The silence in the room felt different now.
Not the silence of people listening, but the silence of people afraid to make the wrong move.
Kompany sat straight. Face unchanged. Eyes forward, fixed on the back wall, while Miller kept his gaze locked on the journalist from LancsX.
She hadn't lowered the microphone. She was waiting for an answer. Or maybe she was waiting for Miller to lose control.
Miller didn't answer straight away. He could feel every pair of eyes on him — the weight of something he thought he'd left behind a long time ago.
Torino.
One word. And something cold moved through his stomach. Not fear — something older than fear. The last traces of an anger he'd spent a long time trying to bury. For a moment, he was back there. A room too small, too airless, full of words that should never have been said.
Miller finally broke the silence.
"Turin is a beautiful city."
He paused.
"So is the club."
"I never had any problems there — the people were warm, they treated me well."
One or two journalists started writing.
"There was no reason for me to cause problems. Not with the city, not with the club."
The room stayed quiet. Waiting.
"We parted because we agreed — that my time there had run its course. The club needed to move forward."
The LancsX journalist didn't speak straight away.
She just looked at him for a few seconds.
Then she smiled — thin, barely there.
"Of course."
She dipped her head slightly, as if accepting the answer.
"But there's one thing I find interesting."
She lifted a sheet of paper from the table — not much, just one page — glanced at it briefly, then looked back at Miller.
"We spoke to several sources inside Torino. Anonymous, of course."
The room tightened again.
"And they described a specific incident — not a rumour, something specific — that occurred three days before your departure was officially announced at the end of that season."
She stopped.
"Would you like to comment on that?"
Miller didn't answer her question.
He asked one instead.
"What did they say?"
His voice was flat. Controlled.
The journalist glanced at her paper.
"That there was a confrontation. Inside the dressing room. After one of the matches."
She looked up.
"Involving you, a member of the coaching staff, and one of the players."
Nobody moved.
Even the keyboards went quiet.
Someone in the middle row drew a slow breath — audible in the silence.
Cameras still on Miller.
He didn't answer immediately.
His hands — which had been resting together on the table — shifted slightly. One finger tapped once, quietly, then stopped.
His eyes never left her face.
"Anonymous sources."
He repeated the two words slowly.
"You're very confident asking a question like that."
He tilted his head slightly.
"Who exactly did you speak to?"
The journalist didn't blink.
"That's not something I'm able to share."
"Of course."
Miller nodded — not in agreement, but because he'd already expected that answer.
"So you come here, in front of everyone—"
He glanced across the room briefly.
"—with one sheet of paper, sources you can't name—"
"That's not what I asked, Mr. Miller."
The journalist cut through.
Flat. No edge in the voice.
The room felt smaller.
Miller stopped mid-sentence.
She continued, steady.
"I'm not asking you to verify my sources."
She set the paper down on the table.
"I'm asking you to answer one straightforward question."
She looked at him directly.
"Did the incident happen or not?"
Miller didn't answer straight away.
One second.
Two.
A slow breath — almost inaudible.
"I've already answered your question."
The journalist didn't move.
"No."
Flat. No added pressure.
The moderator shifted in his seat.
"I think Mr. Miller has given his—"
"With respect."
She didn't look at the moderator. Eyes still on Miller.
"He hasn't answered my question."
The moderator opened his mouth again.
"This session isn't—"
"It's fine."
Miller cut him off this time.
He held the moderator's eye for a moment — brief, but enough — then turned back to her.
The room held its breath.
Miller drew a slow breath.
"Every ending has its own story."
He paused.
"And not every story needs to be told in front of a camera."
He stopped.
"Especially a story you never saw yourself."
The journalist looked at him for a few seconds.
Then she nodded — once, slowly.
She sat down.
Folded her paper once. Set it on the table.
The smile didn't leave.
Nobody spoke straight away.
A journalist in the front row stared at his screen, fingers still.
Then —
the sound of typing came back.
Quiet.
One.
Two.
Then the whole room came back to life at once.
The moderator cleared his throat.
"Right."
He turned toward Kompany.
"Next question — for Vincent Kompany."
The room shifted.
Several heads turned away from Miller.
Kompany gave one small nod toward the moderator — measured, unhurried — then looked forward.
"BBC Sport."
The same journalist from before stood up.
"Mr. Kompany — given everything we've heard today — what was the main reason you brought Miller in?"
Kompany didn't answer immediately.
He looked ahead for a moment, like he was choosing carefully.
"Because I needed someone who isn't afraid."
A pause.
"At this level, everyone can play. But not everyone can play when everything feels heavy."
He glanced briefly at Miller — almost nothing, almost invisible.
"Miller can."
The room noted that.
Some journalists typed. Some just listened.
"Sky Sports."
The middle-aged man half-rose again, microphone in hand.
"Mr. Kompany — will Miller play as the lone striker this season, or is there a plan to pair him with someone?"
Kompany tapped the table once, quietly.
"We're still in the process."
A beat.
"But I don't bring players in to sit on the bench."
The room noted that too.
"Burnley Express."
A man in the second row stood.
"Mr. Kompany, what are your expectations for Miller this season?"
"To contribute."
One word.
"Not just on the pitch."
Nothing added.
A few people in the room exchanged glances.
"Lancashire Sports."
The middle-aged woman raised her microphone.
"Mr. Kompany — Miller said he wants to leave something behind at Burnley. What do you think he means by that?"
Kompany smiled — thin, but visible.
"Ask him."
One or two journalists smiled quietly.
The moderator nodded.
"Right… last question."
He looked around the room.
Then his eyes stopped at the far end.
"LancsX… Sport Live."
A small pause before the name came out. Almost nothing — but enough.
She was already on her feet before her outlet's name was finished.
The room went quiet again.
She wasn't looking at Miller this time.
Her eyes were on Kompany.
"Mr. Kompany."
She paused.
"There are rumours that you're planning to bring in another player in the near future."
She glanced at her notes briefly.
"The name circulating — if the rumour is accurate — isn't a young one."
She looked up.
"So my question is simple."
The smile was thin.
"Are you building a team for the Premier League…"
She stopped.
"…or a museum?"
Kompany didn't answer straight away.
He laughed — quiet, short. Not performed.
The laugh of someone who's sat in this chair too many times to count.
He touched the table in front of him once, lightly, then looked at her.
"A museum."
He nodded slightly, as if turning the word over.
"Not bad."
A few journalists smiled.
He leaned back slightly.
"Experience and age are two different things. I've seen twenty-year-olds play like they've already retired — and I've seen thirty-eight-year-olds who still make the pitch feel too small for whoever's marking them."
He paused.
"What I recruit isn't age. What I recruit is mentality."
A few journalists exchanged glances. Someone in the middle row almost smiled.
At the far end of the room, the LancsX journalist was still standing.
She looked at Kompany for a few seconds.
Then she sat down — slowly, no rush.
This time without the smile.
The moderator cleared his throat.
He looked across the room once — left to right.
"Right."
He set his papers down.
"That concludes today's session."
"Thank you all for your time."
Chairs scraped back. People stood. The sound of bags and camera equipment filled a room that had been so quiet minutes before.
Miller's first press conference with Burnley FC was finished.
But one thing wasn't finished.
Torino.