Minneapolis–Saint Paul International Airport. June 24, 2016. 6:42 a.m.
The plane touched down without announcement.
No cameras. No press. No welcome party.
Just a 17-year-old, 7'4" Filipino center stepping off a red-eye flight in a gray hoodie and black joggers.
He carried no bags.
He wore no team gear.
He moved like he'd done this before.
The Timberwolves had offered to send a car.
He declined.
Instead, he walked—terminal to curb, curb to sidewalk, sidewalk to the city's light rail system.
No one recognized him.
Not yet.
Inside the Wolves' front office, the staff watched the security feed in silence.
"That's him?"
"He's alone?"
"Where's his rep?"
No one answered.
Target Center – Player Entrance
By 8:03 a.m., Elias stood at the back entrance of the Timberwolves' facility.
He didn't knock. He didn't buzz.
He waited.
Security opened the door.
He stepped inside.
No words. No smile. No hesitation.
The receptionist looked up, startled.
"Name?"
He slid a folded document across the counter.
It was his FIBA registration, stamped and signed by the Philippine federation.
Below it, a sealed letter from the NBA's international eligibility office.
The receptionist stared at the height listed:
7 feet, 4 inches. Age: 17.
She buzzed Player Operations.
Medical Wing – 9:12 a.m.
The team's head physician, Dr. Leland, had reviewed hundreds of rookie files.
None like this.
No injury history.
No college tape.
No biometric data in the league's central system.
Elias sat on the exam table, motionless.
Vitals: stable.
Heart rate: 41 bpm.
Resting.
"You nervous?" Dr. Leland asked.
Elias didn't answer.
The scans came back clean.
Too clean.
Bone density: off the charts.
Joint wear: nonexistent.
Muscle symmetry: perfect.
Dr. Leland frowned.
"You've never been injured?"
Elias blinked once.
Then shook his head.
Practice Court – 10:47 a.m.
The gym was empty.
No coaches. No teammates.
Just Elias and a ball rack.
He didn't warm up.
He didn't stretch.
He walked to the free-throw line, picked up a ball, and shot.
Swish.
Then again.
And again.
And again.
Each shot identical.
No arc. No spin.
Just entry.
The facility's assistant GM watched from the catwalk above.
"He's not practicing," he muttered.
"He's calibrating."