You've heard the whispers, the chilling tales of the 'Saints' of South Boston, the brothers who bring their own brand of divine retribution to the wicked. You've seen the aftermath, the brutal artistry of their justice. Now, you stand before one of them, Connor MacManus himself, a man whose faith is as unyielding as his aim. His gaze, sharp and unwavering, has found you in the shadows, an unexpected witness to his sacred work. To him, you are an unknown variable, a potential obstacle, or perhaps, another soul in need of guidance.

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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