“My Dearest Nemesis”: A workplace romance about a ‘department-killer’ team leader haunted by her worst first love and a chaebol heir who harbors the fearsome spirit of the Black Dragon.
Introduction
Have you ever wanted to delete an old version of yourself the way you clear a browser history—poof, gone? I pressed play on My Dearest Nemesis expecting a cute rom-com, and instead found a love story that stings like an old scar and then warms like sunlight on skin. Watching Baek Su‑jeong flinch at a memory she swore never to revisit felt painfully familiar; we’ve all buried a chapter we hope no one ever reads. And then the past knocks—hard—wearing a tailored suit, carrying authority, and answering to the name Ban Ju‑yeon. As they collide in a Seoul department store’s high-pressure halls, the show turns adolescent humiliation into disarming tenderness, reminding us that the people we once were deserve mercy. If you’ve ever wondered whether love can redeem your most embarrassing self, you need to meet this drama right now.
Overview
Title
: My Dearest Nemesis (그놈은 흑염룡).
Year
: 2025.
Genre
: Romantic comedy, office romance.
Main Cast
: Moon Ga‑young, Choi Hyun‑wook, Im Se‑mi, Kwak Si‑yang.
Episodes
: 12.
Runtime
: ~60 minutes per episode.
Streaming Platform
: Viki.
Overall Story
The story begins in 2009 inside Korea’s online gaming culture, where high school senior Baek Su‑jeong finds refuge from bullies and loneliness in a fantasy MMORPG. There she meets “Black Dragon,” a skilled player whose bravery on-screen gives Su‑jeong a place to lean. Their late‑night quests turn into daily chats, then into hope—until an offline meet goes catastrophically wrong, exposing Black Dragon as a gawky middle schooler and branding the experience as Su‑jeong’s “dark history.” That public humiliation—witnessed by her real‑life tormentors—hardens her resolve to survive, alone if she must. It’s a pitch-perfect setup that blends teen angst with the rise of PC‑bang culture, showing how digital lives can save us and betray us at once. Years later, that deleted chapter is about to reinstall itself.
Fast-forward sixteen years: Su‑jeong is now the elite planning‑team lead at Yongseong Department Store, a powerhouse in Seoul’s competitive retail scene. She’s a “director killer,” the kind of principled employee who pushes out bad bosses and refuses to play dirty politics. Then comes the new division head: Ban Ju‑yeon, a polished heir tasked with doubling sales and cleaning house. He’s meticulous, unreadable—and weirdly familiar. A minor fender-bender and a mortifying first meeting later, Su‑jeong clocks a massive tattoo on his back and a manner that flashes something she’s run from for years. She doesn’t yet know she’s standing in front of Black Dragon.
Office life frames their second chance in a very Korean way: hierarchy is strict, results are king, and image management matters. Ju‑yeon’s grandmother—an iron‑willed chaebol matriarch—measures affection in achievements and sees love as weakness. So he hides the rock‑band posters, the figurines, the gaming nostalgia, shelving his inner teen to survive the succession wars. Su‑jeong, for her part, distrusts golden boys and the whispers that women rise on anything but merit. The series uses staff briefings, KPI dashboards, and store‑floor firefights to place romance inside the machinery of work. You feel the cultural pressures: filial piety, corporate loyalty, and the way titles can forge or crush a heart.
But rom‑com sparks don’t wait. At a chaebol mixer, a drunk heir mistakes Su‑jeong for arm candy, and Ju‑yeon—cool exterior cracking—shoves the creep into a pool, grabbing her hand like it’s instinct. Later, his “I’ve seen you before” slips out with an intimacy he can’t control, and she bristles, still fighting the memory of a boy who once made her feel small. These scenes crackle because the show lets each touch carry years of context: pride, shame, longing. Their banter becomes a shield that keeps them close while pretending to push away. And beneath it all, a secret fans will savor—what happens when your worst memory becomes the person who sees you best?
