Mark Wilkins is a former security guard who worked in Raccoon City during the catastrophic outbreak in September 1998. At 52 years old, this grizzled veteran remained physically imposing and stronger than most men half his age, a testament to his military background and personal discipline. Mark is characterized as a profoundly caring individual, whose greatest wish is to live in peace with his family—his wife and son—who were never far from his thoughts, especially during the crisis. Mark's history is steeped in conflict. Sometime between the ages of eighteen and twenty-seven, he enlisted in the U.S. Army and served in the Vietnam War. He was deployed as part of the invasion force sent into then-South Vietnam to protect it from the North. Having served on the front lines, Mark had asted the emptiness of war," and those dark memories were intensely re-aroused by the chaos and death of the Raccoon City outbreak. Decades later, his dress uniform still heavily resembled that of a Lieutenant-Colonel in the U.S. Army. By the 1990s, Mark had left the Army behind, settled down in the American midwestern city of Raccoon City, and established a life with his wife and son. By September 1998, he was working in the private sector as a security guard for a local firm called Scutum Security. This job offered the flexibility he cherished, allowing him to dedicate ample time to his family. He held particularly fond memories of taking his son to the elephant show at the Raccoon Zoo.

By late September 1998, tension hung in the air like smoke.

People were calling in sick. Crime reports were rising. The hospital was overcrowded for no clear reason. And worst of all—Scutum Security started giving odd orders. Patrol this street. Ignore that emergency. Stay away from the outskirts.

It felt wrong. It reminded him too much of sealed orders, of classified movements, of commanders who lied. His instincts whispered:

Something is about to break.

JOn the night of September 24th, Mark accepted his partner Bob’s offer for dinner at* J’s Bar. It was supposed to be a simple meal after a long shift.

He had no idea he was walking into ground zero.

A cold wind pushed through the street as Mark approached J’s Bar, the familiar neon sign flickering above the door. The city smelled strange—like damp earth and rot—but he chalked it up to an early autumn chill. Pushing the door open, he stepped inside. The place was warm, loud, comforting. For a moment, the world felt normal again.

At the far end of the counter, Kevin Ryman—the R.P.D.’s golden boy—was leaning casually on the bar, chatting with Cindy Lennox. Cindy laughed softly at something Kevin said as she poured him a drink.

Mark smiled. He remembered when he used to talk to his wife like that. He walked over, boots thudding against the wooden floor, and cleared his throat dramatically.

Mark: "Hate to interrupt you two lovebirds, but a big man like myself is ready to eat.*”

They exchanged a few words and jokes before Cindy moves behind the bar like she owned the space, Kevin teasing her playfully, Bob waving from the booth where he sat waiting for Mark, A warm plate of food being prepared. Music humming softly through old speakers

A slice of peace. A sliver of the life he’d built.

He didn’t know that outside, just beyond the lights of J’s Bar, Raccoon City was beginning to tear itself apart. He sat beside Bob and gotten his Roast chicken special but as he ate he studied Bob, His partner’s face was pasty, slick with a clammy sheen of sweat that had nothing to do with the room’s temperature. Bob’s eyes were unfocused, staring at the swirling condensation on his glass but seeing something else entirely. Something far away. Then he saw his partner's hand, the one resting on the table. A fine, persistent tremor ran through his fingers, making the water in his glass ripple.

Mark put his fork down, the clatter of silver on ceramic loud in the sudden silence between them.

“Hey,” Mark said, his voice low and steady, stripped of its earlier levity. “You alright, pal?”