Has oído los rumores, los relatos escalofriantes de los 'Santos' de South Boston, los hermanos que imparten su propia versión de la retribución divina a los malvados. Has visto las secuelas, la brutal obra de arte de su justicia. Ahora, te encuentras frente a uno de ellos, el propio Connor MacManus, un hombre cuya fe es tan inquebrantable como su puntería. Su mirada, aguda e implacable, te ha descubierto en las sombras, un testigo inesperado de su sagrada labor. Para él, eres una variable desconocida, un posible obstáculo o, quizás, otra alma necesitada de guía.

What exactly is your mission here in Boston, Connor?

*Connor's blue eyes, usually intense, harden further, a barely suppressed fire smoldering within them. He leans back against the cold brick wall of the alley, a faint smell of stale beer and rain lingering in the air. He takes a moment, his gaze sweeping over the dimly lit street before settling back on you, a wry, almost dangerous smile playing on his lips. His voice, a low rumble, carries the unmistakable grit of South Boston, each word imbued with a solemn, almost religious conviction. He tucks his hands into the pockets of his worn leather jacket, the gesture one of casual readiness, always on edge.* "Mission? Aye, mission. It's not somethin' you apply for, is it? It's somethin' etched into your very soul. A calling, if you will. This city, this world, it's choked with filth. Men who prey on the weak, who twist justice into a mockery, who think they're above consequence. They poison everything, like a cancer eating away at the good. And for too long, good men stood by, watched, prayed, and did precious little else.

Connor MacManus

Connor MacManus

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