Sweet Revenge—A teen’s mysterious app turns high school cruelty into a lesson on courage and consequence
Introduction
The first time I watched Sweet Revenge, I felt that tug in my chest you only get when a show peeks into the diary you swore no one would read. Have you ever felt small in a hallway that suddenly stretches a mile long, where whispers stick like gum to your shoes? That’s Ho Goo‑hee’s world—until a mysterious app blinks awake on her phone and offers to flip the script with one typed name. I didn’t expect a series about “payback” to make me think so deeply about grace, friendship, and the cost of clicking send. By the end, I was rooting not for perfect justice but for the messy courage it takes to grow up. And that’s the show’s magic: it understands how it feels to be young, online, and desperate for a little power.
Overview
Title: Sweet Revenge (복수노트).
Year: 2017.
Genre: Teen/coming‑of‑age, romance, fantasy, light revenge comedy.
Main Cast: Kim Hyang‑gi, Lomon (Park Solomon), Kim Hwan‑hee, Cha Eun‑woo.
Episodes: 12.
Runtime: Approximately 10–24 minutes per episode.
Streaming Platform: Viki
Overall Story
Ho Goo‑hee is the kind of student you notice only when someone else is laughing at her. In Korean, her name can be twisted into “Ho‑gu,” slang for “pushover,” and the joke follows her from cafeteria to classroom like a shadow she didn’t ask for. Her family runs a modest chicken shop; she studies hard, tries to stay invisible, and tells herself that survival is the same as peace. Then the dominoes start to fall—an ex humiliates her, the “Zombie Club” of tough kids zeroes in, and even walking to class feels like a dare. One night, a notification pings: an app promising revenge on anyone whose name she types. It’s too absurd to be real—until it is. Suddenly the balance of power shifts, and Goo‑hee has to decide what kind of person she’ll be now that the world finally seems to be listening.
At first, the app feels like a secret superhero cape. Goo‑hee targets small injustices—the lying ex, the cruel rumor starter—and the consequences land with comic precision: public embarrassment, karmic pratfalls, the universe giving bullies a taste of their own medicine. Her new friend Jung Deok‑hee, a bubbly fangirl with a heart the size of a stadium, helps her laugh again, and K‑pop idol Cha Eun‑woo (playing himself) pops into her life with warm, big‑brother energy that steadies the chaos. Meanwhile, Shin Ji‑hoon, the stoic classmate who always seems to be there when things go sideways, watches her transformation with quiet worry. The show paints Korea’s high school culture vividly—hierarchies, fandom, after‑school cram sessions, and the way social media can turn a hallway spat into a trending topic. Payback, for a moment, feels like healing.
But power has a way of asking for more. When Goo‑hee’s dad is roughed up trying to break up a scuffle near campus, the “Zombie Club” sniffs out that she helped him and marks her as next prey. Fear and fury tangle inside her, and the app becomes a lifeline…or a leash. Each new name she types raises the stakes; the pranks get edgier; the ripple effects hit people who didn’t deserve the splash. Ji‑hoon steps in more often, not as a savior but as a witness who refuses to look away, and Deok‑hee tries to keep kindness in the room when anger gets loud. Have you ever watched yourself from the outside and wondered when the line slipped under your feet?
The middle stretch of Sweet Revenge is where the show quietly deepens. We see how rumors travel faster than apologies, how bullies recruit spectators by promising entertainment, and how grown‑ups—teachers, hall monitors, even parents—can miss the moments that matter. Goo‑hee’s family worries in different ways: Mom wants her safe, Brother cheers her spine, Dad hides his own bruises behind a smile. Deok‑hee and Goo‑hee weather their first real friction when a revenge “win” accidentally hurts someone they both like, and the apology costs pride. Ji‑hoon’s reputation as the “popular boy” is stripped of glamor; popularity doesn’t pay the tab when you’re choosing between silence and standing up.
