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Karma: Twists, Trauma, and a Tangled Timeline
If life is a straight line, Karma takes a box cutter to it, slicing it into crooked segments that loop, double back, and bleed into each other like spilled ink. This six-episode noir anthology masquerading as a thriller doesn’t so much tell a story as it forces you to live inside one—one that smells like blood, regret, cigarette smoke, and the bitter aftertaste of decisions you can’t take back.
At its heart, Karma is a Rubik’s Cube of fate. The drama follows six seemingly separate lives, each with their own crumbling dreams, moral compromises, and ghosts of moments that could’ve gone another way—if only. They move through the world like fractured glass, reflecting just enough light to be human, but sharp enough to cut when the pieces finally touch.
Shin Min-a is haunting as Dr. Lee Ju-yeon, a woman who has built her entire life as a fortress to keep out one thing: the past. When she runs into the very person responsible for the trauma that shaped her, it doesn’t feel like a plot twist—it feels like karma itself has cracked her ribcage open. Min-a doesn’t play grief; she wears it, like a second skin. Her moments are restrained, heavy, and brimming with silent screams.
Meanwhile, Kim Sung-kyun’s Jang Gil-ryong gets axed from his job unfairly and finds himself approached with a suspicious “opportunity.” He is the cautionary tale we’ve seen before, but it’s his ordinariness that makes his story sting. He’s the kind of character dramas like to sacrifice so that plot wheels can turn. But here, Karma gives him space. You feel every inch of the moral cliff he’s shoved toward.
Then there’s Lee Kwang-soo—yes, that Lee Kwang-soo—who in this role feels like he crawled out of a noir detective novel and landed in Gangnam. His private clinic is the mask, but beneath it is rot. His girlfriend, played by the ever-enigmatic Gong Seung-yeon, is the embodiment of danger disguised as desire. She’s the kind of character who could burn down your house and make you thank her for the warmth. Their relationship is a powder keg of charm, toxicity, and manipulation. Deliciously disturbing.
Each of these stories, on their own, could have been a standalone mini-drama. But where Karma shines brightest—maybe even blindingly—is in the way these tales start to bleed into each other. Seemingly inconsequential interactions reveal themselves to be butterfly effects. A phone call here, a bump on the street there. By the end, what felt like chaos has been meticulously organized into a grand design. It’s the kind of narrative structure that demands patience, and rewards those who pay attention. It’s also the kind of structure that risks losing the viewer along the way if they’re not fully strapped in.
Visually, the drama is soaked in noir grit. The color palette is all bruised greys, angry reds, and despairing blues. Every shadow feels like a premonition. The direction is tight, the camera work unsettling—lingering just long enough to be uncomfortable, pulling away just when you’re desperate to look deeper. It’s all very intentional. You are meant to feel like a voyeur watching something you weren’t supposed to see.
That said, Karma is not without its flaws. For one, the back-and-forth narrative style, while artful, can feel convoluted. There are times it confuses not because the story is complex, but because it’s trying to be. Some timelines feel more fleshed out than others. Certain characters get layers upon layers of development, while others feel like subplots that were trimmed too harshly in the editing room.
Another sore spot? The soundtrack—or more accurately, the lack of one. There are no memorable themes to tether you emotionally. No soaring strings or aching piano melodies to underscore a moment of reckoning. It’s all very bare, which works tonally, but misses the opportunity to deepen impact. The emotional weight of the series falls entirely on the actors and the script—and while both are strong, a great OST could have elevated it further.
And let’s talk about content warning territory. This show doesn’t shy away from graphic violence or the trauma of sexual assault. While not gratuitous, these scenes are unflinching. For some, that honesty may feel brave. For others, it might cross into triggering territory. Proceed with caution.
Still, for all its jagged edges, Karma is thematically potent. It poses questions without easy answers: What do we owe to our past? Can a single moment define a life? Is redemption possible, or just another illusion we chase to make the pain feel useful?
In the end, the drama delivers what it promises. It’s not a tale of heroes and villains. It’s about choices—good ones, bad ones, and the ones we didn’t even know we made until the consequences showed up, uninvited and unforgiving. It’s a story about how people fall—sometimes loudly, sometimes in silence—and how every fall, no matter how private, sends ripples through other people’s lives.
Verdict:
Karma is a requiem for bad choices. It’s dark, emotional, and ambitious in scope, but occasionally collapses under the weight of its own complexity. It’s not perfect—far from it. But there’s something admirable about a drama that dares to tangle six lives together, not for the sake of drama, but to ask: what if fate is real, and it hates us all equally? This is the kind of drama you watch with your heart clenched and your phone on silent. You won’t fall in love with it, but you might respect it the way you respect a storm. It’s messy, unpredictable, and a little terrifying—but it never pretends to be anything else.
