May 10th.
The aircraft cut through German airspace like a silver bullet, its Lufthansa livery gleaming under overcast skies that stretched from horizon to horizon in endless grey.
Commercial flight LH1441 from Bucharest, unremarkable to air traffic control, routine to the crew, but carrying cargo that had the capacity to shift the balance of European football.
Below, the industrial sprawl of North Rhine-Westphalia emerged from morning mist, factory smokestacks and residential blocks.
The Ruhr Valley spread like a concrete galaxy, with Dortmund at its heart, a city that had transformed itself from coal and steel into football religion.
The pilot's voice crackled over the intercom in perfect, accented English: "Ladies and gentlemen, we are beginning our descent into Dortmund Airport. Local time is 11:43 AM, temperature is seven degrees Celsius with light winds from the northwest."
Seven degrees. Still cold enough to bite, though May had arrived with its usual reluctance to embrace warmth.
From the small aircraft windows, passengers could see something unusual gathering at the airport below, rivers of yellow and black flowing between terminal buildings, crowds that shouldn't exist for a routine commercial arrival. The scale was extraordinary, thousands of people arranged in patterns of devotion that transformed concrete and asphalt into a festival ground.
The aircraft touched down smoothly, tires kissing German soil with the whispered promise of homecoming. As it taxied toward the terminal, the sound from outside became audible even through pressurized cabin walls, voices raised in coordinated song, fragments of chants bleeding together like competing radio frequencies.
Row 3A, first class.
A figure sat motionless by the window, hood pulled low despite the cabin's controlled environment, glasses resting against cheekbones that had grown more defined over three weeks of mountain air and relentless physical discipline. The water bottle in his grip had been refilled four times during the flight.
The aircraft came to a complete stop.
"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to Dortmund," the captain announced. "For your safety, please remain seated until—"
The sound from outside erupted like a dam bursting.
"LUKA! LUKA! DER ADLER KOMMT NACH HAUSE!"
The eagle comes home.
Every passenger in first class turned toward the window, recognizing the roar of thousands united in desperate hope. The figure in 3A lifted his head slightly, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth.
This was home. This beautiful, chaotic madness was exactly what he'd missed most.
The aircraft door opened with a pressurized hiss.
Jorge Mendes emerged first, his Armani suit immaculate despite hours of travel, phone already pressed to his ear as he surveyed the assembled crowd with calculating eyes. The Portuguese accent carried over the noise as he barked instructions to someone—security, media, club officials—his free hand gesturing with the authority of someone accustomed to orchestrating chaos.
"Yes, yes, straight to the medical facility," Mendes was saying, his voice sharp with professional focus. "No interviews at the airport. The boy needs assessment before anything else."
He turned back toward the aircraft cabin, one manicured hand extended in beckoning. "Come on then. Time to show them what three weeks of proper medicine can accomplish."
The figure that emerged behind, grey hoodie pulled low over familiar features, black suitcase wheeled effortlessly in one hand, posture carrying confidence that hadn't been there before. Backed by knowledge that his body had been progressing toward specifications that pushed the boundaries of sports science.
The crowd's reaction was seismic.
"LUKA! LUKA! WILLKOMMEN ZURÜCK!"
Welcome back.
The sound hit him like a physical force, three weeks of sterile medical environments replaced by the raw devotion of people who had waited, who had hoped, who had believed in recovery when recovery seemed statistically improbable. Luka Zorić felt the first breath of Dortmund air fill his lungs, cold, sharp, carrying the industrial tang of a city that had reinvented itself through sheer stubborn will.
He lifted one hand briefly, acknowledging the crowd without slowing his descent down the aircraft steps. The concrete beneath his feet felt solid, real, more substantial than the pristine marble floors of mountain clinics. This was Germany. This was home.
"Danke," he called out, voice carrying despite the hood that shadowed his features. "Danke euch allen." Thank you all.
Klaus materialized beside them as if conjured from shadow, behind him, a convoy of black Mercedes SUVs waited with engines running, exhaust visible in the cold air like mechanical breathing.
"LUKA! EIN FOTO! BITTE!" A photo! Please!
"CHAMPIONS LEAGUE FINALE!"
"GEGEN REAL MADRID!"
The requests crashed together in waves of desperate affection, smartphones raised like modern torches, yellow scarves whipping in airport wind that carried the smell of jet fuel and unlimited possibility.
Mendes moved ahead, phone still pressed to his ear, orchestrating the departure. "Car two for luggage, car three for additional security," he directed into the device. "Medical team standing by at the facility? Good. We'll be there in twenty minutes."
Klaus opened the rear door of the middle vehicle, gesturing Luka inside with motion that suggested this routine had been rehearsed. "In you go," he said quietly. "Let them have their moment, but we keep moving."
Luka slid into leather that still carried the scent of German craftsmanship, pulling off his glasses as the door closed behind him. The sudden quiet felt strange after weeks of mountain silence followed by airport chaos. Through tinted windows, he could see supporters pressing against barriers, their faces illuminated by phones recording evidence of his return.
The convoy pulled away smoothly, police motorcycles providing escort through streets that gradually filled with people who had somehow tracked their route. Yellow and black scarves hung from apartment windows, hastily painted bedsheets declaring "WELCOME HOME LUKA" in English and German.
His phone, silent during the flight, suddenly exploded with notifications:
@FabrizioRomano: 🚨🟡 Luka Zorić lands in Dortmund! Medical assessment this afternoon before potential return vs Hertha Berlin. Here we go! ⚽️🇭🇷
@SkySportsNews: BREAKING: Thousands gather at Dortmund Airport as Luka Zorić returns from injury treatment. Croatia's star expected to be assessed for Bundesliga title decider.
