The morning after Dallas' loss to Orlando, Zoran stood at the back of the practice facility. He wasn't on the official sheet. His name had been removed from the rotation board in the locker room. His locker wasn't emptied—but his nameplate was gone.
No official release.
No announcement.
Just quiet erasure.
And still, no one had asked him to leave.
He stretched in the corner of the weight room, earbuds in. Not music. Just white noise—rainfall over distant thunder. Something to ground him. Something to give the silence a shape.
Marko had texted again that morning.
"Magic tried to go over Nico's head. NBA ruled he still holds your rights until Mavericks formally release you."
"It's insane."
Zoran didn't reply.
Because what was there to say?
Jason Kidd walked past him twice. Didn't look.
The equipment manager gave him a protein shake out of habit. Caught himself. Then shrugged.
Only Anthony Davis broke the pattern. Mid-set on the bench press, he muttered, "You still here?"
Zoran nodded.
Davis grunted through his rep. "Good."
That night, the Mavericks hosted the Indiana Pacers. Kyrie had returned to light workouts but wasn't cleared. Klay was a scratch again. Hardy and Christie started.
Zoran watched the game from the stands.
He bought a ticket.
Upper deck. Row 15. Hat low.
The woman beside him didn't recognize him. A couple behind him argued about whether Jaden Hardy could actually run the offense.
Zoran didn't chime in.
The Mavs were sloppy. Davis played well, but the spacing collapsed late. Indiana ran pick-and-rolls to death. Haliburton had 13 assists.
Final score: Pacers 117, Mavericks 106.
A two-game skid. No answer at the guard spot. The crowd started to boo midway through the fourth.
And still—no call.
He exited the arena alone. Took the long route back to the hotel, hoodie up.
Back in his room, Marko had left a voicemail.
"Orlando's pissed. They think the Mavericks are freezing you out. I've got feelers from Sacramento and Atlanta. But as long as your paperwork sits in limbo, no one can make a legal offer."
Zoran sat on the bed.
He wanted to scream. To call Nico. To rip off the jersey that no longer belonged to him.
Instead, he pulled his journal from the drawer.
"They won't say it, but they know. Holding me here doesn't protect them. It exposes them."
He underlined the last sentence twice.
At midnight, his phone buzzed.
Text from Nico Harrison.
"Let's talk tomorrow."
Zoran stared at it.
And for the first time in two days, he didn't feel erased.
He felt cornered.
Mavericks Record: 5–4.
Zoran Vranes: Uncontracted. Held in administrative purgatory.