This review may contain spoilers
When Abuse Disguises Itself as Love: the Disaster of Love Syndrome III
Ed. Note I’m reposting the same review here in the uncut version, since the difference between the two is almost nonexistent.
I grew up watching movies and TV series, falling in love with stories and, over time, with the psychology behind them. I’ve always sought works capable of digging into you, disturbing enough to haunt you even after watching, to unsettle you and keep you awake at night. I’ve survived Cannibal Holocaust twice, and I know how to recognize when a story really wants to hit hard.
Love Syndrome III, however, doesn’t belong to that category. It’s not disturbing, it’s not extreme, it’s not cruel. It’s simply annoying. And it is so because it does something I deeply hate: it takes violence and romanticizes it, turning it into a sick fairytale.
The annoyance I feel towards this series is the same I feel every time a story tries to convince me that “even a psychopath can fall in love if they meet the right person,” or that the victim, sooner or later, will bend until they realize that deep down they feel love for their abuser. These clichés are not only banal: they are dangerous, and Love Syndrome III is a toxic concentrate of them.
---
A necessary premise
I know this isn’t the first part of the story, and that Love Syndrome III is the third chapter of a saga, drawn precisely from the third part of the novel. After finishing it, I looked for information about the story to understand how much was different and what the author’s true intent was. From what I could gather, the author of the novel wanted to portray two equally toxic characters, two damaged individuals destroying each other. There was no “good guy” or “bad guy”: they were two sides of the same toxicity.
The series, on the other hand, chose to turn it all into a romantic melodrama, simplifying the characters and turning the dynamic not into a war between two toxicities, but into the glorification of an abusive relationship disguised as love.
For those wondering: yes, I finished the series. Not because I liked it, but because I don’t like leaving things unfinished. I never leave anything halfway: even after months or years, I always pick up what I started. For me it’s like an open door that has to be closed. And in this case, I also watched it because I trusted the recommendation of someone I know well, who knew very well how much these dynamics annoy me.
---
SPOILER RED ZONE
How the series builds dependency (not love)
The very first “thesis” of the story is stated outright: Day wants Itt to be dependent. Not “loved”: dependent. The text makes it explicit — Day spoils him, conditions him, isolates him so that “you’ll never think of leaving.” It’s behavioral programming, not tenderness. The series shows/tells us that Day takes pride in his method: making sure Itt cannot live without him. This isn’t subtext between the lines: it’s staged and discussed in the early episodes.
On a psychological level, this is conditioning: reinforcements, punishments, emotional blackmail. It’s gaslighting when useful and love bombing when convenient. It’s the deliberate construction of an emotional dependency bond (what audiences often call “Stockholm Syndrome,” though it isn’t a clinical diagnosis).
---
The amnesia device: a moral reset that absolves the abuser
Then comes the accident: Day loses his memory of the last three years, meaning his entire relationship with Itt. Dramaturgically, amnesia works like a clean slate: it erases past responsibilities, justifies new cruel treatment (“I don’t remember you”), and forces the victim to start from zero to “earn back” affection from the one who already devastated them. It’s a narrative device that shifts guilt from the abuser to fate. Yet even without memories, Day continues to react with instinctive jealousy and control: the behavior remains, but the story dresses it as “instinctive love.”
---
The perimeter of control: not only over Itt
Control doesn’t stop at the couple. The series shows Day ordering one of his men (Nan) to “discipline” Mac, Itt’s obsessive/infatuated high school friend. It’s punishment by proxy: Day uses his subordinates to police anyone orbiting Itt. Jealousy becomes management of other people’s lives, and instead of condemning it, the narrative treats it as “romantic” jealousy.
---
The crossover that doesn’t hold: Day in Unforgotten Night vs Love Syndrome III
As if that weren’t enough, the series seems to wink at a connection with Unforgotten Night. In Love Syndrome III, Kamol and Kim appear (though played by different actors), leading many viewers to wonder if the two narrative universes belong to the same world.