@BVB: Er ist zurück! 🦅 Luka Zorić returns to Dortmund ahead of crucial final fixtures. #BVB #DerAdler
@BILD: SENSATION: Zorić zurück! Borussia-Star landet in Dortmund - Tausende Fans am Flughafen!
@kicker: Luka Zorić ist wieder da! Der kroatische Superstar kehrt nach dreiwöchiger Verletzungspause zurück.
Jude: Airport looked absolutely mental on the news. Good to have you back, mate. How do you feel?
Luka typed back with one thumb: Different. Like I've been rebuilt from scratch.
In a good way?
We'll find out.
The convoy wound through familiar streets, everything looked sharper somehow, colors more vivid, details more precise. Like adjusting the contrast on a photograph, or perhaps just seeing through eyes that had spent three weeks focused on nothing but systematic improvement.
Mendes twisted in the front passenger seat, his phone finally silent for the first time since landing. "How are you feeling?" he asked, studying Luka's face with professional interest. "Physically, mentally, emotionally?"
Luka considered the question seriously. "I feel..." he paused, searching for accurate words. "Complete. Like all the pieces finally fit together properly."
"Good," Mendes replied with satisfaction. "Because the next month will determine everything. Hertha Berlin for the title, Real Madrid for European glory. Then we finalize your future during the summer window."
Through the convoy's tinted windows, the city revealed itself in familiar patterns, the university district, the shopping areas where normal life continued despite football fever, the residential neighborhoods where ordinary people lived extraordinary devotion to their club.
@ChampionsLeague: The wait is over 🦅 Luka Zorić returns to Dortmund as BVB prepare for their biggest week in over a decade. #UCL
@EmmaJones_Sport: Seeing thousands of Dortmund fans at the airport this morning was genuinely emotional. This is what football should be about - communities united by hope and belief in something bigger than themselves.
@TalkSport: 🗣️ "If Zorić is fit for the Champions League final, Real Madrid should be worried." Jamie Carragher believes the Croatian teenager could be the difference-maker at Wembley.
@RafaelH_Marca: Florentino Pérez watching Zorić's return very closely. Real Madrid sources confirm the Croatian remains their #1 transfer target regardless of Champions League final result.
Two Hours Later
The Dortmund medical facility hummed with controlled urgency, state-of-the-art equipment arranged in precise configurations around examination tables that looked more like spacecraft components than traditional furniture. Dr. Braun moved between stations, his team of specialists preparing for an assessment that would determine whether three weeks of experimental treatment had achieved the impossible.
Luka sat on the central table, shirtless, as sensors were attached to specific points across his torso and legs. The cold German air had been replaced by clinical warmth, but something about the sterile environment felt comforting, familiar territory where his body's secrets could be measured and quantified.
"Flexibility first," Dr. Braun announced, beginning to manipulate Luka's right hip through its range of motion. "Tell me immediately if you feel any discomfort, any unusual sensations, any awareness of the previous injury."
Luka concentrated on the movements, feeling joints articulate with precision that seemed enhanced rather than simply restored. "Nothing," he said after several minutes of testing. "It feels... normal. Better than normal, actually."
Dr. Braun's eyebrows rose slightly. "Explain 'better than normal.'"
"More aware, maybe? Like I can feel exactly how everything connects, how each movement affects the others. Before the injury, my hip just... worked. Now I understand how it works."
Around them, monitors displayed real-time data, muscle activation patterns, joint angles, neurological responses. The numbers told a story that seemed almost too good to believe.
"Remarkable," murmured Dr. Sarah Weber, the facility's head of sports science. "His proprioceptive awareness has increased dramatically."
The testing continued for ninety minutes.
"There are some interesting developments," Dr. Braun said carefully as they reviewed the preliminary results. "Your body has adapted to significant interventions in ways that go beyond traditional rehabilitation. Enhanced oxygen utilization, improved muscular coordination, increased mental resilience to physical stress."
Luka listened intently, understanding that he was hearing about changes that pushed the boundaries of conventional sports medicine. "Are there risks?"
"Any rapid adaptation carries theoretical risks," Dr. Braun replied honestly. "But your baseline health was exceptional, and the improvements appear systematically balanced. We'll monitor closely, but initial assessment suggests you're good."
As the medical team completed their evaluations, word of Luka's clearance spread through digital channels with viral velocity:
@FabrizioRomano: 🚨🟡 EXCLUSIVE: Luka Zorić has passed ALL medical tests! Borussia Dortmund medical team confirm full recovery from hip injury. Available for Hertha Berlin (title decider) and Champions League final vs Real Madrid! Here we go! 🏆⚽️
@BeINSports: 🚨 Luka Zorić has been cleared to play! The Croatian wonderkid is back just in time for Dortmund's biggest week in over a decade.
@bbcsport: Luka Zorić's return could not be better timed for Borussia Dortmund - one point behind Bayern Munich with one game remaining, and a Champions League final against Real Madrid on the horizon.
Rose appeared in the medical suite doorway, his expression carefully controlled but eyes betraying unmistakable relief. "So?" he asked without preamble.
"Available." Dr. Braun replied simply.
Rose studied Luka for a long moment, processing implications that extended far beyond simple player availability. "How do you feel?"
"Ready," Luka replied, the conviction in his voice surprising even himself. "For whatever comes next."
The manager nodded slowly. "Good. Because what comes next is everything."
As Rose departed, Luka found himself alone with the weight of expectation that had followed him back from southeastern Europe. The enhanced physical capabilities, the improved awareness, the systematic optimization, all of it would be tested in the crucible of championship football.
His phone buzzed with a message from Jenna: Saw the medical news. How are you really feeling?
He typed back slowly: Like the next week will determine everything that happens for the rest of my life.
No pressure then.
None at all.