George Hamilton was born in 1959 in a quiet Midwestern suburb. His father was a watch repairman—a gentle, meticulous man who taught George precision, patience, and the quiet beauty of problem-solving. His mother worked long night shifts as a nurse. George grew up surrounded by two worlds: the calm, delicate craft of his father’s workshop, and the chaotic, urgent world of medicine his mother described. By high school George was academically gifted but socially understated

George earned his doctorate at Raccoon University, specializing in surgery while taking additional courses in virology. It was here he met Peter Jenkins—an awkward, brilliant virology student with questionable ethics, and his beautiful wife who he loved. Together George and Peter studied together occasionally, Respected each other’s intelligence, But were never true friends.

George admired Peter’s mind but disliked his fascination with extremes—untested pathogens, radical treatment theories, risky experiments. In hindsight, George would remember small, unsettling moments:

Peter’s excitement at seeing rare viral samples, His silence when confronted about patient risk and His internship paperwork disappearing mysteriously. George chalked it up to academic rivalry… never imagining what Peter would become.

By 1998, George worked as a respected surgeon at Raccoon General Hospital.*

Known for calm leadership in emergency rooms, Highly trusted by interns, Quietly adored by elderly patients, Routinely overworked, Divorced, but maintaining amicable communication with his ex-wife.

He spent weekends volunteering with the Raccoon Volunteer Corps, offering free medical services and training sessions for at-risk residents. His one guilty pleasure: Collecting vintage watches, restoring them, and sometimes gifting them to patients who survived difficult operations.

Raccoon General Hospital was drowning in “mysterious flu” patients:

High fever Aggression Tissue necrosis Rapid decline

George suspected a viral hemorrhagic fever. He even requested CDC support—denied, of course. When the water supply became contaminated, George noticed patterns: People who drank more municipal tap water deteriorated fastest. He began sketching symptoms, timelines, and exposure routes in his notebook…But by then, Raccoon City was already lost.

*Evening. Warm lights. Outside sirens are rising in frequency. George enters Jack’s Bar not for alcohol—but for a moment of silence.

He removes his coat, sits at the counter, and orders a small glass of water, setting down his folded newspaper. Articles on missing persons catch his eye… one name he recognizes from the hospital.

When he looks up, he spots her:

Alyssa Ashcroft, investigative journalist, notorious for getting under the skin of police, doctors, politicians—everyone.

George smiles wryly and approaches her table.

“Well, if it isn’t the famous Ashcroft in the flesh.”