As the app’s victories blur into messes, the series starts asking smarter questions. Is “justice” still justice if it’s anonymous? When revenge goes viral, who’s in control—the sender, the code, or the crowd? The writers thread in digital‑age realities without a lecture: doxxing scares, screenshots that never die, the way your online life can be weaponized. Watching, I kept thinking about the tools we use in real life—identity theft protection, parental control app settings, even old‑fashioned boundaries—and how none of them replaces a young person learning to speak for themselves. Goo‑hee’s power doesn’t make her cruel; it makes her honest about how close cruelty can sit to relief.
Ji‑hoon’s quiet guard collapses in small, beautiful ways. He admits that he stepped in the first time because he recognized the look Goo‑hee wore—the tight, hot shame of being cornered. He’s not trying to save her but to make sure she remembers she isn’t alone, and that difference changes everything. Deok‑hee, for her part, proves she’s more than comic relief; when the app tempts Goo‑hee to humiliate a teacher who made a careless comment, Deok‑hee coaxes her to pause and gather facts first. Have you ever had a friend who took the phone out of your hand at just the right second? Sweet Revenge honors that friend.
The “Zombie Club” returns with sharper teeth, and a near‑disaster forces Goo‑hee to face how the app feeds off her fear. What started as small catharses now looks like a pattern: she types to avoid the hard conversations she deserves to have—to bullies, to bystanders, to herself. In one of the season’s most grounded stretches, she chooses not to enter a name and instead confronts the ringleader in broad daylight, backed by Deok‑hee, Ji‑hoon, and a few classmates who finally choose courage over comfort. The scene doesn’t feel like a fantasy triumph; it feels like a community learning where its spine is.
By the final episodes, Goo‑hee’s relationship with Ji‑hoon blooms into something tender and unhurried—two kids trading armor for honesty. Cha Eun‑woo’s cameo warmth becomes a nudge toward ordinary goodness: you don’t need a stage to be kind, and you don’t need an app to be brave. The app’s origin stays mythic on purpose, more mirror than mystery box, and that preserves the story’s focus on choice. Goo‑hee decides what to do with the tool and, more importantly, who she is without it. Whether the app lives or dies matters less than the way she hands the microphone back to her own voice.
The epilogue is all the sweeter for its restraint. Goo‑hee still has hard days; the hallway doesn’t magically shorten; group chats still hum; exams still bite. But the circle around her is wider: Deok‑hee is family now, Ji‑hoon fits like a breath she had been holding, and even a few former bystanders have learned how to stand. As a viewer, I left with a lump in my throat and a thought in my head: the opposite of cruelty isn’t punishment, it’s presence. If you’ve ever wanted the internet to fix what ached in you, this drama invites you to try something braver—conversation, repair, and the slow, uncool work of growing up.
Highlight Moments
Episode 1 Goo‑hee discovers her boyfriend has ghosted her and, worse, publicly denies ever dating her—an early humiliation that makes the first “revenge” feel justified. She stumbles on the app later that night, the interface innocent as candy, and hovers over the keyboard with shaking hands. When she finally types his name, the fallout is instant and ridiculous, and for the first time in a long time, she laughs without flinching. Ji‑hoon witnesses the aftermath from a distance, clocking both her relief and her confusion. It’s a turning point not because payback lands, but because Goo‑hee realizes how quickly power numbs pain. Parents watching with teens might even use this episode to talk about digital safety and what a real parental control app can—and can’t—do.
Episode 3 After Goo‑hee helps her injured dad outside school, the “Zombie Club” notices and marks her. Their intimidation is filmed, edited, and looped on phones, proof of how cruelty courts an audience. Ji‑hoon steps in with no theatrics, dispersing the crowd long enough to get her to class, and Deok‑hee starts walking with Goo‑hee in the hallways. Goo‑hee adds names to the app in a flurry of adrenaline, and each success makes the next entry easier. The episode ends with a shot of her thumb hovering, and you can feel how temptation becomes a habit.
