“My Strange Hero”—A second-chance romance that turns revenge into a lesson plan about healing
Introduction
The first time I met Kang Bok‑su, he wasn’t a caped crusader; he was a kid who lost almost everything because the adults in the room looked the other way. Have you ever replayed a moment from your school days and wished you could go back, not to erase it, but to understand it? That’s the ache My Strange Hero taps—how a single misunderstanding can warp a life until someone brave enough names the truth. Watching this drama, I kept thinking of real classrooms, of parents clutching report cards like lifelines and students measuring their worth by a number. If you’ve ever weighed the cost of “success” against the soft metrics of kindness—while scrolling headlines about student loan forgiveness or quietly Googling life insurance because protecting your family suddenly feels urgent—this show will feel strangely personal. And if you just want a sweet, slow-bloom romance with a silly grin baked in, Bok‑su will hand you that, too.
Overview
Title: My Strange Hero (복수가 돌아왔다)
Year: 2018–2019
Genre: Romantic comedy, school drama, melodrama
Main Cast: Yoo Seung‑ho, Jo Bo‑ah, Kwak Dong‑yeon
Episodes: 32
Runtime: 35 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
Bok‑su’s world starts at Seolsong High, a prestigious private school that sorts kids into ranked classes with botanical nicknames—“Ivy” at the top, “Wildflower” at the bottom. The system is glossy on the outside and bruised on the inside: test scores dictate cafeteria meals, seats, and dignity. Bok‑su, the lovable troublemaker who hates bullies, dates the school’s star student, Son Soo‑jung; his awkward friend Oh Se‑ho is the board chairwoman’s son, steeped in pressure. When Soo‑jung’s hidden poverty becomes public, her shame curdles into mistrust. A rooftop confrontation ends with Se‑ho falling, and in the chaos, Bok‑su is accused, and Soo‑jung, hurt and misled, gives testimony that seals his expulsion. Seolsong keeps its sheen; Bok‑su loses his future.
Nine years pass. Bok‑su scrapes by doing odd jobs at a small service outfit called “Your Request,” masking hurt with humor. Se‑ho has climbed into power, now steering Seolsong’s board, and Soo‑jung—who lives with the consequences of her choice—teaches there, hustling for a permanent contract she was tricked into paying for. A crisis by the Han River snaps the story awake: Soo‑jung tries to stop a top‑ranked student, Oh Young‑min, from jumping; Bok‑su happens to be nearby and pulls them to safety. Public pressure and optics force Se‑ho to invite Bok‑su back to school as a special re‑admit. For the first time since that rooftop, all three stand under the same fluorescent lights with unfinished business sparking in the air.
Bok‑su returns not as a ghost seeking closure but as a full‑fledged adult student in “Wildflower,” Seolsong’s lowest class, where kids wear secondhand confidence and jokes like armor. His plan is revenge—embarrass the system that tossed him—but his habit of protecting underdogs reasserts itself. Wildflower becomes a little democracy: a safe corner where a boy hiding forged grades can exhale, a quiet kid learns to speak into a mic, and friendships cross the wall that separates “Ivy” from everyone else. Soo‑jung is assigned to mentor Wildflower, her eyes flickering with guilt and pride as she watches Bok‑su lift the room’s energy without trying. Revenge begins to look suspiciously like reform.
The school’s segmentation—“Ivy” versus “Wildflower”—plays like a micro‑economy of inequality: private study booths for the elite, upgraded meals, and rules that bend for those who already have advantages. A heated debate between the two classes, stacked by money on one side and raw heart on the other, reveals what the show believes: that voice matters more than varnish. The “Wildflower” kids prove they can think, argue, and imagine beyond the script written for them. You feel their shoulders drop, like someone finally told them they were more than their rank. It’s a small victory that points toward a bigger war.
Meanwhile, love doesn’t wait for perfect timing. Soo‑jung and Bok‑su circle each other—bickering, apologizing, remembering how it felt to be seventeen and seen. Old wounds scab and split as truths surface: Se‑ho spread the rumor that exposed Soo‑jung’s background years ago, fueled by envy and a twisted need to control what loved him back. When Soo‑jung realizes how many strings Se‑ho can still pull, she makes the painful choice to break up to protect Bok‑su’s second chance at a diploma. It’s the kind of grown decision that looks like cowardice from the outside and feels like courage from the inside.
Bok‑su, for his part, never stops being a magnet for kids who’ve been told they’re “less.” He opens doors for classmates who’ve only ever seen locked ones, and he keeps nudging stubborn teachers toward the mirror. His little crew—friends from “Your Request” and the Wildflower class—gathers evidence of systemic corruption: manipulated grades, pay‑to‑win programs, and backroom plans to corporatize education at the cost of students’ lives. The camera follows not just the “what,” but the “why”—how pressure from parents and administrators can make even decent people co‑sign harm. Revenge, ironically, becomes a civic lesson.