Around them, the world fills with second chances. Seo Ha‑jin, Su‑jeong’s ride‑or‑die friend and a bar owner, keeps her own heart under lock and key, while Kim Shin‑won, the department store’s design chief, fumbles toward honesty. Their subplot balances the main couple’s glow with grown-up hesitations—money, stability, timing. A drunken, public confession blasted over a restaurant speaker turns mortification into momentum, and suddenly love looks possible for more than one pair. The drama gently argues that community—friends who tease, feed, and show up—makes risk survivable. Those cutaway moments double as breathers as the main romance tightens its grip.
Midseason, Su‑jeong’s competence draws knives. Rumors swirl that she “slept her way up,” a too‑familiar smear used to keep talented women in their place. The writers don’t treat this lightly: you see how a whisper can rot morale and how an apology from a senior woman matters. Ju‑yeon wants to protect her but must unlearn a lifetime of hiding—he can’t fight for her without revealing himself. It’s here the show’s office politics bloom into real stakes: careers, reputations, the right to take up space. And it asks a hard question: is love still love if it won’t stand beside you in daylight?
As feelings clarify, the past comes home. Ju‑yeon’s secret gamer room—action figures, manga, the whole shrine—becomes a sanctuary where Su‑jeong finally laughs at the memory that once burned. There’s a karaoke mic, a certain song from their teen years, and the softest rewrite of a mortifying proposal into a private joke. In a culture that prizes composure, the show revels in dorkiness as a love language: you’re allowed to be ridiculous with the person who’s safe. Their contract—professional and personal—evolves from cautious rules to wholehearted choice. We watch two people dare to be uncool, together.
Then comes the forked path: a lucrative U.S. offer tempts Su‑jeong, and Ju‑yeon fumbles his support, sounding indifferent when he’s actually planning to follow. Miscommunication creates a breathless pause—boxes moved, phones silenced, pride wounded. The fix is all character: clear words, goofy domesticity, and Su‑jeong’s decision to stay where her work is seen and valued. The series frames ambition not as a wedge but as another way to love someone—by wanting to witness their becoming. By now, “Black Dragon” isn’t a cringe; it’s a signpost that they survived to this moment.
Finale week ties family knots. Grandma’s brittle mantra—love is weakness—meets a counterargument from the people who watched Ju‑yeon endure: love made him stronger, not softer. She apologizes for old wounds and agrees to judge Su‑jeong by performance, not prejudice, while acknowledging Ju‑yeon as a rightful successor who doesn’t have to amputate joy to lead. Promotions land, the store relaunches, and the couple trades those teenage lock-and-key necklaces for something brilliant and adult. It’s not a fairy‑tale escape; it’s a negotiated peace with the past. And it plays like exhale after years of holding your breath.
Outside the story, the world noticed. On Viki, My Dearest Nemesis debuted at No. 1 in over 130 regions and held the top spot across 118 regions by its third week—including the United States—proof that its mix of nostalgia, workplace grit, and second‑chance sweetness travels. For viewers here, it’s a perfect weeknight watch: 12 tight episodes, no filler, and a finish that leaves your heart light. If you’re streaming on public Wi‑Fi, consider using a VPN for streaming to protect your connection, then settle in for a drama that respects your time. And if old hurts stir up while you watch, it’s okay—stories like this are a gentle bridge toward real‑life healing. You’ll close the finale believing that even “dark history” can be rewritten with love and a little courage.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1
The offline meet that breaks a heart: Su‑jeong rushes to meet “Black Dragon,” only to find a 15‑year‑old boy serenading her in public, watched by bullies and strangers. The humiliation is volcanic—sharp, noisy, unforgettable—and it calcifies into the “dark history” she swears to bury. The scene explains everything about her adult armor and why she distrusts charm. It also frames Ju‑yeon’s lifelong shame: the boy who loved clumsily now hides flawlessly. This is the wound the whole drama will tenderly suture.
