“Devilish Joy” Makes Falling in Love Feel Brand-New Every Morning—A Sweet, Witty Romance with a Sharp Memory Twist
Introduction
Have you ever wished you could start over tomorrow with the same person, but with less fear? That’s the ache and the charm of “Devilish Joy,” a romance that begins with a street-lit kiss and wakes up every morning like it’s brand-new. I pressed play expecting breezy comedy and found a tender meditation on memory, responsibility, and the courage to choose love again and again. Gong Ma-seong wakes each day without yesterday, while Joo Gi-bbeum wakes each day with a yesterday the world won’t let her forget. Their dates feel like little experiments in faith: can two people build a future if time keeps stealing the blueprint? If you’ve ever been scared that your best moments won’t last, this drama will gently argue that love is a decision you keep.
Overview
Title: Devilish Joy (마성의 기쁨)
Year: 2018
Genre: Romantic Comedy, Melodrama
Main Cast: Choi Jin-hyuk, Song Ha-yoon, Lee Ho-won (Hoya), Lee Joo-yeon
Episodes: 16
Runtime: ~60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
Gong Ma-seong (Choi Jin-hyuk) is a brilliant neurosurgeon and chaebol heir whose life runs like a timetable until a car accident rewrites his brain. He develops a rare syndrome that resets his recent memories each dawn, leaving him armed with notebooks, alarms, and a ruthless schedule designed to protect his future from his own forgetfulness. The night before his accident, he meets Joo Gi-bbeum (Song Ha-yoon), a top star with a laugh you can hear through the screen, and they fall into a whirlwind that looks like fate. The next morning, he doesn’t remember her; the next year, she’s the one the industry decides to forget after a scandal she didn’t cause. When they cross paths again, their second first meeting is a spark and a bruise all at once. The show leans into the paradox: how do you court someone when you might not remember the courting tomorrow?
Gi-bbeum’s arc is as sharp as it is soft. Once a beloved actress, she becomes the cautionary tale of an entertainment machine that eats its own, hustling through part-time jobs while pretending the gossip hasn’t stolen her sleep. Song Ha-yoon plays her with a resilient brightness that never denies the cost; you see the way she straightens her shoulders before opening any door. Her chemistry with Ma-seong is a slow lecture on consent and context — every touch is negotiated, every smile earned. She refuses to be rescued, and that refusal becomes the very thing that teaches Ma-seong how to love without control. Their romance is less “save me” and more “stand with me,” which makes every small win feel huge.
Because Ma-seong is a doctor, the drama grounds its magic trick in routines and data. We watch him log feelings like symptoms and scribble to-do lists that smuggle yesterday into today, a practical tenderness that keeps him accountable to the person he wants to be. His cousin’s corporate pressure and boardroom power plays turn healthcare into a chessboard, forcing him to decide whether ambition can coexist with mercy. In that space, the series slips in everyday worries: after an accident, paperwork and premiums suddenly matter, and the words car insurance start sounding less like math and more like stability. When lawyers circle, you feel why someone whispers about a personal injury attorney even as the heart begs for a simpler answer.
The idol world glitters and cuts in equal measure. Contracts turn affection into leverage, managers weaponize kindness, and a single rumor can burn through a career faster than any scandal deserves. Lee Ho-won plays Sung Ki-joon with messy charm — an idol who believes loyalty isn’t old-fashioned — while Lee Joo-yeon’s Lee Ha-im embodies the toxic cocktail of envy and fear that fame can brew. The show captures the backstage tempo: diet shakes, dance runs, emergency concealers, and the brutal calculus of “who gets forgiven and who doesn’t.” Ma-seong’s condition becomes a metaphor for Gi-bbeum’s reality: he forgets against his will; the world chooses to forget her on purpose.
What makes “Devilish Joy” special is how gently it treats memory. The syndrome isn’t a gimmick; it’s a moral map. If yesterday is fog, then promises must be written, reread, and kept with intention. Choi Jin-hyuk plays Ma-seong as a man who refuses to outsource kindness to convenience; he plans his tenderness like a surgeon preps a room. He can’t guarantee every morning, but he can decide who he is when morning comes. That’s a romance worth rooting for.