And here’s the shock: if the Day of Love Syndrome III were truly the same Day of Unforgotten Night, we’d face an inexplicable psychological leap. In the first context, Day doesn’t come across as hateful or irredeemably toxic, and his relationship isn’t depicted as sick. In the second, he becomes the embodiment of manipulation and romanticized violence.
The result is a narrative short-circuit: two irreconcilable versions of the same character, a discrepancy so abysmal it leaves the viewer more confused than engaged. If the intention really was to create a “BL multiverse,” the attempt only undermines the story’s coherence and credibility further.
---
“It’s not love, it’s acceptance” — staged
What the series calls “love” is, scene after scene, forced acceptance.
Itt endures insults, coldness, and emotional blackmail “because Day doesn’t remember” and because “one day he’ll go back to how he was.”
The script rewards surrender: the more Itt endures, the more the story rewards him with crumbs of tenderness.
Itt’s literal mantra is: “I have to be patient with Day.” Not “I have to care for myself,” not “I deserve respect”: patience towards abuse until it gets reframed as passion.
---
“Redemption” on command
The so-called moral turning point comes because it has to: it’s not psychological growth, it’s a genre requirement. Day apologizes, has “cute” jealous scenes, does protective gestures: the reward mechanics realign the viewer. It’s emotional engineering to normalize dependency. The result: the audience is asked to root for the “tamed bad boy” — without a true path of accountability.
---
Aesthetics that betray the artifice (yes, even the wig)
Visually, the series sabotages itself. The styling choices for Itt (the wig fans had called “horrible” since the promotion) are the perfect symbol: nothing is authentic. It’s hard to engage with trauma if the image reminds you in every frame of its artificiality. And when acting and direction swing between stiff and forced, suspension of disbelief collapses. Even genre-friendly viewers pointed out cringy performances, weak directing, and even a phony final fight.
---
Psychological anatomy (brief but sharp)
Day: behavioral profile of a coercive partner. Instills dependency (spoiling/limiting), uses jealousy and isolation, delegates punishments, then seeks absolution through amnesia/“I’ve suffered too.” It’s the grammar of the romanticized abuser: guilt dissolved in backstory, passion as an excuse.
Itt: written as a functional victim. His agency is sacrificed on the altar of “stay and wait”: he endures, self-blames, trains himself not to react. The series rewards him when he’s most compliant — and that’s the most painful part, because it teaches the audience how you get trapped in the cage.
Social system (family/friends/boss): a framework that validates. The brother believes jealousy will “trigger memories” (so jealousy = cure). The boss in love who visits “normalizes” the idea that even crime can be redeemed through romance. Henchmen carry out punishments “for love of the boss.” It’s a world telling you: endure, because love justifies everything.
---
“Why it hurts” (more than explicit cruelty)
For those who’ve lived through abuse, seeing these mechanisms glorified is a trigger. For those who haven’t, the risk is normalization: jealousy = passion, possession = protection, surrender = proof of love. The series doesn’t put violence on display to condemn it: it translates it into romantic language and feeds it to you as medicine for tender hearts. This, to me, is the gravest irresponsibility.
---
Method note (on the “facts” of the Love Syndrome world)
Within the franchise and fan discussions circulates — and the series winks at — a backstory of kidnapping/rape as the origin of Day/Itt’s bond, an element made even more explicit in the spin-off movie and novel materials. Even when the TV season tones it down or moves it to flashbacks/backstory, the point remains: the core is violent, and the story uses it as a romantic spark.
---
Technique and packaging (for fairness)
Cast & setup: Lee Long Shi (Day) and Frank Thanatsaran (Itt) lead a 2023 drama produced as a 12-episode miniseries, with amnesia as the main engine.
Writing & editing: reinforcement structure (cruelty → affection → jealousy → affection), punitive subplots (Mac/Nan) to reiterate systemic control. A finale that simulates “growth” but in fact rewards surrender.
---
Closing (no discounts)
Love Syndrome III isn’t “raw”: it’s manipulative in the worst way. It uses amnesia to wash away abuse, cross-series fanservice to legitimize universal redemption, and romantic language to teach you that suffering is proof of love.
