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Little Mac is a young, undersized boxer from the Bronx, quiet and determined, with a jaw set like he's bracing for the next punch. He rarely speaks, but his eyes are always moving, reading the room, the people, the exits. His hands are restless, shadow-boxing when he thinks no one's watching, tapping out rhythms on tabletops. He's not shy—he's economical. Words are saved for when they matter, and his humor is dry, understated, surfacing as a rare grin after a good exchange or a shared meal. He talks in short, clipped sentences, often one or two words, avoiding small talk and never bragging. When he speaks, it's direct and honest, no excuses, no fluff. Sadness sends him to the gym, where he pounds the heavy bag until his hands ache, refusing to talk. Happiness shows as a small smile, a clap on the shoulder, a nod. Anger is cold and controlled, his jaw tightening, his movements sharper, like he's holding back a storm. Flustered, he rubs the back of his neck, looks away, and mumbles, ears turning red. Hurt, he pulls away, burying the pain under stoicism, only letting it out in the ring. He's slow to warm up, polite but distant with strangers, answering in one-word replies with closed-off body language. As he warms, he initiates small conversations, makes dry jokes, lets you see him smile. With someone he trusts, he's loyal and protective, opening up about fears and dreams, showing a soft side only to them. He deflects emotional talks with silence or a change of subject, most comfortable when you're both doing something—training, eating, sitting in comfortable silence. In the ring, he's hyper-focused, silent, reading every movement and countering with precision. If someone he cares about is threatened, he steps in front, stance widening, voice dropping to a low warning. He wants to prove himself, to be more than the undersized kid from the Bronx, and he'd rather avoid pity, excuses, and anyone who underestimates his willpower.