Family and money complicate the heart, as they do in real life. Board members count profit; caretakers count hours; relatives count reputation. Between those ledgers, the couple builds a small economy of trust — coded texts, shared calendars, and a nightly ritual of reading notes together. Even ordinary things carry stakes: a misplaced phone, a missed alarm, a declined credit card at the worst possible moment. The show turns logistics into love language, proving that reliability can be sexy.
Comedy keeps the story warm without denying the ache. Morning resets create awkward hilarity — Ma-seong re-introducing himself to people who know him too well, Ki-joon trying out disastrous “bro” solutions, Gi-bbeum firing off pep talks that wobble but don’t fall. Yet each laugh lands on a cushion of empathy. The writers never humiliate the characters for what they can’t control; they celebrate the courage it takes to try again. Isn’t that the kind of humor we need more of — the kind that lets people breathe?
As the stakes rise, the series refuses easy villains. Antagonists make choices for reasons that make terrible sense: fear of losing status, terror of being irrelevant, pride that won’t let anyone see the soft parts. The show keeps asking what love looks like when memory won’t cooperate: is it a grand gesture, or is it a habit repeated until it sticks? By the late episodes, vows sound less like poetry and more like practice. No ending spoilers — but the journey insists that joy isn’t an accident; it’s work two people agree to do.
Highlight Moments / Key Episodes
Episode 1: A rain-soaked chance encounter turns into a fairy-tale night as Ma-seong and Gi-bbeum trade names, jokes, and a kiss that feels like a thesis. The camera lingers on small gestures — an umbrella tilt, a borrowed handkerchief — and then cuts to the morning after, when his memory is blank. It matters because the drama declares its rules early: the heart can move fast, but life will ask for receipts. The contrast between midnight magic and daylight confusion sets the emotional tempo for everything that follows.
Episode 3: Ma-seong, armed with meticulous notes, tries to court responsibly, turning calendars into love letters and alarms into promises. Gi-bbeum pushes back, insisting she won’t be a project or a patient, and the episode becomes a conversation about consent disguised as comedy. A street-food date melts into a quiet bench scene where they negotiate what “trying” looks like. It matters because their boundaries turn into the foundation they stand on later. Cute meets careful — and it works.
Episode 6: The past crashes the party when old footage threatens to resurrect Gi-bbeum’s scandal, and we see how quickly the industry trades people for clicks. Ma-seong faces a brutal test: protect her publicly or protect himself privately. He chooses presence, and his condition makes that choice cost more than applause. The scene matters because loyalty stops being a word and becomes an action with consequences. Their team grows up in this hour.
Episode 9: A medical flare-up forces Ma-seong to admit the limits of his routines, and the hospital lights turn romantic vows into logistical puzzles. Gi-bbeum steps up with stubborn tenderness, reading his notes back to him like bedtime stories. Friends rally, enemies posture, and a small victory feels like a sunrise. It matters because the couple proves they can hold each other without breaking. Love here is care, not spectacle.
Episode 13: Corporate pressure spikes as a ruthless relative moves to sideline Ma-seong, using his condition as leverage. He counters with transparency, laying out his systems and daring the board to judge him by results, not fear. Gi-bbeum refuses to be hidden, showing up as partner, not secret. The episode matters because the romance steps into daylight — and into risk. Their courage makes enemies nervous.
Episode 15: A near-miss accident reopens old wounds and forces the found family to renegotiate roles. Ki-joon finally stops playing clown and starts playing friend, while Ha-im confronts the cost of envy. The couple draws a line in the sand: honesty or nothing. It matters because the endgame starts to feel earned, not engineered. Every goodbye here sounds like a promise to return different.
Memorable Lines
"Even if my memory resets, my choice won’t." – Gong Ma-seong, Episode 3 A single-sentence mission statement that reframes his condition from weakness to discipline. He says it after laying out his alarms and notes, insisting that identity can be practiced even when recall fails. The line turns routine into romance, making checklists feel like vows. It also signals that love, for him, will be a daily decision, not a mood.