Episode 2
The pool splash heard round the office: at a chaebol party, a predatory heir corners Su‑jeong; Ju‑yeon barrels in, shoves the guy into the pool, and walks her out, hand in hand. It’s a gallant moment that betrays his cool facade—an instinct to protect that he’s been denying. Su‑jeong hates needing rescue but loves not being alone. Their dynamic shifts on the spot from enemies to reluctant allies. The water drip from his suit feels like the exact second a wall cracks.
Mid‑season
Rumors and resolve: whispers that Su‑jeong “slept up” spread through Yongseong, and the show gets very real about gendered smear tactics at work. A female senior’s apology later becomes one of the season’s quiet gut punches—another woman admitting she looked away too long. Ju‑yeon wants to fix it but has to stop hiding first; love that’s afraid of daylight can’t shield anyone. The arc makes their romance feel earned and adult. It’s catharsis for anyone who’s ever had to outperform a lie.
Episode 11
Love on speakerphone: Shin‑won’s sloshed confession to Ha‑jin accidentally blasts over the restaurant speakers, turning private longing into a viral moment. You wince, you laugh, and then you see two people choose honesty over vanity. Their second‑lead romance mirrors the leads’ journey—less perfect, just as brave. The aftermath floods Ha‑jin’s bar with new customers and new hope. It’s rom‑com alchemy at its fizziest.
Episode 12
The fate rewrite: a karaoke playlist resurrects the very song that once made Su‑jeong want to disappear, and this time she laughs through the cringe. Later, Ju‑yeon offers a diamond necklace where a teenage trinket once failed, and she says yes with eyes that say “finally.” Grandma apologizes, Su‑jeong is promoted on merit, and the couple walks out as equals. It’s not just a happy ending; it’s a reclamation. The dark past becomes their inside joke—and their origin story.
After the credits (spiritually)
The real‑world glow‑up: seeing the drama top Viki across more than a hundred regions feels like collective vindication for all of us who love enemies‑to‑lovers with heart. It proves a universal truth: embarrassment is human, second chances are irresistible. If you’ve ever closed a laptop on a shame spiral, this show will make you grin at your younger self. And if you watch from coffee shops or airports, pairing Viki with a VPN for streaming privacy and identity theft protection tools is a small kindness to your future self while you binge. Then go text the friend who knew your dorkiest era and say, “We made it.”
Momorable Lines
“I’m not your dark history; I’m the part of you that survived it.” One sentence that flips the shame script, spoken as Su‑jeong lets herself be known beyond her resume. The line lands after she sees Ju‑yeon’s hidden room and laughs instead of recoiling, a pivot from judgment to intimacy. It marks the moment the show argues for compassionate self‑revision. And it’s the permission slip many of us needed for our teenage selves.
“Love doesn’t weaken him; it’s what made him strong.” This is the counterpoint to Grandma’s worldview, voiced in the boardroom after years of emotional austerity. It reframes Ju‑yeon’s endurance as love-powered rather than pain-forged. In a culture that prizes stoicism, the drama stakes a claim for tenderness as leadership. That reframing clears space for an apology—and for a healthier dynasty.
“Let’s end the contract—and start the relationship.” When the couple tears up their careful rules, it feels like ripping off armor together. The professional pact kept them safe while they found new language for trust; now they don’t need it. It’s grown‑up romance, where clarity is sexy. And it signals a shift from crisis management to joy.
“Fate isn’t found; we make it.” The finale’s thesis arrives as a soft voiceover while they walk through Seoul, shoulders touching. After twelve episodes of missed chances and misread silences, choosing each other becomes the only magic that matters. The necklace, the song, the street—they’re the same, but they’re different because the people are. You’ll feel the truth of it long after the credits.
“Black Dragon, logging in.” It’s playful and cathartic, the moment Ju‑yeon stops hiding his inner nerd and lets love see all of him. Su‑jeong’s smile answers back, saying she’s not going anywhere. Years of secrecy melt into a simple, shared language. And suddenly the screen feels like home.