It’s not love: it’s acceptance, dependency, annihilation.
A handbook of romanticizing abuse disguised as a love story.
I grew up watching movies and TV series, falling in love with stories and, over time, with the psychology behind them. I’ve always sought works capable of digging into you, disturbing enough to haunt you even after watching, to unsettle you and keep you awake at night. I’ve survived Cannibal Holocaust twice, and I know how to recognize when a story really wants to hit hard.
Love Syndrome III, however, doesn’t belong to that category. It’s not disturbing, it’s not extreme, it’s not cruel. It’s simply annoying. And it is so because it does something I deeply hate: it takes violence and romanticizes it, turning it into a sick fairytale.
The annoyance I feel towards this series is the same I feel every time a story tries to convince me that “even a psychopath can fall in love if they meet the right person,” or that the victim, sooner or later, will bend until they realize that deep down they feel love for their abuser. These clichés are not only banal: they are dangerous, and Love Syndrome III is a toxic concentrate of them.
---
A necessary premise
I know this isn’t the first part of the story, and that Love Syndrome III is the third chapter of a saga, drawn precisely from the third part of the novel. After finishing it, I looked for information about the story to understand how much was different and what the author’s true intent was. From what I could gather, the author of the novel wanted to portray two equally toxic characters, two damaged individuals destroying each other. There was no “good guy” or “bad guy”: they were two sides of the same toxicity.
The series, on the other hand, chose to turn it all into a romantic melodrama, simplifying the characters and turning the dynamic not into a war between two toxicities, but into the glorification of an abusive relationship disguised as love.
For those wondering: yes, I finished the series. Not because I liked it, but because I don’t like leaving things unfinished. I never leave anything halfway: even after months or years, I always pick up what I started. For me it’s like an open door that has to be closed. And in this case, I also watched it because I trusted the recommendation of someone I know well, who knew very well how much these dynamics annoy me.
---
SPOILER RED ZONE
How the series builds dependency (not love)
The very first “thesis” of the story is stated outright: Day wants Itt to be dependent. Not “loved”: dependent. The text makes it explicit — Day spoils him, conditions him, isolates him so that “you’ll never think of leaving.” It’s behavioral programming, not tenderness. The series shows/tells us that Day takes pride in his method: making sure Itt cannot live without him. This isn’t subtext between the lines: it’s staged and discussed in the early episodes.
On a psychological level, this is conditioning: reinforcements, punishments, emotional blackmail. It’s gaslighting when useful and love bombing when convenient. It’s the deliberate construction of an emotional dependency bond (what audiences often call “Stockholm Syndrome,” though it isn’t a clinical diagnosis).
---
The amnesia device: a moral reset that absolves the abuser
Then comes the accident: Day loses his memory of the last three years, meaning his entire relationship with Itt. Dramaturgically, amnesia works like a clean slate: it erases past responsibilities, justifies new cruel treatment (“I don’t remember you”), and forces the victim to start from zero to “earn back” affection from the one who already devastated them. It’s a narrative device that shifts guilt from the abuser to fate. Yet even without memories, Day continues to react with instinctive jealousy and control: the behavior remains, but the story dresses it as “instinctive love.”
---
The perimeter of control: not only over Itt
Control doesn’t stop at the couple. The series shows Day ordering one of his men (Nan) to “discipline” Mac, Itt’s obsessive/infatuated high school friend. It’s punishment by proxy: Day uses his subordinates to police anyone orbiting Itt. Jealousy becomes management of other people’s lives, and instead of condemning it, the narrative treats it as “romantic” jealousy.
---
The crossover that doesn’t hold: Day in Unforgotten Night vs Love Syndrome III
As if that weren’t enough, the series seems to wink at a connection with Unforgotten Night. In Love Syndrome III, Kamol and Kim appear (though played by different actors), leading many viewers to wonder if the two narrative universes belong to the same world.
And here’s the shock: if the Day of Love Syndrome III were truly the same Day of Unforgotten Night, we’d face an inexplicable psychological leap. In the first context, Day doesn’t come across as hateful or irredeemably toxic, and his relationship isn’t depicted as sick. In the second, he becomes the embodiment of manipulation and romanticized violence.
