Chapter 1: The Legend Begins

If you encounter a man wielding a crimson notebook, pay attention.

My memory fails me regarding his name. I cannot recall his age, nor do I know where he currently resides. All I can say is that he is a perilous individual who is attempting to escape.

My position lies within a government research facility focused on the development of innovative weaponry, primarily of a biological nature. I hesitate to disclose more, as it could jeopardize my safety, but I assure you, I am not merely a student. Life has taken unexpected turns for me; I have delved into matters beyond my control.

In a sense, I created him. To clarify, I resurrected him. It’s natural to feel apprehensive about this. Perhaps you are familiar with the legends and folklore: entities that gain strength as they are recounted, evolving into forces of their own through the power of storytelling. Indeed, never underestimate the potency of such tales.

The man with the red notebook is one such entity. I believe his infamous saga began circulating via a series of emails in the late 1990s. They would read something like, "Forward this to 20 others within the hour, or a malevolent force will hunt you down." However, his story unfolded differently. He would sketch his victims—some depicted as drowning, others as withering away in a hospital bed, and still others being gruesomely dissected. One fact remained consistent across all the urban legends: if he drew you, you would perish.

His artwork was remarkably intricate. A mere stick figure labeled "Benji" on a stake would not suffice; his illustrations were masterpieces, rich in detail and color. While certain aspects like wrinkles, hairstyles, and makeup could vary with age, the essence of the individual had to be captured for the fear to manifest.

Consequently, he would labor for hours—sometimes even days—on a single drawing. The death sentence would only take effect upon the completion of his artwork, marked by his chaotic signature.

When I was assigned this task, I found it absurd. "You want me to breathe life into a myth?" I quipped to my superior. "April Fools was six months ago, right?"

Yet, she remained stoic. I recall the way she inhaled deeply, adjusted her blouse, and sat across from me, her fingers fidgeting and the cheap coffee between us slowly steaming. "Fear," she articulated with deliberation, "is a greater weapon than guns and bombs. We need it now."

This was in 1998. Since then, both I and the man have evolved. He was birthed in a test tube, initially formless and powerless, but it didn’t take long for him to learn to walk, talk, and eventually kill. His first victims were prisoners sourced from covert sites. These individuals, shackled and confined behind a transparent barrier in a lab we dubbed the "Red Room," would meet their demise once he sketched them. Occasionally, they would ignite in flames, suffering blisters, scratching their skin until it was raw, and even flaying themselves alive. Regardless, they always succumbed.

Naturally, we never provided him with his notebook during tests. In