Andrew slipped quietly into the tunnel at Turf Moor.
His steps were light. Like a man carrying nothing.
Miller kept his eyes on that direction a few seconds longer than he needed to.
See you on the pitch, old man.
The words were still sitting in his head.
Strange. No clear meaning. But for some reason — impossible to just let go.
"Weird kid," Miller muttered under his breath.
Before the thought could go any further, a photographer stepped close and gave him a quick signal.
"Mr. Miller, get changed. Press conference in ten minutes."
Miller gave a single nod and turned away.
10:20 AM — Turf Moor Press Conference Room
The room felt nothing like the pitch outside.
Warmer. Quieter. Too neat for a world that usually ran on noise and chaos.
Kompany was already seated at the front table. Composed. Minimal expression. The look of someone who had long made peace with being watched.
His eyes briefly caught Miller's.
"Sit," he said simply.
Miller sat beside him.
On the table in front of them, a Burnley jersey had been laid out.
Claret body, touches of sky blue running through it.
On the back:
M.J. O'BRIAN — 99
Miller glanced at it.
Then said nothing.
His hand moved slowly — signing the jersey without hesitation.
Quick. Clean. Like he'd done it a hundred times before.
Kompany rose first. Miller followed half a beat later.
The cameras fired immediately.
Shutter sounds stacked on top of each other, bouncing off the walls of the small, formal room.
A few seconds, standing side by side.
One manager.
One player.
One new beginning.
Then the photographers began to step back. The seats in front of the press table filled one by one as journalists settled in.
Miller watched all of it in silence.
His hands loosened slightly at his sides.
Not nerves.
Just the quiet understanding that from this point forward — it wasn't about football on a pitch anymore.
It was about words.
Miller closed his eyes for a moment.
One slow breath.
Then when he opened them again —
Full room.
Rows of journalists, all in place. Cameras, laptops, microphones — everything ready.
Among them, faces from the big outlets. BBC Sport. Sky Sports.
Local press too — Burnley Express, Lancashire Sports — alongside several digital platforms known for going hard on Premier League clubs.
On one side, a team from LancsX Sport Live, a media outlet with a reputation for hunting controversy.
And at the far end of the room, a Premier League representative sat with no particular expression.
The Burnley moderator opened the session.
"Ready?"
Miller gave a slow nod.
"Yeah. Let's go."
"Good. BBC Sport — go ahead."
A male journalist in the front row leaned forward slightly. Sharp suit. Measured voice. But with pressure behind it.
"Miller, welcome to Burnley."
He paused.
"First question — ninety-nine. That's an unusual number. Arguably a number that's never been worn in the Premier League — or anywhere in England's top flight."
The room tightened slightly.
"Why that number? Is there a message behind it… or is it just a statement?"
Several cameras swung toward Miller.
Silence.
He didn't answer straight away.
His eyes moved — briefly, toward Kompany.
Then back to the front.
A thin smile.
"A lot of people say nine is the striker's number."
He paused, choosing his words.
"That number carries something. Responsibility. Expectation. Everyone looks to it."
A short breath.
"I wanted to wear nine."
"But then I thought — if one nine already means that much—"
He gave a small shrug.
"Wouldn't two be better?"
"Besides — I didn't come here just to play."
A beat.
"I want to leave something behind."
For several seconds after that —
nobody spoke.
Then, a low sound.
Not a question.
Murmuring.
A few journalists turned to each other. Some dropped their heads immediately, typing fast. Others just raised an eyebrow — the look of someone who'd already got their headline.
Cameras still on Miller.
No change in expression.
Kompany glanced at him. Brief. Then looked forward again, careful not to show too much.
The moderator cleared his throat quietly, pulling the room back.
"Right... next question."
A hand went up straight away.
Left side of the room.
"Sky Sports."
A middle-aged man half-rose from his seat, microphone in hand.
"A lot of people are reading that as a bold statement. But some see it as a risk."
He paused, holding Miller's gaze.
"Particularly given that you're coming in as a free agent, with no competitive football for several months."
His tone stayed even.
But the direction was clear.
"Do you feel you're in a place to meet expectations that size?"
