Zoran landed in Dallas to cold wind and a silence that matched the early morning sky. No entourage waited. Just a man holding a laminated sheet that read "VRANES."
He nodded once and followed the staffer out. The ride was quiet, the Mavericks facility barely thirty minutes from the airport. No conversation. Just road signs and the hum of wheels on concrete.
Zoran didn't mind.
He used the silence.
The practice facility was sleek, modern. Not homey. But not unfriendly. The kind of place built for consistency, not comfort.
Dana Mitchell was already waiting near the entrance. She was younger than he expected, but she carried the air of someone used to being right. Clipboard in one hand, tablet in the other.
"You slept?" she asked without looking up.
"No."
"Didn't think so. Follow me."
Inside, Zoran changed in the corner of a temporary locker. No nameplate. Just tape, handwritten: Vranes.
He liked that.
The main gym was buzzing. Cameras. Coaches. A few local beat reporters. Not the full squad, but enough eyes to make mistakes matter.
He recognized the faces.
Spencer Dinwiddie, already warmed up and talking with a trainer.
Klay Thompson, slow jogging across the baseline.
P.J. Washington and Anthony Davis both seated and watching film.
No Luka. Of course. He was a Laker now.
Kyrie was out with a torn ACL.
Half the rotation was injured. The rest? Trying not to get replaced.
Dana briefed a small knot of reporters in hushed tones before gesturing toward Coach Jason Kidd, who stood near the stanchion with arms crossed. He turned, spotted Zoran, and gave a small nod.
"Let him run," Kidd said to one of the assistants. "No showboating. We need function, not fireworks."
Zoran stretched, bouncing lightly on his toes.
His game wasn't built on making noise.
The first drill was three-man weave. Then closeouts. Then full-court 4-on-4.
Zoran said little.
But he saw everything.
Every lazy closeout. Every mistimed cut. Every defender cheating one step too far on help. He adjusted without being told. Talked just enough to help rotations. Called screens with precision.
It wasn't flashy.
It was correct.
By mid-scrimmage, Kidd pulled one of his assistants aside.
"He doesn't force anything. Doesn't disappear either."
The assistant nodded. "He moves like he's been watching NBA film since he was ten."
"Probably has."
After the scrimmage, the team broke into shooting drills. Zoran stayed off to the side, running sideline sprints. Not for the eyes. Just because he needed it.
Dinwiddie walked over during cooldown.
"You don't talk much, do you?"
Zoran looked up. "Only when it's useful."
"I feel that," Dinwiddie said with a chuckle. "But heads up—guys here notice more than they say."
"Good."
"That quiet assassin thing? Some guys find it intimidating."
"It's not a thing," Zoran said. "It's just me."
After practice, he returned to his temp housing—a Mavericks-provided hotel room not far from the facility. It was fine. Cold. Sterile.
Zoran didn't unpack.
Instead, he pulled out a small spiral notebook from his duffel.
He flipped past pages of game plans and drills until he found the one labeled: System Log
It had appeared the night before the draft. A digital interface. Something only he could see. A single glowing line that read:
[SYSTEM ACTIVATED]
Since then, it had given him small readouts. Slight boosts. Nothing superhuman.
But enough.
Enough to make his footwork sharper. His reads cleaner. His muscle memory faster.
Enough to make every workout feel like three.
He tapped the screen of his burner phone—a tool he had customized to sync to the interface. The System hadn't explained itself. It just pulsed quietly, waiting.
[Daily Boosts Available: 2]
[Focus: Perimeter Decision-Making]
[Focus: Recovery Acceleration]
He accepted both without question.
Later that night, Zoran got a call from his mom.
"Are you eating?"
"Yes, Mama."
"And sleeping?"
"Trying."
She didn't push. She never did.
"They'll see it soon," she said softly in Bulgarian. "The thing you carry. They just need time."
He swallowed the lump in his throat.
"They don't give time, Mama. They give minutes."
A pause.
"Then take them."
Zoran ended the call and stared out at the Dallas skyline.
Everything was temporary.
Except the game.