“Sketch”—A time-twist crime thriller that asks what you’d sacrifice to rewrite tomorrow
Introduction
The first time I watched Sketch, I caught myself gripping the arm of the couch, whispering, “Don’t open that door,” like it would change what was already drawn. Have you ever felt that dread—the kind that arrives a few seconds before disaster, when your heart knows the future before your brain does? This drama taps right into that sensation and stretches it across 16 taut episodes, where every pencil stroke on a page could be a death sentence or a lifeline. I kept asking myself whether I’d accept a painful fate or fight it, even if fighting meant becoming someone I wouldn’t recognize. And yes, this is the rare crime series that made me pause to breathe, then hit play again because I needed to see if one more decision could redraw tomorrow.
Overview
Title: Sketch (스케치)
Year: 2018
Genre: Action, Crime, Fantasy, Thriller
Main Cast: Rain (Jung Ji-hoon), Lee Sun-bin, Lee Dong-gun, Jung Jin-young
Episodes: 16
Runtime: ~60 minutes per episode
Streaming Platform: Viki (availability varies by region)
Overall Story
The story opens in modern Seoul, where Detective Kang Dong-soo lives like a fuse—short, bright, and pointed at danger. He’s engaged and happy, until a case knocks his life off its axis: his fiancée is murdered, and the investigation throws him into the orbit of Detective Yoo Shi-hyun. Shi-hyun can sketch crimes exactly three days before they occur, images that show fragments of locations, angles, and faces, never the whole picture. Her ability isn’t an answer; it’s a question with a deadline. When one of her drawings eerily resembles the aftermath of Dong-soo’s loss, the two form an uneasy alliance to decode her sketches and stop the next tragedy before the clock runs out. For Dong-soo, the investigation isn’t just about catching a killer—it’s a test of whether grief hardens or clarifies a man’s sense of justice. (Key facts: JTBC 2018 broadcast, 16 episodes starring Rain, Lee Sun‑bin, Lee Dong‑gun. Source corroboration at reputable databases and encyclopedic entries.)
Across the city, Kim Do-jin returns from special forces service to a home saturated with silence: his pregnant wife has been murdered. Do-jin’s arc is a slow‑burn descent into vengeance that feels horribly rational—he’s a good man negotiating an unforgivable loss. When a powerful insider hints that the system will never punish the right people, Do-jin accepts a new mission: eliminate “future threats” before they bloom into violence. The framing is seductively moral—save dozens by dirtying your hands once—but the ethical cost compounds with every step. Do-jin becomes the mirror to Dong-soo: two men who loved deeply and lost absolutely, now moving in opposite directions on the same moral road. Watching them circle each other creates an electricity that hums through the entire series.
Shi-hyun’s sketches drive the weekly momentum. Each drawing is a jigsaw piece from a tomorrow that hasn’t arrived, and the team must reverse‑engineer the puzzle under pressure. Have you ever tried to change an outcome only to cause it? That’s the paradox the show plays with again and again—every intervention risks triggering the very scene they’re trying to prevent. Shi-hyun shoulders a specific guilt: if she hadn’t drawn it, would it still happen? Her gift is a burden that isolates her, and Lee Sun-bin’s performance makes the fatigue and fear read in the tight line of her mouth long before she speaks. The series respects the toll of foresight; seeing is not the same as choosing.
Inside the police apparatus, the “Butterfly Project” quietly coordinates responses to Shi-hyun’s drawings. The team’s name is no accident: every flap of intervention has consequences. Moon Jae-hyun leads with steady gravitas, while the tech‑savvy Oh Young-shim extracts miracles from grainy visuals and partial landmarks. The sociocultural texture matters: in Seoul’s compressed urban sprawl, tiny details—a painted curb, a market logo, a stairwell angle—can place a person within a block, and that block can mean life or death. The series turns the city into a living maze, mapping class divides and bureaucratic choke points that either shield the guilty or delay the righteous.
Jang Tae-joon, an Internal Affairs chief with a statesman’s smile, enters like a solution and lingers like smoke. He whispers to Do-jin about a cleaner kind of justice—the kind that deletes tragedies before they trend. Is that mercy, or vanity in a hero’s mask? Sketch invites us to sit with uncomfortable questions about policing and power: Who decides which “future criminal” is worth preemptive punishment? What errors are acceptable if the outcomes “save” more lives? The show doesn’t sermonize; it sets the chessboard with people we care about and lets the consequences play out.
Dong-soo and Shi-hyun’s partnership evolves under strain. He begins skeptical, almost hostile to the idea that destiny can be drawn, but her accuracy won’t let him dismiss the evidence. As they chase leads born from sketches, he learns to read not just the lines on paper but the person holding the pencil. Their trust grows in small gestures—a late‑night coffee, a shared silence at a crime scene, a hand on a shoulder when a save goes sideways. The series is careful with intimacy; it lets grief be an atmosphere, not a plot device, and honors the line between the comfort we want and the comfort we can actually give.
