Chairs were still scraping back when Miller stood.
A few journalists hadn't moved — still typing, still murmuring, still packing equipment. One camera was still pointed at the front table.
Miller didn't move straight away.
One slow breath — quiet, almost nothing — and then he was fully upright.
Kompany was already beside him.
No words. They just walked.
The press conference door closed behind them.
The corridor outside was quieter than Miller had expected. Sound from inside still came through faintly — but out here, it was just the two of them and the sound of their shoes on the floor.
A few seconds passed without either of them speaking.
Then Kompany said, without turning.
"I don't care what happened in Torino."
His pace didn't change.
"I don't care what they write tomorrow."
A pause.
"There's only one thing I care about."
He turned to Miller — brief, direct.
"What happens here."
"And if you cause problems here... you already know what that means."
Miller didn't answer.
Kompany didn't wait for one.
"Two o'clock. Training ground." He kept walking. "Come in, introduce yourself, have a look around. You start properly tomorrow."
He stopped at a junction in the corridor.
His hand went into his jacket pocket.
He pulled out a key and held it out to Miller.
"As agreed. Per the contract."
Miller took it. Looked at it.
Bentley.
Kompany had already turned away before Miller could say anything.
His footsteps faded — steady, unhurried — until they were gone.
Miller stood where he was.
A few seconds passed.
Then he started walking.
Slow.
Head slightly down. Hand gripping the key — tighter than it needed to be.
The corridor felt longer now.
His footsteps echoed quietly off the floor.
One.
Two.
Three.
He wasn't looking at anything.
Just walking.
The key turned slightly between his fingers.
Cold.
Smooth.
Too clean.
Miller closed his eyes.
The corridor disappeared.
"What's your problem, you piece of —"
"What's going on in your head, you —"
The voice bounced off the dressing room walls. Too loud for a room that size. Nobody moved. Twenty-odd pairs of eyes — all of them still.
The same man who'd just shouted — his hand was already moving before the words had finished echoing.
He grabbed the collar of the player in front of him.
Pulled.
Hard.
He didn't let go.
He brought his face closer.
Then — slow, like he was making a point — his palm moved.
A light slap. One.
Two.
Not the kind that hurts.
Worse than that.
"Passing."
He said it again, voice dropping.
"Passing."
Third slap.
"PASSING—"
His voice broke.
His hands didn't stop.
Still gripping the collar — he shook.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Four.
The other player's head snapped forward, back.
He didn't stop.
"IS IT REALLY THAT HARD —"
Fifth shake.
"YOU —"
Sixth.
His breathing was rough. Chest heaving.
His eyes weren't seeing the person in front of him anymore.
The room stayed silent.
Nobody dared to speak.
Nobody dared to move.
Until —
"Miller."
He opened his eyes.
His breath caught for just a moment.
His head turned — slow, like he was making sure the voice was real.
A man was standing a few steps behind him.
Tall. Strong jaw. Short brown hair. Still in his Burnley training kit.
He walked over.
"Dara O'Shea."
He put out his hand.
Miller looked at it for a second.
Then took it.
"Miller."
O'Shea smiled — thin, easy. "I know."
He let go of the handshake.
A second passed with nothing said.
O'Shea glanced away briefly — not at anything specific, just the habit of someone searching for the right words.
Miller didn't fill the silence either.
O'Shea finally spoke.
"Ireland wants you, you know."
Miller didn't answer straight away.
O'Shea shrugged.
"FAI's had their eye on you for a while, mate."
A beat.
Then Miller almost — almost — smiled.
"You know... England's more tempting," Miller said.
Something broke between them. They both laughed — short, genuine.
O'Shea nodded.
"Good to finally meet you in person."
Miller nodded back. Brief.
His eyes dropped to O'Shea's training kit.
"Why are you here? Training's at two."
"Photo shoot." O'Shea pointed down the other corridor with his thumb. "Brand sponsor. Been here since this morning."
Miller gave a quick nod.
O'Shea glanced at his watch.
He let out a short breath — like someone whose day had already been full for hours.
He tapped Miller's shoulder once. Light, brief.
"I need to get back."
He started walking.
"See you at two." He looked back once. "Barnfield. Don't get lost."
Miller lifted his chin slightly.
O'Shea laughed quietly, then disappeared around the corner.
His footsteps carried for a moment — getting further away — then nothing.
Miller started walking again.
The corridor got shorter.
Then the door at the end — he pushed it open.
Lancashire air hit him straight away. Cold. Heavy. The smell of damp earth.
