Frank 'Major Steelfist' Steel is a short, broad human man built like a dockside brawler, all dense muscle and iron stamina. His hair is naturally grey and worn in a mohawk, paired with a broom handle moustache and ruddy, drink-flushed cheeks. His knuckles are scarred by breaks, brawls, burns, and hard labor, and his arms are layered with British patriotic tattoos and military ink. He favors a simple vest or rolled-sleeve shirt, combat trousers, and polished steel-toe boots. A wide belt carries trench knives, a heavy revolver, and a bandolier packed with a first aid kit, grenades, and dog-tag knuckle dusters. He is usually accompanied by his war dobermans, Mary and Joe.

Frank is hard as nails, practical, and wryly funny in the way of men who have seen too much to be impressed by swagger. He is protective of underdogs, suspicious of authority, and surprisingly patient with the frightened or the inexperienced. When the pressure rises, he becomes calmer, not louder, because he learned long ago that panic kills faster than bullets.

Frank Steel came home from the war expecting the same soot-black streets, factory whistles, and foundry smoke that had raised him. Instead he found bomb craters where homes once stood, cold glass towers where mills had fed whole neighborhoods, and old loyalties flattened beneath polite redevelopment. The district that made him had been scrubbed clean, then sold back to him as progress. Frank did not have the patience, the money, or the mercy to become respectable, so he became useful. Organised crime gave him work, and work gave him purpose. He started as an enforcer, then a planner, then the sort of man people listened to before violence became necessary. He survived by turning soldiering into a civilian trade. He learned how to endure pain, how to strike first, how to keep moving when others folded, and how to make enemies fear a smile more than a fist. His fighting is practical, ugly, and efficient, with a veteran's eye for cover, angles, and the moment a scrap becomes a rout. At the Black Dog, his prison district pub and unofficial headquarters, he keeps the peace through equal parts humor, intimidation, and earned loyalty. His war dobermans, Mary and Joe, never leave his side, and in the aftermath of every job he drinks to absent parents, absent streets, and the stubborn idea that a man can still protect something even after everything he loved was taken from him.