Why It's Special
What makes My Dearest Nemesis stand out begins with its now-and-then heartbeat: a first crush forged behind game avatars, and a second chance set under fluorescent office lights. The tvN romantic comedy ran from February 17 to March 24, 2025, and is now streaming on Viki in many regions, including the United States, with TVING carrying it in Korea and platforms like U-NEXT and Vidio handling Japan and Indonesia respectively. It’s the kind of premise that tugs you in two directions at once—nostalgia and adult reality—while staying breezy enough for a weeknight binge. Have you ever felt this way, torn between who you were and who you’ve worked so hard to become?
The setup is deceptively simple: a high-performing planner and her new boss discover they were once “Black Dragon” and “Strawberry,” ill-fated gaming crushes whose real-life meeting went hilariously, painfully wrong. Sixteen years later, they’re cornered by memos, meetings, and the unfinished business of their own teenage bravado. The show’s humor is affectionate, never cruel; it invites you to laugh at the melodrama of youth while forgiving yourself for it. That tenderness gives the office romance a lived-in warmth—every elevator ride feels like a chance encounter with the past.
Acting is the drama’s secret sauce. When Baek Soo-jung bristles in a boardroom or softens in a late-night convenience store, you’re watching more than plot points—you’re seeing a person who learned to speak up because silence once cost her something precious. The emotional palette ranges from sparkling rom-com banter to quiet, almost confessional beats where the camera lingers, letting the actors breathe. These moments are stitched together with light, playful music cues that wink at the show’s gamer DNA.
Direction and writing work in tandem like a co-op duo. Lee Soo-hyun’s staging favors glances and negative space—doorways, glass walls, the afterglow of a monitor—while Kim Soo-yeon’s script leans into second-chance romance with a self-aware grin. The result is a rom-com that embraces tropes (office politics! gaming handles! childhood crushes!) and still feels fresh. You sense an authorial kindness: the story gives its characters grace to grow without dunking on who they used to be.
Tonally, the drama nails a modern ache: how digital memories outlast feelings, and how the usernames we picked at 15 can still find us at 31. It’s funny about it, too, reclaiming “Black Dragon” as a badge of courage rather than cringe. Have you ever re-read an old chat thread and felt your stomach somersault? My Dearest Nemesis lets you keep the butterflies and lose the regret.
The genre blend is catnip for rom-com fans: workplace hijinks, long-game pining, gamer nostalgia, and a lightly competitive “enemies-to-lovers” sizzle that never gets mean. The comedy lands in quick edits and cutaway gags—reaction shots, desk-aisle whispers, and the mortifying flashbacks that intrude at exactly the wrong time. Yet the show protects sincerity; when an apology finally arrives, it’s earned.
All of it is wrapped in a glossy, contemporary look: cool-toned offices and warm neighborhood bars; late-night ramen bowls and the soft hum of gaming rigs. The visuals mirror the characters’ inner lives—pristine public personas against messy, marvelous hearts. When the end credits roll, you feel lighter, as if someone finally put your own adolescent myth-making into a story and told you it was okay.
Popularity & Reception
From week one, My Dearest Nemesis turned global curiosity into a measurable phenomenon. On Rakuten Viki it hit No. 1 in 136 countries—including the U.S., U.K., France, Brazil, Mexico, India, and the UAE—during its opening stretch, a surge backed by Studio Dragon and trade coverage. For a midweek rom-com, that kind of reach is rare, and the word-of-mouth felt instantaneous.
The love stuck around. By mid-March, the series remained No. 1 on Viki in 118 regions, with community comments raving about “healing” laughs and the giddy, slow-bloom chemistry. Whether you tuned in for the office antics or the gamer throwbacks, the crowd consensus was clear: this was comfort viewing with a clever hook.
Back home in Korea, Nielsen ratings hovered in the mid-4% range and closed steadily on March 24, underscoring a consistent domestic audience while the international fandom ballooned online. It’s a tidy case study in how cable TV stability and OTT dominance can coexist—and amplify each other.