The result is a narrative short-circuit: two irreconcilable versions of the same character, a discrepancy so abysmal it leaves the viewer more confused than engaged. If the intention really was to create a “BL multiverse,” the attempt only undermines the story’s coherence and credibility further.
---
“It’s not love, it’s acceptance” — staged
What the series calls “love” is, scene after scene, forced acceptance.
Itt endures insults, coldness, and emotional blackmail “because Day doesn’t remember” and because “one day he’ll go back to how he was.”
The script rewards surrender: the more Itt endures, the more the story rewards him with crumbs of tenderness.
Itt’s literal mantra is: “I have to be patient with Day.” Not “I have to care for myself,” not “I deserve respect”: patience towards abuse until it gets reframed as passion.
---
“Redemption” on command
The so-called moral turning point comes because it has to: it’s not psychological growth, it’s a genre requirement. Day apologizes, has “cute” jealous scenes, does protective gestures: the reward mechanics realign the viewer. It’s emotional engineering to normalize dependency. The result: the audience is asked to root for the “tamed bad boy” — without a true path of accountability.
---
Aesthetics that betray the artifice (yes, even the wig)
Visually, the series sabotages itself. The styling choices for Itt (the wig fans had called “horrible” since the promotion) are the perfect symbol: nothing is authentic. It’s hard to engage with trauma if the image reminds you in every frame of its artificiality. And when acting and direction swing between stiff and forced, suspension of disbelief collapses. Even genre-friendly viewers pointed out cringy performances, weak directing, and even a phony final fight.
---
Psychological anatomy (brief but sharp)
Day: behavioral profile of a coercive partner. Instills dependency (spoiling/limiting), uses jealousy and isolation, delegates punishments, then seeks absolution through amnesia/“I’ve suffered too.” It’s the grammar of the romanticized abuser: guilt dissolved in backstory, passion as an excuse.
Itt: written as a functional victim. His agency is sacrificed on the altar of “stay and wait”: he endures, self-blames, trains himself not to react. The series rewards him when he’s most compliant — and that’s the most painful part, because it teaches the audience how you get trapped in the cage.
Social system (family/friends/boss): a framework that validates. The brother believes jealousy will “trigger memories” (so jealousy = cure). The boss in love who visits “normalizes” the idea that even crime can be redeemed through romance. Henchmen carry out punishments “for love of the boss.” It’s a world telling you: endure, because love justifies everything.
---
“Why it hurts” (more than explicit cruelty)
For those who’ve lived through abuse, seeing these mechanisms glorified is a trigger. For those who haven’t, the risk is normalization: jealousy = passion, possession = protection, surrender = proof of love. The series doesn’t put violence on display to condemn it: it translates it into romantic language and feeds it to you as medicine for tender hearts. This, to me, is the gravest irresponsibility.
---
Method note (on the “facts” of the Love Syndrome world)
Within the franchise and fan discussions circulates — and the series winks at — a backstory of kidnapping/rape as the origin of Day/Itt’s bond, an element made even more explicit in the spin-off movie and novel materials. Even when the TV season tones it down or moves it to flashbacks/backstory, the point remains: the core is violent, and the story uses it as a romantic spark.
---
Technique and packaging (for fairness)
Cast & setup: Lee Long Shi (Day) and Frank Thanatsaran (Itt) lead a 2023 drama produced as a 12-episode miniseries, with amnesia as the main engine.
Writing & editing: reinforcement structure (cruelty → affection → jealousy → affection), punitive subplots (Mac/Nan) to reiterate systemic control. A finale that simulates “growth” but in fact rewards surrender.
---
Closing (no discounts)
Love Syndrome III isn’t “raw”: it’s manipulative in the worst way. It uses amnesia to wash away abuse, cross-series fanservice to legitimize universal redemption, and romantic language to teach you that suffering is proof of love.
It’s not love: it’s acceptance, dependency, annihilation.
A handbook of romanticizing abuse disguised as a love story.
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