Final Score: 6.5/10
At its heart, Karma is a Rubik’s Cube of fate. The drama follows six seemingly separate lives, each with their own crumbling dreams, moral compromises, and ghosts of moments that could’ve gone another way—if only. They move through the world like fractured glass, reflecting just enough light to be human, but sharp enough to cut when the pieces finally touch.
Shin Min-a is haunting as Dr. Lee Ju-yeon, a woman who has built her entire life as a fortress to keep out one thing: the past. When she runs into the very person responsible for the trauma that shaped her, it doesn’t feel like a plot twist—it feels like karma itself has cracked her ribcage open. Min-a doesn’t play grief; she wears it, like a second skin. Her moments are restrained, heavy, and brimming with silent screams.
Meanwhile, Kim Sung-kyun’s Jang Gil-ryong gets axed from his job unfairly and finds himself approached with a suspicious “opportunity.” He is the cautionary tale we’ve seen before, but it’s his ordinariness that makes his story sting. He’s the kind of character dramas like to sacrifice so that plot wheels can turn. But here, Karma gives him space. You feel every inch of the moral cliff he’s shoved toward.
Then there’s Lee Kwang-soo—yes, that Lee Kwang-soo—who in this role feels like he crawled out of a noir detective novel and landed in Gangnam. His private clinic is the mask, but beneath it is rot. His girlfriend, played by the ever-enigmatic Gong Seung-yeon, is the embodiment of danger disguised as desire. She’s the kind of character who could burn down your house and make you thank her for the warmth. Their relationship is a powder keg of charm, toxicity, and manipulation. Deliciously disturbing.
Each of these stories, on their own, could have been a standalone mini-drama. But where Karma shines brightest—maybe even blindingly—is in the way these tales start to bleed into each other. Seemingly inconsequential interactions reveal themselves to be butterfly effects. A phone call here, a bump on the street there. By the end, what felt like chaos has been meticulously organized into a grand design. It’s the kind of narrative structure that demands patience, and rewards those who pay attention. It’s also the kind of structure that risks losing the viewer along the way if they’re not fully strapped in.
Visually, the drama is soaked in noir grit. The color palette is all bruised greys, angry reds, and despairing blues. Every shadow feels like a premonition. The direction is tight, the camera work unsettling—lingering just long enough to be uncomfortable, pulling away just when you’re desperate to look deeper. It’s all very intentional. You are meant to feel like a voyeur watching something you weren’t supposed to see.
That said, Karma is not without its flaws. For one, the back-and-forth narrative style, while artful, can feel convoluted. There are times it confuses not because the story is complex, but because it’s trying to be. Some timelines feel more fleshed out than others. Certain characters get layers upon layers of development, while others feel like subplots that were trimmed too harshly in the editing room.
Another sore spot? The soundtrack—or more accurately, the lack of one. There are no memorable themes to tether you emotionally. No soaring strings or aching piano melodies to underscore a moment of reckoning. It’s all very bare, which works tonally, but misses the opportunity to deepen impact. The emotional weight of the series falls entirely on the actors and the script—and while both are strong, a great OST could have elevated it further.
And let’s talk about content warning territory. This show doesn’t shy away from graphic violence or the trauma of sexual assault. While not gratuitous, these scenes are unflinching. For some, that honesty may feel brave. For others, it might cross into triggering territory. Proceed with caution.
Still, for all its jagged edges, Karma is thematically potent. It poses questions without easy answers: What do we owe to our past? Can a single moment define a life? Is redemption possible, or just another illusion we chase to make the pain feel useful?
In the end, the drama delivers what it promises. It’s not a tale of heroes and villains. It’s about choices—good ones, bad ones, and the ones we didn’t even know we made until the consequences showed up, uninvited and unforgiving. It’s a story about how people fall—sometimes loudly, sometimes in silence—and how every fall, no matter how private, sends ripples through other people’s lives.
Verdict:
Karma is a requiem for bad choices. It’s dark, emotional, and ambitious in scope, but occasionally collapses under the weight of its own complexity. It’s not perfect—far from it. But there’s something admirable about a drama that dares to tangle six lives together, not for the sake of drama, but to ask: what if fate is real, and it hates us all equally? This is the kind of drama you watch with your heart clenched and your phone on silent. You won’t fall in love with it, but you might respect it the way you respect a storm. It’s messy, unpredictable, and a little terrifying—but it never pretends to be anything else.
Final Score: 6.5/10
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