This review may contain spoilers
Truth Isn’t a Puzzle — It’s a Burden
Law School didn’t go easy on me. I thought I was stepping into a clean, intellectual mystery — a few sharp twists, maybe a courtroom climax, and lots of fast-talking brilliance. But it gave me something messier, heavier, and honestly, more valuable. It made me think. And it made me feel the weight of thinking.
Kim Myung-min’s Professor Yang is a character I wasn’t sure I was supposed to root for at first. Cold, clinical, almost hostile in his precision. But that steel-trap mind, the way he dissected logic like he was doing surgery without anesthesia — it started to feel like a weird kind of refuge. Not because he was kind. But because he never lied. Even when it would’ve been easier to. Especially then.
And the students. I didn’t realize how attached I’d become until I found myself holding my breath during scenes that weren’t even high-stakes on paper. It was the emotional tension — how each of them carried their own version of disappointment, anger, or shame, and still kept trying. Not to be heroes, but just to be better. Kang Sol A, Han Joon-hwi, and the rest — their arcs weren’t smooth, but that was the point. Watching them get it wrong, question themselves, take detours… that was the human part. That’s what stayed.
There were bumps — some legal twists felt engineered more for shock than sense, and the pacing leaned into procedural territory that sometimes slowed the emotional rhythm. But I was still in it. Completely. Because it never treated the law like a stage prop. It treated it like a question: what do you do when justice and the system aren’t the same thing? And even more painfully: what do you do when truth comes at the cost of people you love?
What comforted me — strangely — was how the show refused to wrap that question up neatly. It let the discomfort linger. It let justice be hard, ugly, thankless. And it let people keep fighting for it anyway.
Law School didn’t just argue its case. It sat with the silence after the verdict. And that’s what made it unforgettable.
Kim Myung-min’s Professor Yang is a character I wasn’t sure I was supposed to root for at first. Cold, clinical, almost hostile in his precision. But that steel-trap mind, the way he dissected logic like he was doing surgery without anesthesia — it started to feel like a weird kind of refuge. Not because he was kind. But because he never lied. Even when it would’ve been easier to. Especially then.
And the students. I didn’t realize how attached I’d become until I found myself holding my breath during scenes that weren’t even high-stakes on paper. It was the emotional tension — how each of them carried their own version of disappointment, anger, or shame, and still kept trying. Not to be heroes, but just to be better. Kang Sol A, Han Joon-hwi, and the rest — their arcs weren’t smooth, but that was the point. Watching them get it wrong, question themselves, take detours… that was the human part. That’s what stayed.
There were bumps — some legal twists felt engineered more for shock than sense, and the pacing leaned into procedural territory that sometimes slowed the emotional rhythm. But I was still in it. Completely. Because it never treated the law like a stage prop. It treated it like a question: what do you do when justice and the system aren’t the same thing? And even more painfully: what do you do when truth comes at the cost of people you love?
What comforted me — strangely — was how the show refused to wrap that question up neatly. It let the discomfort linger. It let justice be hard, ugly, thankless. And it let people keep fighting for it anyway.
Law School didn’t just argue its case. It sat with the silence after the verdict. And that’s what made it unforgettable.
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