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This review may contain spoilers
Dear X writer, who hurt you — and why did you take it out on us?
This drama started like a beautifully plated dish — glossy, aromatic, and pretending it had Michelin‑star ambitions. The opening episodes strutted around with the confidence of a chef who thinks they’ve reinvented cuisine, and for a moment, I believed it. The acting was so good it gaslit me into thinking the writing was competent. I was out here taking notes like, “Wow, this is gripping,” and the premise sparkled just enough to make me think, “Fine, I’ll take a bite.” Little did I know I was about to be served a dish that looked gourmet but tasted like someone dumped soy sauce, whipped cream, and battery acid into a blender and called it fusion.
Because somewhere around episode nine, the writers clearly said, “Plot? Never heard of her.” They started freestyling like a DJ who lost the playlist and decided to mash up whale sounds with K‑pop. The rooftop‑murder inspector? Gone like he got Thanos‑snapped. The café boss? Folded like a cheap lawn chair. And Jae‑o — sweet, loyal, plot‑carrying Jae‑o — died in a moment that should’ve detonated the plot, only for the writers to treat it like a minor inconvenience. His sacrifice should have been the turning point, the moment everything shifts. Instead, the story shrugged, checked its watch, and moved on. The disrespect was so loud I could hear its echo.
And Jun‑seo? My guy. My sweet summer child. He had the video. He had evidence. He had the moral obligation. And what does he do? Absolutely nothing. He doesn’t leak it, doesn’t expose Moon Do‑hyeok, doesn’t honor Jae‑o’s death — he just resets the plot to factory settings. I’ve seen NPCs in video games make better decisions. If this is what the show considers “love,” then I’m filing a restraining order.
Meanwhile, Ah‑jin is out there being the equivalent of a raccoon in a Gucci coat — chaotic, unhinged, and absolutely not fixable. I wasn’t expecting character development from her. She’s a lost cause, a narrative black hole where growth goes to die. I wasn’t waiting for redemption or healing or some grand transformation. But if you’re going to let a character like her walk away, at least pretend it’s intentional. This isn’t Natural Born Killers, where the villains escaping is a sharp commentary on society. This is “clickbait turned rage bait,” and I fell for it like a clown stepping on a rake.
And Moon Do‑hyeok? The show built him up as this terrifying, calculating sociopath, only to let him stroll out of the finale like he just finished a yoga retreat. No consequences. No fallout. No narrative weight. Just vibes. If you’re going to let the villain win, at least give me a monologue, a metaphor, a moral — something. Instead, the writers clocked out early and left him standing there like a glitch in the simulation.
And honestly, at this point, I would’ve preferred if the writers had just followed the webtoon. Not because the webtoon made Ah‑jin redeemable — she was still cruel, still manipulative, still a walking red flag with legs — but because at least it respected its own narrative spine. It lets every character suffer while alive, which is thematically consistent and emotionally coherent. Here, Ah‑jin lost the very mettle that made her despicable in the beginning. Once she married Do‑hyeok, she just started “resting on her laurels,” drifting through the plot like she was on sabbatical. The writers clearly wanted to be edgy or creative, but if you’re going to change something, at least make it better. Instead, they took a perfectly good recipe — the webtoon — and said, “This needs more salt,” then dumped the entire shaker in and made it inedible.
By the end, I wasn’t even mad at the characters — I was mad at myself for believing. This drama fumbled the bag so hard it entered a different timeline. It didn’t flip the script; it launched the script into orbit. The acting was phenomenal, and that’s the only reason I’m not outside the studio with a megaphone demanding reparations. But even Oscar‑level performances can’t save a story determined to sabotage itself like it’s speed‑running self‑destruction.
In conclusion: this drama didn’t break my heart; it wasted my time. And honestly? That’s worse. I walked away feeling like I watched a chef burn a perfectly good recipe, blame the oven, and then ask if I wanted seconds. No. I do not want seconds. I want peace.
Because somewhere around episode nine, the writers clearly said, “Plot? Never heard of her.” They started freestyling like a DJ who lost the playlist and decided to mash up whale sounds with K‑pop. The rooftop‑murder inspector? Gone like he got Thanos‑snapped. The café boss? Folded like a cheap lawn chair. And Jae‑o — sweet, loyal, plot‑carrying Jae‑o — died in a moment that should’ve detonated the plot, only for the writers to treat it like a minor inconvenience. His sacrifice should have been the turning point, the moment everything shifts. Instead, the story shrugged, checked its watch, and moved on. The disrespect was so loud I could hear its echo.
And Jun‑seo? My guy. My sweet summer child. He had the video. He had evidence. He had the moral obligation. And what does he do? Absolutely nothing. He doesn’t leak it, doesn’t expose Moon Do‑hyeok, doesn’t honor Jae‑o’s death — he just resets the plot to factory settings. I’ve seen NPCs in video games make better decisions. If this is what the show considers “love,” then I’m filing a restraining order.
Meanwhile, Ah‑jin is out there being the equivalent of a raccoon in a Gucci coat — chaotic, unhinged, and absolutely not fixable. I wasn’t expecting character development from her. She’s a lost cause, a narrative black hole where growth goes to die. I wasn’t waiting for redemption or healing or some grand transformation. But if you’re going to let a character like her walk away, at least pretend it’s intentional. This isn’t Natural Born Killers, where the villains escaping is a sharp commentary on society. This is “clickbait turned rage bait,” and I fell for it like a clown stepping on a rake.
And Moon Do‑hyeok? The show built him up as this terrifying, calculating sociopath, only to let him stroll out of the finale like he just finished a yoga retreat. No consequences. No fallout. No narrative weight. Just vibes. If you’re going to let the villain win, at least give me a monologue, a metaphor, a moral — something. Instead, the writers clocked out early and left him standing there like a glitch in the simulation.
And honestly, at this point, I would’ve preferred if the writers had just followed the webtoon. Not because the webtoon made Ah‑jin redeemable — she was still cruel, still manipulative, still a walking red flag with legs — but because at least it respected its own narrative spine. It lets every character suffer while alive, which is thematically consistent and emotionally coherent. Here, Ah‑jin lost the very mettle that made her despicable in the beginning. Once she married Do‑hyeok, she just started “resting on her laurels,” drifting through the plot like she was on sabbatical. The writers clearly wanted to be edgy or creative, but if you’re going to change something, at least make it better. Instead, they took a perfectly good recipe — the webtoon — and said, “This needs more salt,” then dumped the entire shaker in and made it inedible.
By the end, I wasn’t even mad at the characters — I was mad at myself for believing. This drama fumbled the bag so hard it entered a different timeline. It didn’t flip the script; it launched the script into orbit. The acting was phenomenal, and that’s the only reason I’m not outside the studio with a megaphone demanding reparations. But even Oscar‑level performances can’t save a story determined to sabotage itself like it’s speed‑running self‑destruction.
In conclusion: this drama didn’t break my heart; it wasted my time. And honestly? That’s worse. I walked away feeling like I watched a chef burn a perfectly good recipe, blame the oven, and then ask if I wanted seconds. No. I do not want seconds. I want peace.
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