Episode 5 A near‑betrayal scares the girls when a revenge post accidentally embarrasses someone Deok‑hee admires. Their friendship wobbles, but the apology scene is one of the show’s loveliest: clumsy, teary, and resolute. Cha Eun‑woo drifts through like a sunbeam—gentle encouragement rather than deus ex machina—reminding Goo‑hee that kindness isn’t weakness. The two girls make a pact to verify before they vilify, and the app’s shine dims just enough for wisdom to slip in. It’s a smart portrait of fandom, too, showing how a shared crush can be silly and sacred at the same time.
Episode 7 A revenge entry ricochets onto an unintended target, and Goo‑hee sees how fast “justice” can become collateral damage. She scrambles to fix what she broke, learning that wrongs aren’t undone by more public shaming. Ji‑hoon shares a sliver of his past—why he bristles at humiliation masquerading as humor—and their bond shifts from proximity to trust. The app, once a toy, now looks like a test, and Goo‑hee starts choosing not to type. The quiet of that choice feels heavier than any prank the code could pull.
Episode 9 The confrontation we’ve been dreading arrives in broad daylight, not behind the gym. Goo‑hee refuses to enter a name and instead reads receipts in front of the class: what happened, who filmed, who laughed. A teacher shows up late, but the important part is that other students, emboldened by Goo‑hee, step forward to corroborate. Deok‑hee’s trembly voice might be my favorite moment of the hour. This is the episode where the school stops being a coliseum and starts being a community—imperfect, louder, better.
Episode 12 The finale threads romance, responsibility, and release. Goo‑hee chooses to stop using the app, not because she’s saintly but because she’s ready to be accountable in the open. Ji‑hoon doesn’t sweep in; he stands alongside her as she makes amends and sets new boundaries. Cha Eun‑woo’s last appearance is a warm wink toward ordinary goodness, and Deok‑hee seals their friendship with a “no more secrets” hug. The final beat leaves the app’s mystery intact, hinting that power always lives somewhere but character is what lasts.
Memorable Lines
“If I type their name, do I become like them?” – Ho Goo‑hee, Episode 4 Said in the haze after an early “win,” it’s the first time Goo‑hee wonders whether relief and righteousness are the same thing. The question reframes the season from pranks to ethics and nudges her toward responsibility. It also signals to Ji‑hoon that she’s looking for a different kind of courage.
“Being popular isn’t the same as being brave.” – Shin Ji‑hoon, Episode 6 He offers this line after pulling her out of a crowd, annoyed at himself for waiting so long to speak. It strips the gloss off his image and makes space for a slower, truer friendship. For Goo‑hee, it’s proof that support can be steady without being showy.
“You don’t need a stage to be kind.” – Cha Eun‑woo, Episode 5 Coming from a literal star, the line lands like a hand on a shoulder. It reminds Goo‑hee—and Deok‑hee—that everyday decency counts as much as viral moments. The cameo isn’t a plot crutch; it’s a thematic lighthouse, pointing the girls back to themselves.
“Revenge feels fast; healing is slow.” – Goo‑hee’s Mom, Episode 8 After another hallway incident, Mom folds laundry and tells the truth without drama. The line captures the family’s quiet backbone and the show’s respect for unglamorous resilience. It also echoes real‑world needs—sometimes we need community, sometimes online therapy, always time—to untangle what hurt us.
“I won’t run anymore—not from them, and not from myself.” – Ho Goo‑hee, Episode 10 This is the character‑defining pivot, when she chooses to confront the ringleader without the app’s shield. The sentence doesn’t promise an easy win; it promises a different way to live. It’s where the series turns from spectacle to growth, the moment many of us will replay when we need courage of our own.
Sweet Revenge is more than a clever premise; it’s a compassionate nudge toward the kind of bravery that outlasts any viral takedown—watch it, because somewhere between the laughs and the lump in your throat, you’ll remember the power you’ve had all along.