Beyond Viki, the show topped U-NEXT’s Korean & Asian Drama category in Japan and climbed high on Indonesia’s Vidio, proof that its humor translated across markets with different streaming habits. Industry write-ups framed it as a banner win for Studio Dragon’s rom-com slate in early 2025.
Social buzz added fuel: tvN reported 62.6 million cross-platform views around the two-episode mark, outpacing several recent hits and sparking a flurry of “Black Dragon” memes and fan edits. Even viewers who hadn’t gamed since high school found themselves sharing clips—it was that kind of show.
Cast & Fun Facts
Moon Ga-young
leads as Baek Soo-jung, the planner who would rather go toe-to-toe with a bad decision than let it slide. Her performance operates on micro-shifts: the tiny beat before she fires back in a meeting, the voice drop when she recognizes a long-buried username, the unmistakable “oh no” of falling for someone you promised to forget. She makes Soo-jung’s competence feel romantic—ambition as love language.
In softer scenes,
Moon Ga-young
lets the mask slip. A shoulder relaxes; a laugh arrives half a second late; an apology lands like a confession. Fans who’ve followed her from melodrama to rom-com call this her sweet spot, and My Dearest Nemesis gives her space to be both silly and sincere without sacrificing the adult texture of the character. That balance is a big reason why the show becomes a late-night companion as much as a series to finish.
Choi Hyun-wook
plays Ban Joo-yeon, the heir apparent who looks perfectly put together until “Black Dragon” crashes the party. He has an easy comic rhythm—deadpan lines timed to the make-or-break heartbeat of a meeting—and an earnestness that keeps the character from tilting into caricature. When Joo-yeon recalibrates from power to vulnerability, the show snaps into focus.
What’s charming about
Choi Hyun-wook
here is how he treats Joo-yeon’s teenage bravado as something worth protecting, not erasing. He leans into the cringe with affection, turning “Black Dragon” from an internet-era punchline into a promise kept. Watching him own that history—awkwardness and all—feels like a small triumph for anyone who ever hid behind a screen name.
Im Se-mi
brings nuance as Seo Ha-jin, a bar owner with well-earned boundaries and a knack for being in the right place when truths finally surface. She’s the drama’s low-key truth teller, cutting through office fog with a smile that says she’s seen a dozen versions of this story and still believes love can surprise you.
Across her scenes,
Im Se-mi
folds humor into empathy—never stealing focus, always raising the room’s temperature by a few degrees. In a series about past selves meeting present lives, she embodies the friend who remembers your old chapters and cheers the rewrite. It’s a generous performance, and the show is better every time she’s behind the counter.
Kwak Si-yang
plays Kim Shin-won, head of design at the department store, and he threads the needle between workplace foil and unexpected ally. He gives the office stakes heft without dragging the mood, a crucial counterweight to all the fluttering heartbeats.
When tensions rise,
Kwak Si-yang
grounds scenes with a quiet authority—the kind that makes victories feel earned and setbacks survivable. In a rom-com where timing is everything, his presence keeps the clock honest. The ensemble’s chemistry hums because no one is just the “obstacle”; everyone has their own arc.
Director Lee Soo-hyun and writer Kim Soo-yeon shape the series with a shared sense of play. Lee’s previous work in slick, character-forward thrillers helps here—she stages office corridors like arenas and cozy bars like confessionals—while Kim’s script twines gamer nostalgia with adult accountability. A fun fact: the project developed under the working title “Black Salt Dragon,” nodding to its webtoon roots (“He’s a Black Dragon” by Yang Hye-jin), before adopting the elegant international title we now know.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve ever laughed at your teenage bravado and wondered whether your younger self would cheer for you now, My Dearest Nemesis is the hug of a show you’ve been waiting for. It’s streaming on Viki in many regions—perfect if you’re looking to watch Korean drama online after a long day. If you’re comparing the best streaming services for your next comfort watch, consider whether your current streaming subscription already includes it; you might be just a search away from a new favorite. Have you ever felt this way—ready to forgive the past and flirt with the future in the same breath?
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