The night before his first NBA game wasn't sleepless.
Zoran wasn't nervous—just aware. Aware of how thin the margin was. Aware of every taped ankle and bruised knee that had cleared a path for him to stand here. Aware that one quiet performance could make all of this feel temporary again.
So he prepared the only way he knew how: work.
By 9 p.m., he'd finished his fourth scouting session on Brandon Ingram. At 10:07, he was locked in on Jonas Valančiūnas post entries, reviewing how the Mavericks rotated with smaller lineups. At 11:30, he had the system running "Anticipation Drills"—a pattern recognition simulation that challenged him to jump passing lanes with no visible cue.
[SYSTEM PROMPT: PERFORMANCE RATING — ELITE]
[REWARD UNLOCKED: Defensive Anticipation +3 | Duration: 6 hours (Game-Day Only)]
He didn't smile. Just closed the window, rubbed his eyes, and breathed in.
The next morning, the hotel hallway buzzed faintly. Players shuffled out of rooms in slides and hoodies, nodding tired greetings. Zoran didn't speak much. He didn't need to. The ones who mattered were starting to notice.
In the film room, Coach Kidd laid out the assignments with clean precision. "We'll start Spencer, Klay, Naji, Zoran, and Powell. Keep it tight early. Run our stuff through Dinwiddie if it slows down."
Eyes bounced toward Zoran.
No one said anything, but he felt the pause.
A week ago, he didn't have a locker here.
Now, he was starting.
Shootaround moved fast. The pace had urgency—not panic, but something like it. They weren't just missing Kyrie. They were missing structure. AD wasn't back yet, Gafford was still nursing his knee, and even P.J. was a game-time decision.
They weren't whole.
But they were still expected to compete.
That's why Zoran had gotten the call.
Not because he was flashy. Not because of hype.
Because he played clean. Efficient. Serious.
Every drill, every rep, he treated like a test.
Back in the locker room before the game, the atmosphere shifted.
Lights dimmed. Shoes squeaked. Tension built.
Klay leaned over from two stalls down.
"You ready for the lights, rookie?"
Zoran looked at him, not flinching. "I've been ready. Just didn't have an invite."
Klay nodded, impressed. "That's the right answer."
Dinwiddie chuckled across the room. "He talks more now. Must be feeling himself."
Zoran laced up his sneakers and checked the fit of his arm sleeve. "Not feeling myself. Just locked in."
Tip-off neared.
Zoran sat on the bench during introductions, eyes fixed on the court like it was a puzzle he'd already studied. Because it was. He'd dissected every Pelicans inbound set. Knew how CJ McCollum liked to lull defenders with tempo. Had memorized the seams on Herb Jones' corner threes.
His heart didn't pound. It focused.
And when Coach Kidd gave him a look—no words, just a slight nod—Zoran stood.
It wasn't dramatic. There was no cinematic moment.
Just steps forward.
A signal from the scorer's table.
And Zoran Vranes checking into an NBA game for the first time.