Se‑ho, trapped in a cycle of maternal abuse and brittle ambition, doubles down. He weaponizes rules, threatens Bok‑su and Soo‑jung, and tries to rewind a past that never loved him back. But the more he tightens his grip, the more students slip through his fingers toward the light Bok‑su keeps switching on. The drama refuses to make him a cartoon villain; instead, it lets you see the boy who wanted to be someone else and learned cruelty as currency. Have you ever resented a friend whose ease felt like a mirror to your own scarcity? That’s Se‑ho, and it’s unbearably human.
The finale throws everything onto the school steps: teachers, parents, and kids linked arm‑in‑arm to stop the board chairwoman—Se‑ho’s mother—from shuttering Seolsong to save face. Bok‑su walks out with a bag of wildflower petals and trades fists for symbolism, asking the institution to stop crushing its namesake students. Police arrive. Old crimes—embezzlement, bribery—catch up with the powerful, and the internet sees the mask come off. It’s catharsis, but the show is gentler than vengeance: Bok‑su tells Se‑ho he won’t forgive him, and then urges him to forgive himself. Accountability and mercy share the same frame.
Time skips forward. Seolsong survives and evolves; the protest becomes policy, and the school charts a public path. Bok‑su graduates (finally), then returns as an art teacher, the kind who knows how to spot talent under fear. Soo‑jung keeps interviewing until she finds her place again—this time on her terms. The Wildflower kids branch into real adult jobs—a reminder that “rank” is a terrible predictor of flourishing. And Se‑ho leaves to heal, a small mercy that feels earned. The last words—“Whatever you do, wherever you are, you deserve to be loved”—land like a benediction over every kid who ever equated grades with worth.
If you grew up measuring yourself by numbers, My Strange Hero quietly argues for a different math: effort, empathy, second chances. It recognizes the families behind the grade‑obsessed headlines, the late‑night budgets balanced on ramen, and even those wanderlust daydreams where a travel credit card promises escape when what you actually need is belonging. The show’s genius is that it gives you romance and reform in the same breath: you’ll swoon, you’ll fume, and you’ll probably text an old classmate just to say, “I see you.” Have you ever felt that the test you were taking wasn’t about algebra at all, but about learning how to be kind to yourself? That’s the make‑up exam this drama aces.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1–2 A flashback to the rooftop fall crashes into the present as Soo‑jung pleads with an “Ivy” student on the Han River bridge—and Bok‑su, passing by, hauls them both back to life. The rescue forces Se‑ho, now in power, to readmit Bok‑su for optics, but it also reopens a case the school buried. I love how the show frames this as fate poking the bear; the three players finally share a frame with nowhere to hide. The city hums around them, indifferent, while their past detonates in private. It’s a perfect pilot pivot: re‑entry isn’t nostalgia—it’s a reckoning.
Episode 5–6 Bok‑su lands in the “Wildflower” class, where detentions turn into group therapy and sarcasm is a second language. He tells jokes to defuse fights, runs errands for kids too anxious to ask teachers for help, and basically becomes the homeroom’s gravitational center. Soo‑jung, assigned as their mentor, watches the room’s temperature change. Revenge starts to feel complicated when your so‑called enemies are starved for care. The school’s class hierarchy—“Ivy” perks versus “Wildflower” leftovers—moves from backdrop to battleground.
Episode 15–16 A gut‑punch domestic story unfolds when In‑ho’s forged grades unravel in front of his mom; he admits he lied because her rare smile made him feel like a good son. The drama lingers in the awkward kitchen air where love and shame coexist. Wildflower doesn’t mock him; they close ranks and normalize his return. Soo‑jung sees a younger version of herself in his panic and doubles down on being the kind of teacher she once needed. It’s small‑scale, high‑stakes healing.
Episode 17–18 The debate showdown—Wildflower versus Ivy—looks lopsided on paper, especially when the elite side has literally paid for strategy. But kids who have been told they don’t matter finally get microphones, and they use them. The judges side with Wildflower, and you can feel the administrators’ veneer crack. It’s not subtle, and that’s the point: this is a teen drama that wants its audience to cheer for equity without apology. I did. Loudly.
Episode 23–24 Soo‑jung learns it was Se‑ho who exposed her background years ago, blowing up the foundation of every choice she made since. In a heartbreaking act of protection, she breaks up with Bok‑su until he graduates, choosing his future over her present. The scene aches with the realism of adult love—less fireworks, more responsibility. It also reframes Se‑ho’s jealousy as a generational wound, not an excuse. The triangle finally tells the truth.