Mid‑season, the cases thread together. The team realizes these aren’t isolated crimes but ripples from the same stone: someone is curating fate. Each sketch starts to carry meta‑clues—objects repeating, angles echoing prior pages—that point back to the architects in the shadows. When a drawing hints at a catastrophe with mass casualties, the stakes widen from personal justice to civic survival. That’s where the thriller engine roars: the team must stop thinking like responders to a single crime and start acting like strategists disrupting a network. Every minute becomes a trade: save one person here and risk losing ten over there, or hold the line for the bigger rescue and live with the apology you’ll never get to make.
Do-jin’s path runs grimmer. Revenge is lonely, but the endorsement of a powerful patron makes it feel purposeful, even noble. He’s given targets accompanied by dossiers that read like prophecy: if X lives, Y will die; remove X now, and save a schoolbus later. The soldier in him appreciates clarity; the widower in him embraces the pain. Yet cracks form. What happens when one dossier is wrong, or worse, manipulated? When Do-jin realizes he’s not cleaning the future but laundering someone’s ambition, the show pivots from vengeance tale to an indictment of those who monetize fear.
As twists unfurl, the internal politics of prosecution and policing come into sharper relief. The casework exposes how power consolidates in back rooms, how data can be curated to justify any intervention, and how systems remember favors longer than they remember victims. Seoul’s social hierarchies—old money, new influence, and the people who carry both on their backs—become the invisible grid under every chase. This isn’t a sci‑fi detour; it’s a grounded look at who benefits when “fate” becomes a policy tool. The more Dong-soo learns, the more his anger cools into focus, and the more Shi-hyun understands that the hardest drawings to face are the ones where she appears herself.
The final stretch tightens every thread. The sketches start foreshadowing the team’s own losses, forcing them to decide what price is tolerable for a win that sticks. Dong-soo and Do-jin, once two ends of the same broken thread, meet at a crossroads where each man sees the other’s reflection in his worst day. Nothing is easy here—confessions hurt, justice limps, and redemption demands receipts. The show earns its catharsis without erasing the cost, leaving us with a conclusion that feels both inevitable and hard-won. And when the last page is turned, you’re left with the quiet conviction that who we become after grief is the bravest fight of all.
If you’re queuing this up on your 4K TV after juggling family schedules and comparing a new streaming subscription, know this: Sketch rewards attention with a thriller that respects your time and your heart. For me, it’s the combination of propulsive action and the aching human question underneath—if tomorrow is drawn, are we still responsible for today? That’s why the final episodes land with such force; they don’t tell you what to think, they ask who you want to be when the clock hits zero. And that’s exactly the kind of story I’d spend a weekend with, headphones on, phone silenced, and faith in second chances restored. (Key production details verified via public records and broadcast listings; streaming availability fluctuates and may change.)
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 The first sketch arrives like a dare: a street corner, a crumpled umbrella, a silhouette that looks too much like Dong-soo. He rejects the idea that a drawing can predict murder—until the scene comes to life with cruel precision. The shock recalibrates him from skeptic to reluctant believer. This opener nails the show’s thesis: clues without context are traps, and context must be earned. It’s a gripping pilot that shows how dread can sprint just as fast as any foot chase.
Episode 3 A sketch shows a child’s shoe half-hidden under a bench, and the team races to decode the park layout before a predator strikes. Every wrong turn is a moral needle jab—minutes spent chasing one hunch are minutes the child doesn’t have. Shi-hyun’s guilt crescendos here; she drew it, so she feels she authored it. Dong-soo counters not with comfort but with commitment: “We will not let this page win.” The save is messy, imperfect, and utterly human.
Episode 6 Do-jin’s quiet tragedy becomes loud when he confronts a target who might be innocent now but violent later. The choreography is brutal and intimate, designed to make viewers doubt along with him. Afterward, he vomits in an alley—remorse dressed as rage—because even righteous violence stains. This is the episode where the show stops treating vengeance like a straight line and starts mapping it as a spiral with no exit.
Episode 9 A sketch appears to predict Shi-hyun’s own death. The team splits—half protecting her, half hunting the setup—and the series finally says the quiet part out loud: foresight doesn’t spare you from fear. Shi-hyun’s choice to keep drawing anyway is a small act of heroism that lands big. The hour balances puzzle and pathos so well that the reveal feels both surprising and fair. It’s a turning point that binds the team into something like family.
Episode 12 A mass‑casualty scenario flickers through a new drawing, and the show shifts scales from alleyways to infrastructure. Boardroom handshakes, traffic patterns, and police command chains all become pieces on the same board. Dong-soo has to choose between the life in front of him and the lives on the line down the road. The decision hurts—and it should. This is where Sketch argues that leadership is a series of losses you accept so others don’t have to.