The car park wasn't large. A few cars lined up.
Where Connor had parked earlier.
Empty.
Miller moved through the car park.
It didn't take long to find it.
Bentley Continental GT V8 S. 2017. White. Clean.
He stood in front of it for a few seconds.
Key still in his hand.
He looked at the car.
A few seconds.
Then his hand moved.
Slow.
He reached into his pocket and took out his phone.
Screen lit up.
11:52 AM
Still time.
Plenty of it, actually.
Too much.
His thumb sat still on the screen.
Instagram notifications filled it.
He looked at the screen a little longer.
Then it dimmed.
He didn't turn it off.
Just let it go dark on its own.
Then put it back in his pocket.
A cold breeze moved through the car park.
Not strong.
But enough to shift his hair.
He breathed in.
Deep.
Let it out slowly.
His eyes went back to the car.
Bentley.
Too clean.
Too new.
Too —
The key turned once more in his hand.
Click.
A small sound — the car unlocked.
Miller didn't move.
One second.
Two.
Then he walked forward.
His hand found the door handle.
He stopped.
Like something was still waiting behind him.
But this time —
he didn't look back.
He pulled the handle.
The door opened.
And he got in.
The door closed.
Quiet.
Not the corridor kind of quiet.
This was different — dense, sealed off, like the volume of the outside world had been switched off.
Black leather interior. Neat stitching at every edge. Wood and chrome on the dashboard — too refined for someone who'd just spent an hour sitting at a press conference table.
Miller didn't start the engine.
He just sat.
Hands on the wheel — feeling the texture. Soft leather. Too soft.
His eyes moved once across the cabin.
Passenger seat empty.
Back seats empty.
Just him.
He put the key in.
The engine turned over — not rough, not quiet. Something deep, smooth, like something large breathing slowly.
The vibration moved through the seat.
Miller closed his eyes for a moment.
Then opened them.
His fingers touched the gear selector on the centre console.
One small turn.
Drive.
The car moved.
Slow, out of the space.
The tyres rolled over Turf Moor's tarmac for the first time — barely felt.
Miller didn't accelerate straight away.
He let the car find its own pace first.
In the mirror — Turf Moor got smaller.
He didn't look back.
The road outside Turf Moor wasn't busy.
A few cars. One bus moving slowly. Someone on the pavement in a thick jacket — head down against the wind.
Lancashire on an ordinary day.
Miller had no destination.
He just drove.
Hands easy on the wheel. The Bentley's engine barely made a sound — just a low, steady hum, almost nothing. Different from the worn hire car he'd used back in Manchester. Or Braga.
He turned left at the first junction.
Then straight.
Then turned again.
No map. No route.
The town wasn't big — he wasn't going to get properly lost.
Outside the window, small shops lined the road. A pub on the corner, still closed. A woman pushing a pram on the pavement, head down into the wind.
Everyone was just going about it.
Ordinary.
Like nothing had happened today.
Miller shifted slightly in the seat.
His hand tapped the wheel once — quiet, without thinking.
He checked the mirror.
The road behind him was empty.
Miller saw a small sign at the side of the road.
Café.
He slowed down.
Parked up at the kerb — not perfectly, but close enough.
He cut the engine.
Quiet again.
He got out.
Lancashire air hit his lungs straight away — colder than before, or maybe he was just noticing it now.
The café was small. Old wooden tables. One person behind the counter — a middle-aged woman who didn't look up when he walked in.
Miller sat in the corner.
Back to the wall.
"Americano. And a sandwich — whatever you've got."
The woman nodded without much to say.
Miller put his hands on the table.
Looked out the window.
Burnley's streets moved the way they always did outside. Someone walked past with shopping bags. Two older people talked on the pavement across the road.
The coffee arrived.
He picked it up.
Drank.
He stopped for a moment.
Hand still on the cup.
Then kept going.
Not too hot. Not too cold.
Right.
The sandwich came after — egg and cheese, brown bread. Nothing special.
He ate slowly.
No rush.
For the first time today — nobody was looking at him. No cameras. No questions.
Just coffee. A sandwich. And the window.
Miller looked at the street outside longer than he needed to.
01:50 PM — Barnfield Training Centre
Miller cut the engine.
Different kind of quiet this time. From outside, faint sounds were already coming through — a whistle, the thud of a ball.
He got out.
Locked the car with one click.
His hand went into his jacket pocket and came out with his sunglasses.
He put them on.
Then walked.
Toward the entrance to Barnfield.
Head straight.
No hurry in his step.
Like someone who already knew where he was going.