The room went quiet again.
Not like before.
More focused.
A few cameras shifted, waiting.
Miller leaned back slightly in his chair.
Hands resting together.
He didn't answer immediately.
His eyes dropped for a moment.
Then came back up.
He let out a soft laugh.
Not loud. Not performed.
The laugh of someone who's heard this question before.
"Condition?"
He repeated the word like he was turning it over.
"Honestly…"
A pause.
"My body probably needs another week or two to get fully there."
A few journalists started writing.
"But football isn't just physical condition."
He tapped the table lightly in front of him.
"It's about the head."
"And my head—" he tilted it slightly, "—never stopped."
A small ripple of laughter from around the room.
The Sky Sports journalist didn't join in. Just kept taking notes.
Miller continued.
"If you're waiting for me to arrive in perfect shape…"
He shrugged.
"You'll be waiting a long time."
"Nobody arrives perfect."
He leaned back.
"There are only people willing to work, and people waiting for ideal conditions that will never come."
Silence.
Then, almost to himself, one last line — quiet, unhurried.
"I've gone a long time without working."
"Long enough."
A few seconds after Miller finished, the room began to loosen.
Keyboards again. Someone in the middle row whispered to a colleague. The Sky Sports journalist sat down, still writing.
The moderator nodded.
"Burnley Express."
A man in the second row stood up.
"Miller, what's your personal target for this season with Burnley?"
Miller didn't need long.
"Win."
One word. Nothing added.
A few quiet smiles.
"Lancashire Sports."
A middle-aged woman raised her microphone.
"How did you feel when you first got the call from Burnley? When the offer came through?"
Miller exhaled slightly — not heavily, more like pulling up a memory.
"Honestly?"
He leaned back a little.
"I didn't believe it."
A pause.
"Took me a few seconds to realize it wasn't a joke."
"My agent was the one who told me — first thing in the morning — nearly kicked my apartment door off its hinges."
Light laughter broke through the room.
Even Kompany — for just a fraction of a second — almost smiled.
Miller went on, quieter now.
"But then I read through the contract."
"And it turned out it wasn't a joke."
The laughter hadn't fully settled when the moderator took back the floor.
"Next question—"
A hand went up in the front row.
BBC Sport.
Same journalist as before.
The moderator nodded.
"BBC Sport."
He stood.
"Miller, you've played in England before. But that was a long time ago."
He paused.
"What does it feel like — coming back to the Premier League after more than a decade away?"
The room stilled again — not tense, but the kind of quiet that waits for something more personal.
Miller didn't answer straight away.
His eyes went down to the table briefly.
Then back up.
"Like coming home to a house you left a long time ago."
A beat.
"The furniture might have changed."
"The paint might be different."
"But the smell…"
He lifted the corner of his mouth.
"Still the same."
A few journalists wrote it down. One or two nodded.
The moderator gave a satisfied nod, hand already half-raised — ready to move on.
"Right, let's go to—"
"LancsX Sport Live."
The voice cut through.
Hand came down.
From the far end of the room.
A young woman. Already on her feet before her outlet's name had even been called. Microphone in hand.
Several heads turned.
The warmth that had just been in the room — shifted.
The moderator stopped mid-sentence.
He looked up. A flicker of something — not quite annoyance, but close.
"I wasn't finished—"
"I know."
The woman didn't sit down. Didn't lower the microphone.
A beat.
The moderator held her gaze for a second. Then two.
Then he exhaled — short, quiet — and gestured toward her.
"Go ahead."
"Miller—"
Her voice wasn't loud. But somehow, the whole room went quiet.
"There are reports — never officially denied — that your departure from Torino at the end of the 2019/20 season wasn't because your contract expired."
She paused.
"But because of an incident in the dressing room."
A different kind of silence fell.
A few journalists stopped typing.
Someone coughed in the back.
Someone in the middle row set down their pen.
Cameras moved — one, two — all turning toward Miller.
Kompany didn't move.
But his jaw tightened. Barely. Almost invisible.
Miller found her face at the far end of the room.
His eyes widened — just slightly — and he was no longer leaning back in his chair.
He was sitting up straight now.
Something had changed.