Episode 16 The endgame draws two paths to one room: Dong-soo’s relentless pursuit and Do-jin’s disillusioned resolve. The confrontation isn’t just fists and firearms; it’s two philosophies colliding after miles of bad road. Admissions are made, debts are paid, and the final sketch is read not as prophecy but as a dare to be better. The closing minutes honor grief without glorifying it, delivering closure that feels like breath after being underwater too long.
Memorable Lines
“Fate is just a draft. We’re the ones who ink it.” Said in a quiet moment between Shi-hyun and Dong-soo, it reframes the show’s central premise from doom to responsibility. She’s not absolved by her gift, and he’s not shackled by his loss; they both still have to choose. The line lands after a near-miss, when a save felt accidental, reminding them that intention matters. It also signals the slow birth of trust between partners.
“If I have to get dirty to keep others clean, I will.” Do-jin uses this as a shield when a friend asks if he recognizes himself anymore. It’s the soldier’s creed warped by grief, a justification that sounds noble because it carries pain. The scene forces viewers to ask whether outcomes can sanctify methods. Later episodes peel that shield away, exposing how easily conviction becomes camouflage.
“A sketch isn’t a sentence; it’s a warning.” Moon Jae-hyun drops this as the team argues over whether intervening always makes things worse. Coming from a leader who’s seen plans fail, it reads as both caution and courage. The team needs permission to try, to risk being wrong for the chance of saving someone right now. The statement anchors their ethos for the back half of the series.
“You’re not the reason bad things happen. You’re the reason some of them don’t.” Dong-soo tells Shi-hyun this after she blames herself for a rescue that didn’t save everyone. It’s one of the drama’s most tender acknowledgments of burnout and survivor’s guilt. The words don’t fix anything, but they keep her drawing—choosing action over paralysis. Their partnership deepens here, rooted in compassion rather than convenience.
“Justice without doubt is just power wearing a badge.” Delivered during a confrontation with a high-ranking official, this line crystallizes the show’s critique of preemptive punishment. Doubt isn’t weakness; it’s the humility that keeps force accountable. In context, it’s a public risk—speaking truth to someone who can end careers—but it also marks Dong-soo’s evolution from hot‑blooded rage to principled resolve. The fallout from this stance shapes the finale’s stakes.
Why It's Special
Imagine a thriller that asks whether we can bend destiny without breaking ourselves. That’s the heartbeat of Sketch, a 16-episode JTBC drama that fuses crime, action, and a dash of the supernatural into a taut, human story. Quick note if you’re planning a watch-night: as of January 23, 2026, Sketch isn’t currently streaming on major U.S. platforms; availability fluctuates by region, with listings in South Korea on services like wavve/Watcha. Licensing windows change often, so keep an eye on your preferred streaming service’s catalog.
The premise is instantly gripping: an ace detective learns his fiancée will die and teams up with a fellow officer who can sketch events three days before they happen. It’s a genre hook that could feel gimmicky in lesser hands, but here it becomes a humane exploration of grief, choice, and the cost of trying to outdraw fate. The show keeps the sci‑fi element grounded, treating each prophetic sketch like a moral landmine rather than a magic shortcut.
Sketch is also a story about time—specifically seventy-two hours that keep looping, shifting, and tempting its heroes to revise the future. The clock doesn’t just tick; it taunts, asking characters and viewers alike, “If you could change one thing, what would you risk?” Have you ever felt this way—staring at a decision so heavy that even the right choice carries a scar?
Tonally, the drama walks a tightrope between propulsive action and quiet sorrow. Chase sequences and tactical showdowns crackle, but the moments that linger are small: a detective choosing between duty and love; a soldier calculating whether justice and revenge can ever be the same word. The result is a thriller that breathes, letting silence speak as loudly as sirens.
Visually, Sketch leans into cool palettes and late‑night Seoul textures—wet asphalt, sodium streetlights, briefing rooms at 3 a.m.—so the future drawings pop like alarms on paper. The “sketches” themselves are tactile and unsettling, a narrative device that looks handmade and therefore inescapably human. You feel the graphite under your nails and the dread in your throat.
What elevates the show is how its investigations become confessionals. Each case forces the team to interrogate not only suspects but also their own motives. When is foresight a responsibility—and when does it become a burden no one should carry? The writing knows that the most dangerous evidence is sometimes a memory.
And then there’s the way the series treats partnership. Sketch understands that trust isn’t a plot twist; it’s a daily practice. The bonds formed under pressure—between detectives, between rivals, even between the living and the soon‑to‑be—give the action real weight. By the time the final sketches are drawn, you’re not just chasing answers; you’re hoping these people make it home.