Episode 31–32 (Final) On the school steps, students and teachers link arms to stop a sham “closure,” and Bok‑su walks through wildflower petals instead of a brawl. Police sirens wail, but what you remember is the hush when a community decides it won’t fail its kids again. Se‑ho faces accountability and a path to change; Soo‑jung and Bok‑su step into a future they built the hard way. A year later, a cap and gown. Three years later, a teacher’s ID. That’s the real ending: not a kiss (though you get that), but a life.
Memorable Lines
“Whatever you do, wherever you are, you deserve to be loved.” – Kang Bok‑su, Episode 32 Delivered in his graduation address, it’s the drama’s thesis in one breath. He’s speaking to kids who think GPA is destiny, to teachers who forgot why they started, and, really, to his younger self. It reframes worth as inherent, not earned—especially resonant in a school that priced everything. The line lands because we’ve watched him choose people over pride for 32 episodes.
“Aren’t I the one with the right to forgive? I’m clearly the victim.” – Oh Se‑ho, Episode 4 It’s a chilling inversion that shows how narratives get weaponized by power. In that moment, Se‑ho claims moral ground he hasn’t earned, revealing the entitlement rotting beneath his suits. You hear the mother’s voice behind his, the institution’s voice behind hers. The line isn’t just villainy; it’s a case study in self‑delusion.
“You two will never be happy together.” – Oh Se‑ho, Episode 16 A threat disguised as prophecy, and it’s aimed straight at Bok‑su and Soo‑jung’s second‑chance love. What makes it sting is how plausible it sounds within Seolsong’s rules—powerful adults could, in fact, crush them. But the series keeps proving him wrong by building a community that protects what’s fragile. The line’s cruelty sets up the joy of watching it fail.
“Let’s date after you graduate.” – Son Soo‑jung, Episodes 23–24 It reads like a breakup line, but it’s actually a vow disguised as boundaries. Faced with Se‑ho’s pressure, she chooses Bok‑su’s diploma over immediate comfort, trusting they’ll meet on the other side. Have you ever loved someone enough to pause, not quit? That’s the strength humming under her restraint.
“Don’t you dare do anything to her… If I can’t have her, I’ll break her myself.” – Oh Se‑ho, Episode 16 The mask fully slips; obsession reveals its violence. It’s disturbing because it feels like the natural endpoint of transactional love—the same mindset that turns kids into rankings and schools into brands. The show doesn’t excuse it, but it does explain the haunted house he grew up in. That context deepens the catharsis when accountability finally arrives.
Why It's Special
“Have you ever felt this way?” You tell yourself you’re over the past, then one ordinary day a door swings open and invites you back to the hallway where everything started. My Strange Hero taps that very ache with a premise that’s both playful and piercing: an expelled student returns to high school as an adult to right a wrong and, maybe, to reclaim a first love. For viewers in the United States, you can stream the full series on Rakuten Viki and OnDemandKorea, with access also via the KOCOWA Amazon Channel; in select regions outside the U.S., Netflix carries the title as well.
From the first episode, the show leans into warm, easy storytelling. We meet Kang Bok‑soo stumbling back into a world of homeroom bells and cafeteria trays, and it’s not a gimmick—it’s a frame for second chances. The camera treats the campus like a remembered dream: wide hallways bathed in light, a rooftop that still holds secrets, and a classroom that feels smaller than your grown‑up regrets.
What begins as “revenge” quickly blooms into something gentler. The more Bok‑soo rewrites his history, the more he realizes he’s really revising his heart. The tone is a breezy romantic comedy one moment and a tender coming‑of‑age tale the next. Even the name “Bok‑soo” winks at the theme—Korean speakers will catch that it echoes the idea of “revenge”—yet the show keeps asking whether healing is the braver path.
Direction favors faces and feelings over spectacle. Reaction shots linger just long enough to let you hear the unsent text, and scenes that could be melodramatic are played with restraint. The result is a mood that’s sincere without being saccharine, inviting you to root for grown‑ups who still carry teenage fractures.
The writing balances jokes with jolts of truth. A tossed‑off gag about student rankings becomes a quiet critique of how institutions sort kids into boxes; a flirtatious hallway chat slides into an honest conversation about shame and class. Have you ever wished you could apologize to your younger self? My Strange Hero makes space for that wish.
Romance here feels earned. The leads spar with the snappy rhythm of people who know each other’s tells, and the show lets silence do some of the lovework. Meanwhile, the “school” half of the school drama is no slouch: faculty politics, boardroom power plays, and the small rebellions of students who decide to look out for one another.
A final grace note: the series knows when to laugh. Physical comedy and deadpan asides keep heavier themes buoyant, while the bright palette and upbeat soundtrack give even the tough moments a sense of lift. It’s the rare drama that can make you chuckle, wince, and sigh in a single scene.