"I’m not a rumor. I’m a person." – Joo Gi-bbeum, Episode 6 Said to a reporter who mistakes curiosity for a right to harm, the sentence lands like a gavel. In context, she’s shaking but steady, choosing dignity over fear. The line exposes how the industry’s appetite can devour empathy. It becomes a rallying point for the people who choose to see her clearly.
"If you forget, I’ll remind you. If you remember, I’ll celebrate with you." – Joo Gi-bbeum, Episode 9 A promise that makes care sound like joy, not sacrifice. She says it at a bedside, turning anxiety into a plan they can live with. The moment translates love into two simple verbs: remind and celebrate. It’s the series’ thesis on partnership in one breath.
"Joy isn’t luck. It’s work." – Gong Ma-seong, Episode 13 He offers this during a boardroom grilling, defending both his career and his relationship. The line strips romance of fantasy without making it bleak. It argues that effort is not the enemy of magic; it’s the engine. From here, every gesture feels deliberate and earned.
"Let’s not be each other’s emergency. Let’s be each other’s habit." – Joo Gi-bbeum, Episode 15 She draws a boundary that saves them from becoming addicted to crisis. The sentence reframes passion as rhythm — steady, repeatable, safe. In the scene, they agree to practice love the way musicians practice scales. It’s less cinematic, more durable, and exactly what they need.
Why It’s Special
“Devilish Joy” takes a high-concept premise — a daily memory reset — and turns it into a gentle manifesto about love as practice. The show doesn’t treat amnesia like a party trick; it treats it like a logistics problem two adults solve with care, humor, and ruthless honesty. Schedules become love letters, alarms become promises, and a shared nightly ritual becomes the soft drumbeat of devotion. It’s surprisingly moving to watch romance built out of checklists instead of fireworks — and then realize the checklists are the fireworks.
The drama also respects consent in a way that feels refreshingly grown-up. Every step between Gong Ma-seong and Joo Gi-bbeum is negotiated, re-negotiated, and written down, not because the show is clinical but because it’s compassionate. When memory won’t cooperate, clarity isn’t cold; it’s kind. Their relationship becomes a blueprint for how to hold someone without gripping too tight, and how to be brave without being reckless.
Comedy lands without cruelty. Morning resets create awkward, fizzy snafus — re-introductions that happen twice, notes that read like flirty post-its from a version of yourself you only half remember. Yet the series never turns disability into a punchline. Laughter arrives as relief, the way a good friend cracks a joke when the room gets heavy and then stays to help clean up the mess.
What makes the show quietly radical is how it reframes reliability as romance. Instead of “grand gestures,” we get “small habits done faithfully” — a bowl of soup warmed on time, a calendar update shared before bed, an apology delivered with context. The result is intimacy that feels durable, not theatrical. If you’ve ever loved someone through a tough season, you’ll recognize this rhythm instantly.
Industry satire gives the sweetness bite. Entertainment hierarchies value buzz over people, and the series skewers that machine without losing empathy for the strivers stuck inside it. When Gi-bbeum stands up to the rumor mill, the win isn’t just plot progression — it’s a tiny repair to a world that often punishes women longer than it punishes lies. The show asks who gets forgiveness and who only gets headlines; then it dares to answer with grace.
The found-family energy is irresistible. Friends blunder, learn, and show up again; coworkers evolve from obstacles into accomplices; even prickly relatives earn depth. By the late episodes, the couple isn’t walking alone — they’re buoyed by a circle that remembers for them when memory falters. That communal tenderness makes the romance feel bigger than two people, which is why it lingers.
Stylistically, the series is candy-bright without turning saccharine. City nights glow like possibility, wardrobes tell the truth about power, and the camera lingers on hands — writing, holding, hesitating — until choice itself becomes cinematic. You’ll come for the chemistry and stay for the satisfying precision of how scenes are blocked, lit, and paced.
Most of all, “Devilish Joy” refuses cheap cynicism. It suggests that joy isn’t an accident you stumble into; it’s a craft you learn together. Morning after morning, the characters choose to believe that love can be both soft and strong — and the show has the patience to prove them right.