Popularity & Reception
When Sketch premiered on JTBC in late May 2018 and concluded in mid-July, it found a stable cable audience, drawing nationwide ratings in roughly the 2–3% range with occasional peaks in the mid‑3s—solid numbers for a late‑night Friday–Saturday slot, especially for a darker, concept-driven thriller. Rather than chasing splashy viral moments, the show earned week‑to‑week loyalty from viewers who liked their adrenaline served with ethical dilemmas.
Critical chatter at the time honed in on the drama’s philosophical core. Korean press coverage framed it as a crime thriller that poses hard questions about justice—what it is, who gets to define it, and what’s left of us when we pursue it at any cost. That framing helped distinguish Sketch from a crowded 2018 lineup heavy on romances and legal procedurals.
Internationally, the series developed a small but vocal fandom. On community hubs, viewers praised its twisty structure and ensemble chemistry, noting how the “sketches” created suspense without cheapening character logic. User-driven rating sites have kept its reputation warm over time, with commentary frequently calling it an “addictive” watch for fans of mystery-action hybrids.
Awards talk was modest but meaningful. Lee Sun-bin earned a Best New Actress nomination at the 6th APAN Star Awards in 2018—an acknowledgment of how deftly she anchors the show’s supernatural hinge with emotional clarity. Even without a trophy case full of wins, that nod captured what early reviewers were seeing: an emerging lead holding her own beside top-billed veterans.
As catalogs rotated in and out of global platforms in the years after broadcast, fans traded tips about where to watch, which kept Sketch in conversation well beyond its original airing. That persistence—staying power built on word of mouth rather than hype—feels right for a drama obsessed with the ripples of a single choice.
Cast & Fun Facts
Rain returns to dramatic noir territory as detective Kang Dong‑soo, wearing grief like a second badge. He plays the character with a lived‑in physicality—every sprint looks like it costs him something, every interrogation feels like he’s negotiating with his own guilt. It’s a performance that remembers how detectives actually think: in fragments, in flashes, in hunches that only make sense once the dust clears.
Rain also brings history with co-star Lee Dong‑gun; the two last shared the small screen 15 years earlier, making their reunion a meta‑thrill for longtime viewers. That backstory adds charge to their on‑screen collision—two men shaped by love and loss, circling the same truth from opposite moral angles.
Lee Dong‑gun is riveting as Kim Do‑jin, a Special Warfare Command veteran whose rage is sharpened, not blunted, by discipline. He plays vengeance as a cold craft, not a hot impulse, which makes every decision feel scarily rational. Even when the character crosses lines, Lee lets us see the husband who once thought he had a lifetime to be ordinary.
What’s striking about Lee’s turn is how elegantly it mirrors the show’s thesis. If you could change the next three days, would you save a life—or rewrite the meaning of justice to suit your pain? His scenes with Rain create a mirror maze where hero and antagonist keep trading reflections, and the audience is left tracing the outline of right and wrong with trembling hands.
Lee Sun‑bin gives the drama its pulse as Yoo Shi‑hyun, the detective whose premonitory sketches are both gift and burden. She never plays “psychic”; she plays a professional who happens to see the future, which keeps the character grounded and humane. Watch the way she studies each drawing like it might study her back—hope and dread in the same breath.
Her performance also punctures the trope that foresight guarantees control. Lee makes Shi‑hyun’s resilience feel earned, scene by scene, so the character’s courage reads less like destiny and more like a decision—one she has to make again every seventy‑two hours.
Jung Jin‑young threads intrigue through the corridors as Jang Tae‑joon, a high‑ranking internal affairs figure whose motives keep rearranging the board. He’s a master of quiet authority; a lifted eyebrow changes the temperature of a room, a soft statement detonates whole subplots. The role gives Jung a chance to play chess while everyone else is sprinting.
Look closely at how Jung calibrates tension with stillness. In a show built on motion—races against time, tactical raids, frantic redirections—his calm becomes its own kind of suspense. You start to wonder if the most dangerous move in Sketch is the one you never see.
Behind the camera, director Lim Tae‑woo shapes the series with clean momentum and shadowed elegance, while writer Kang Hyun‑sung keeps the narrative braided—casework, conspiracy, and conscience pulling at one another without snapping. Together, they make the “sketches” matter not as tricks but as tests, crafting a world where seeing the future changes nothing unless you’re brave enough to change yourself.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you crave thrillers that leave you talking long after the credits, Sketch is the kind of show you queue up and keep thinking about—because its biggest reveals happen in your own what‑would‑I‑do answers. When it reappears on your preferred streaming service, make it a weekend plan, and consider whether your home internet plan can handle a late‑night, lights‑off marathon on that new smart TV. And when the characters ask if the future is fixed, ask yourself the same question—then press play to find out what your heart says back.
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