Popularity & Reception
Originally broadcast on SBS from December 10, 2018 to February 4, 2019, My Strange Hero slotted into the Monday–Tuesday lineup and quickly found its audience. That weekday placement helped it become a comfort‑watch for viewers looking for something warm, youthful, and lightly subversive after work.
Ratings-wise, it showed steady resilience and even spiked: industry trackers noted that early‑January episodes topped the 8% mark in Nielsen Seoul, while the finale week held its own despite holiday schedule quirks. Those numbers match the show’s word‑of‑mouth vibe—never the loudest title in the room, but the one people kept recommending to friends.
Online, the drama continues to enjoy strong replay value. Viki’s dedicated page remains lively with fan comments in multiple languages, and IMDb users keep its aggregate in the mid‑7s—signals that the series still resonates beyond its original run. Viewers often praise the chemistry of the leads and the humane arc of its antagonist.
Critically, recappers and K‑drama bloggers highlighted the show’s tonal balance: a second‑first‑love romance that doesn’t dodge conversations about corruption, class, and educational pressure. Pre‑premiere coverage and weekly stills generated consistent engagement, especially around the antagonist’s complexity and the reunion trope executed with heart.
Award chatter followed. At the 2019 SBS Drama Awards, cast members received nominations in competitive Excellence categories, a nod to performances that carried both humor and hurt. While the ceremony spread its trophies across SBS’s big‑tent slate, the recognition affirmed My Strange Hero’s craft and staying power.
Cast & Fun Facts
Yoo Seung‑ho anchors the series as Kang Bok‑soo, a loveably scrappy everyman whose sense of justice hasn’t dimmed with age. What makes his performance special isn’t only the charm; it’s the emotional calibration. He plays Bok‑soo like someone who has learned to smile around scar tissue, turning slapstick mishaps into small acts of courage and every apology into a rite of passage.
Off‑screen, this was Yoo Seung‑ho’s return to the small screen in late 2018, and anticipation was high from confirmation to premiere. Early coverage emphasized how naturally he fit the role—optimistic, warm, and just a little bit mischievous—which is exactly what the character needed to keep “revenge” from feeling dour.
Jo Bo‑ah brings a lovely duality to Son Soo‑jung, the brilliant student turned teacher whose testimony once helped derail Bok‑soo’s life. She gives Soo‑jung a protective prickliness—sharp tongue, soft core—and lets regret sit visibly on the character without weighing her down. Watching her learn to forgive herself is one of the show’s quiet pleasures.
Before My Strange Hero, Jo Bo‑ah had been earning praise for layered performances, and you can feel that momentum here. The writing asks her to be exacting one minute and goofy the next, and she never drops the thread; it’s the kind of role that turns a good actress into a fan favorite.
Kwak Dong‑yeon is unforgettable as Oh Se‑ho, the smiling model student whose life has been bent by a mother’s ambition. He resists easy villainy, letting loneliness and longing leak through the cracks. The more you understand Se‑ho’s wounds, the more the series becomes a conversation about cycles—of harm, of pressure, of silence.
A fun fact for longtime fans: this marked one of Kwak Dong‑yeon’s first major turns as a villain, a pivot that excited the K‑drama community when casting news broke. Seeing him thread elegance with menace is a treat; you get a layered antagonist who steals scenes without hijacking the story’s heart.
Kim Mi‑kyung plays Bok‑soo’s mother, the restaurant‑running backbone who believes in her son even when he can’t quite believe in himself. With her trademark warmth, she turns every kitchen table conversation into a miniature homecoming, reminding us that love is sometimes a steaming bowl pushed gently across the counter.
Kim Mi‑kyung’s casting also deepened the show’s generational texture. Known affectionately to fans as a “nation’s mother” for her grounded maternal roles, she brings instant credibility and comfort to the family arc, a counterweight to the school’s sharp edges and boardroom chill.
Behind the camera, director Ham Joon‑ho and writer Kim Yoon‑young shape a world that’s brisk, bright, and surprisingly introspective. Pre‑launch reports noted Ham’s experience on Wok of Love and Kim’s fresh voice; together they deliver a romance that smiles at you while asking serious questions about how institutions—and people—can change.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’ve ever wanted a do‑over—with the courage you have now—My Strange Hero will feel like a hug you didn’t know you needed. When you’re deciding among the best streaming services for your next binge, keep this title near the top; its warmth repays your time. And yes, a reliable home internet plan makes the colors and campus bustle sing on a big screen. If you travel and want to keep up with your subscriptions abroad, a reputable VPN for streaming can help you stay connected to the platforms you already pay for. Press play, forgive the past, and let a small, strange hero win you over.
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