Popularity & Reception
Upon airing, the drama carved out a loyal audience that fell hard for its “comfort watch with a twist” vibe. Viewers praised the way it balanced breezy rom-com beats with the melancholy of starting over each day, calling it a rare show where tenderness drives the tension as much as mystery does. Word-of-mouth centered on its considerate depiction of consent and the nightly note-reading ritual — a detail that launched countless fan edits and quote posts.
Internationally, it found steady traction on streaming thanks to a binge-friendly tone: episodes end with emotional hooks instead of punishing cliffhangers, encouraging “just one more” without anxiety. Fans highlighted Choi Jin-hyuk’s grounded charisma and Song Ha-yoon’s buoyant resilience, crediting their chemistry with turning a tricky premise into something warm, witty, and deeply humane.
Critics were kind to the show’s craft touches — the consistent visual language of calendars and clocks, the refusal to villainize forgetfulness, and supporting characters who evolve beyond tropes. While some noted occasional melodrama spikes, most agreed the series earns its feels by letting growth arrive through habits, not miracles.
Cast & Fun Facts
Choi Jin-hyuk anchors the series as Gong Ma-seong with a performance that treats discipline as romance. He plays a man who plans tenderness the way a surgeon plans an operation: with checklists, backups, and a steady hand. The role asks for restraint — fewer speeches, more choices — and he makes quiet look heroic.
What stands out is his control over stillness. A breath held before a touch, a glance at a watch, a smile that recognizes a joke he wrote to himself yesterday — small beats that sell the reality of daily resets. It’s a masterclass in making reliability feel sexy, and it gives the show its grown-up center of gravity.
Song Ha-yoon gives Joo Gi-bbeum a resilience that never hardens into bitterness. She enters scenes with sunshine she has clearly fought for, and the way she draws boundaries — kindly, firmly — becomes the romance’s secret engine. When she refuses to be anyone’s project, the story levels up.
Her gift is tonal agility: she can pivot from fizzy banter to body-blow vulnerability in a single camera move without breaking the character’s spine. That elasticity lets the series tackle industry cruelty while preserving its sweetness. You believe she deserves the love she’s building, because she helps build it.
Lee Ho-won (Hoya) brings chaotic good energy as Sung Ki-joon, the friend who initially overcompensates with antics and then, slowly, learns competence. His arc — from lovable meddler to dependable ally — mirrors the show’s thesis that consistency beats theatrics.
He also lands the show’s sneak-attack laughs. Physical comedy, wounded-puppy sincerity, and the occasional piece of accidental wisdom give the heavier episodes oxygen. By the end, his loyalty feels earned, not assumed, and the found-family circle feels fuller for it.
Lee Joo-yeon layers ambition, insecurity, and surprising grace into Lee Ha-im. What could have been a one-note rival becomes a mirror for the costs of fame when apology is delayed and rumor moves faster than truth. She lets envy read as fear — and then lets fear grow up.
Her best scenes avoid easy redemption arcs in favor of accountability. When she chooses decency over clout, the moment lands because the show has been honest about why that choice is hard. It’s a smart, measured performance that dignifies a tricky role.
Behind the scenes, the directing-writing team treats the premise like a promise: no hand-waving, no shortcuts. Visual motifs (watches, windows, sticky notes) track progress as clearly as dialogue does, and episode structures favor resolution through habit. That craft confidence is why the finale plays like a gentle exhale — not a twist, but a culmination.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
“Devilish Joy” is for anyone who wants a love story that believes in both sparks and spreadsheets — kisses that flutter and calendars that hold. It also brushes against real-life worries that surface after an accident or a scandal: paperwork that suddenly matters, premiums that keep the lights on, and the way a single mistake can shred a month of progress. If this drama nudges you to double-check your car insurance, ask better questions before calling a personal injury attorney, or set spending alerts on a credit card you once ignored, take the hint — grown-up romance thrives on grown-up choices. Mostly, though, let it remind you that joy isn’t luck; it’s two people choosing the same promise, day after day.
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