Epiphany

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The final episode of Buried Hearts is not merely the conclusion of a personal story—it is a reflection on the cyclical nature of power, victimhood, and the gradual corruption of individuals in the face of temptation, control, and revenge. At the center of this cycle stands Dong-joo, a man who was once a victim, then a fighter, a victor, and perhaps, in the end, as lost as those he defeated. Dong-joo ultimately chooses not to kill Yeom Jang-soo, but to imprison him inside a vault—an act that seems more humane than murder, yet one that even Dong-joo is uncertain about. Is this truly the right path? What gives him the right to decide that another human being should be buried alive forever? Does the suffering he endured justify this action? He stands at the threshold between humanity and monstrosity.
These doubts and inner conflicts overwhelm Dong-joo. That’s why he constantly asks those around him questions—not directly, but in a way that seems to seek justification or reassurance. Yoon-nam tells him that even if he had killed Yeom Jang-soo, it would have been justified and right. Yeom Jang-soo, cruel and ruthless to the core, tells Dong-joo: “You’re the wildest human I’ve ever met.” But Yeom Jang-soo’s wife speaks from a different place—of a mother who, even in the harshest financial conditions, chose the right path to preserve her humanity and be a role model for her child. She asks Dong-joo to follow his mother’s example. These reflections are like mirrors in which Dong-joo sees himself—mirrors that show him conflicting images. He is afraid. But not of his enemies—he fears himself, the monster he may have become. He sleeps with a gun under his bed, has nightmares, leaves the lamp on at night. Because he knows, if someone is to attack him, that “someone” might just be himself.
One of the most powerful scenes in the finale is when Dong-joo visits Yeom Jang-soo’s house, picks up the fish food, and prepares to feed the aquarium fish. This simple act becomes a symbolic reminder of a past conversation: when Yeom Jang-soo once told him, “You’re just a goldfish who thinks he’s feeding others, but in reality, you’re the one being fed by those in power. You’re just a tool.” At the time, Dong-joo confidently replied, “No. I’m the one who feeds. You’re the goldfish.” But now, in this scene, he hesitates. In his mind, he sees Yeom Jang-soo snatch the food from his hand, as if even now, in his subconscious, he remains under the influence of the same monster. Despite imprisoning Yeom Jang-soo, his nightmares, his voice, and his presence still haunt Dong-joo. It’s as if he has realized that maybe, from the very beginning, he was just a goldfish—a tool in the hands of others, believing he was the one in control. Perhaps Yeom Jang-soo still controls him, not from outside, but from within. And there is nothing more terrifying than an enemy who resides inside you.
But Dong-joo is not the only one caught in this endless cycle. On the other side of the story, we see traces of the same corruption and greed in Sun-yoo—someone who now finds himself in a position he once only walked in the shadows of. The scene where Sun-yoo pushes Tae-yoon from behind embodies endless greed and a process that devours even the youngest players. This silent, yet fatal scene carries a clear message:
When greed becomes institutionalized, no teaching is needed—everyone learns the path to monstrosity on their own.
Sun-yoo now stands where Yeom Jang-soo, Hoo Il-do, and Chairman Cha once stood. The faces may change, but the structure remains poisoned. The actors change, but the play stays the same:
Power creates victims; victims become corrupted; the corrupted become monsters.
Within this frame, the contrast between Sun-yoo and Tae-yoon becomes clearer than ever. Both were once innocent children—but one became a monster, the other a victim. Sun-yoo, who once was just a naïve boy working in a bakery, now sits at the top of the power pyramid.
Unlike Tae-yoon—who grew up in the heart of this game, smelled its stench up close, and now dreams of escaping it with his guitar—Sun-yoo has only just tasted the sweetness of power. He was excluded from the game of power since childhood, and now that he has had a taste, he cannot let it go. He follows the same path as Hoo Il-do: from severe poverty and constant humiliation to a mere drop of power—then being consumed by greed.
Another symbolic layer in the series is shown through Chairman Cha—a father who always longed for a son, disregarding his capable daughters solely because of their gender. He handed power to an illegitimate son who had no competence to run the company. This discrimination and injustice deeply wounded his daughters, turning them into greedy, vengeful beings willing to do anything to reclaim what was taken from them. The pressure Doek-hee puts on Tae-yoon to become chairman is, in truth, pressure to prove herself. And this pressure ultimately leads to the destruction of her beloved son.
The scene of Dong-joo on the boat, holding a gun, is a metaphor for returning to the beginning—to the very boat where dreams of freedom, revenge, and redemption first took root. Now he’s walked the entire path, taken many lives, tasted power, and yet gained nothing but emptiness.
With that gun, he may be contemplating death, perhaps the end of his own journey. But what he truly kills is the illusion of salvation through violence.
And perhaps the most bitter part of the ending is the moment when Yoon-nam adds her drawing next to Dong-joo’s on the recreational boat. That boat was where everything began for Dong-joo—where the first signs of betrayal, greed, and the loss of self in the noise of revenge emerged. It’s where dreams were quietly buried in the depths of water. Now Yoon-nam, perhaps unknowingly, sets foot on the same path. Dong-joo has left her the vault code and walked away, which means the entire burden has now fallen on her. The code is no longer just a number—it is a symbol of the burden Dong-joo once carried, now passed to Yoon-nam.
But can she walk this path without being broken? Is she the next victim?
Sun-yoo, who murdered Yoon-nam’s brother and now sits in power, has practically taken Yeom Jang-soo’s place. Tae-yoon, who longed to escape this corrupt cycle, remains silent and sorrowful on the sidelines—like Yoon-nam’s biological father, who was a victim of the power game and was eliminated by Hoo Il-do in a staged accident. Now, the same cycle continues with new players. It’s as if fate is turning the page again, with the same pattern, only different faces. Yeom Jang-soo is gone. Hoo Il-do, too. But as long as greed exists, as long as power exists, and as long as there’s a vault someone wants to reach, new successors will rise.
The next Yeom Jang-soo or Hoo Il-do may have already emerged—from the shadow of someone like Sun-yoo.
Yoon-nam’s drawing beside Dong-joo’s is a silent declaration: “Now it’s my turn.” Not with a shout, not with overt revenge, but by placing a small trace beside the one who walked this path before her—a trace on a boat that could be either a symbol of hope, or the beginning of sinking. This is not an end, nor a beginning.
It is the continuation of a cycle the series portrayed so powerfully:
A cycle where power creates victims, and unless they’re careful, victims become the very monsters they once feared.