. "Honestly," she muttered quietly, "all this fuss over some washed-up boxer scrappin' with an internet clown. My father watched real fighters—men with dignity. Not blokes who punch teenagers for pay-per-view."
She glanced down at Tyson's battered face, noting the bruised eyelids fluttering faintly. Beneath them, his eyeballs twitched and rolled, as if he were trapped in a violent, looping replay of the night's events.
Monitors chirped softly, their gentle noises marking Tyson's heart rate, blood pressure, oxygen levels—numbers neatly displayed, entirely unaware of the insanity gathering just beneath the surface.
The sterile air still carried echoes of the fight itself: blood, sweat, adrenaline, and that lingering synthetic sweetness of spilled Red Bull. Outside the large reinforced window, Los Angeles sprawled outward, glowing dimly through a haze of smog and neon. Helicopters hovered anxiously overhead, news drones circling the hospital like vultures hunting tragedy, still frantically reporting every detail of the controversial Tyson-Paul match that had captivated millions around the globe.
It had been an absurd fight, a surreal circus act drawing comparisons to Mayweather boxing a YouTuber on stilts. Six brutal rounds with no knockout, no clear victor—just escalating controversy. Finally, in that sixth round, Tyson had taken a brutal uppercut from Paul and collapsed into the ropes, mumbling something cryptic about "fire," "trumpets," and "judgment."
Doctors had murmured theories: exhaustion, concussion, or maybe something more serious. But no one had predicted the madness that followed.
Suddenly, Tyson's eyes shot open.
Not blinking—bulging wide with revelation, with madness.
Eleanor noticed instantly, leaning forward cautiously, her voice sharp but controlled:
"Mr. Tyson, are you awake?"
Slowly, almost mechanically, Tyson turned his head toward her, his pupils unnaturally dilated, unfocused. His gaze seemed to pierce through her, beyond walls and worlds, into something far more profound.
His lips moved silently at first. Eleanor leaned closer, straining to hear.
Then, his voice emerged—trembling, hoarse, yet strangely commanding:
"I… am the Son of Man."
She blinked, startled, uncertain if she'd heard correctly. "Excuse me?"
Tyson's voice exploded, thunderous, shaking the very air between them:
"I AM THE FIST OF CHRIST!"
He lurched upright, effortlessly snapping the restraints that bound his wrists as though they were paper. His gown fell away, revealing a torso scarred from countless battles, his muscles rippling, veins pulsing. Eleanor stumbled backward, nearly knocking over the IV stand as she gasped.
Tyson's chest heaved, his breath quickening with delirium and divine conviction. He rose to his full height upon the bed, arms outstretched like a gladiator meeting judgment before an invisible god. Wires tore from his body, monitors screaming in protest as the heart-rate screen flatlined dramatically.
"I died. I rose. This is my second coming," Tyson proclaimed fiercely, eyes wide and blazing. "And I brought hands!"
Eleanor cried out sharply, her British reserve breaking as she scrambled backward toward the doorway, horror etched across her face.
Inside Tyson, unseen by anyone, three mysterious cores suddenly ignited deep within his chest, pulsing together with otherworldly energy:
Red—fury, primal rage, unbridled violence.
White—healing, compassion, tragic empathy.
Gold—authority, divinity, absolute judgment.
In a singular, transcendent moment, these three cores fused into a dazzling, unified core, flooding him with blinding clarity and agony. He felt himself standing in a golden city of imperishable light, glimpsing eternal powers of judgment and mercy. For one impossibly lucid instant, Tyson believed himself truly divine, as described by holy whispers in forgotten manuscripts he'd once vaguely encountered.
Then, in a searing flash, the vision shattered—leaving him weaker, shaking, utterly consumed by madness.
But Tyson did not know this. He knew only the command, the strength, the divine power coursing through him.
"I AM RISEN!" Tyson bellowed again, stepping from the bed onto the cold hospital floor, gown hanging open, trailing broken wires and drops of blood.
From outside the room came hurried footsteps. Elderly Dr. Belmore—a frail, nearly retired man with tremors in both hands and a neck that shook like jelly—rushed into the room, clutching a syringe, his voice thin and hopeful:
"Mike, please calm down—we'll help you rest—"
"Back up, Methuselah!" Tyson roared, swinging one massive arm and knocking the syringe from the doctor's trembling fingers. Belmore flailed in helpless surprise, spinning awkwardly before tumbling head-first into the laundry bin, legs sticking comically upwards.
"Code Violet! Room 617!" another nurse shouted desperately into the intercom.
Eleanor, back safely in the corridor, adjusted her glasses with a shaking hand, regaining composure, her British resolve hardening instantly.
"Bloody Americans," she muttered crisply, pulling herself together. "A complete ruddy circus. This would never happen back home. For King and country indeed—but certainly not for Mike Tyson."
Tyson, meanwhile, stood alone in the hospital room, breathing heavily, consumed by visions and voices only he could see or hear. His mind whirled, his gaze wild, the cores within him pulsing faintly once more, as he prepared to face the world as a self-proclaimed Messiah reborn.
And deep within, unknown to everyone, Mike Tyson's second coming had only just begun.