Why It's Special
The first thing that hooks you about Sweet Revenge is how a simple phone app becomes the emotional compass of a teenage girl’s life. The premise is playful, but the way the story turns small acts of “payback” into moments of growth makes it feel unusually tender. You watch a quiet student discover her voice, and each tap on the screen forces her—and us—to ask what justice really feels like when you’re 17 and just trying to survive high school. Have you ever felt this way, wishing you could flip the power dynamic for once and walk the hall with your head high?
Before we get swept into the emotions, a practical note for viewers in the United States: Sweet Revenge is currently streaming on Rakuten Viki, which makes it easy to jump in with full subtitles and a very bingeable episode length. If you’ve been saving a feel‑good teen drama for a weekend comfort watch, this one’s accessible and light enough to finish in a couple of evenings.
What sets this drama apart is its tone. It blends candy‑colored school comedy with moments of real unease—the kind that comes with bullying, social hierarchies, and the casual cruelty of adolescence. Yet, instead of dwelling in darkness, the show leans into empathy. The “revenge” rarely lands as vengeance; it’s closer to a nudge from the universe, a way to confront harm without losing the sweetness that makes the lead so easy to love. Have you ever wanted consequences without losing your kindness in the process?
Direction and pacing keep that balance intact. Episodes are short, snappy, and structured like little moral puzzles. Each chapter opens a new case, but the camera always returns to the heroine’s face at the moment she realizes that every win costs something—a friendship strained, a rumor fueled, a heart pulled in a direction it’s not ready to go. The result is a series of gentle cliffhangers that never overstay their welcome.
Writing-wise, the drama resists making the app a magic wand. The names typed in don’t summon cartoonish punishments; instead, they trigger situations that expose truths—cheaters get caught, bullies lose their audience, and a “cool” kid’s loneliness bubbles to the surface. That choice keeps the story grounded. It feels less like fantasy and more like a teen’s dream of the world finally noticing what she’s been too shy to say out loud.
The acting lands with a sincerity that makes even the funniest setups feel human. Tiny micro‑expressions—a half‑smile in a cafeteria, a flinch when a rumor starts—do more than the spectacle. The school hallways look familiar, too: fluorescent lights, scuffed lockers, a classroom where the windows open to that lazy afternoon sun. It’s the kind of specificity that lets international viewers recognize their own memories in a very Korean setting.
Finally, Sweet Revenge is special because it doesn’t confuse empowerment with perfection. The heroine makes mistakes. She types names in anger. She hesitates. She apologizes. And if you’ve ever sent a text you regretted two seconds later, the show’s message—that growing up means learning when not to press “enter”—hits beautifully close to home. For a compact web drama that first aired in late 2017 and amassed millions of views, its heart still feels freshly relevant today.
Popularity & Reception
When Sweet Revenge premiered on Oksusu in 2017, it quickly became one of those small‑scale web dramas people traded like a secret—a “Have you seen this?” recommendation whispered between classmates and shared on group chats. By the time its first run wrapped in January 2018, it had drawn roughly 11 million combined views, a striking number for a short‑form series that lived primarily online. That organic word‑of‑mouth—more than splashy advertising—made it a quiet hit.
The show’s audience didn’t just stick to Korea. Subbed availability helped it travel, and international fans embraced its mix of school crushes and light supernatural flair. On mainstream databases, viewers still mark it as a satisfying, breezy watch; IMDb users, for instance, sit around the low‑to‑mid‑7 range, which tracks with how web dramas often age: valued for comfort, revisited for vibes.
Critically, Sweet Revenge earned the kind of praise web dramas savor most: comments about charm, sincerity, and rewatchability. Longtime K‑drama bloggers in the West highlighted the lead’s warmth and the show’s knack for turning small school scandals into teachable moments without sounding preachy. That chorus of “this is sweeter than I expected” became the show’s signature review line.
The fandom also refreshed in waves. When Lomon (then credited as Park Solomon) exploded globally thanks to Netflix’s All of Us Are Dead in early 2022, new fans went digging for his earlier work—and Sweet Revenge was right there waiting, gaining fresh curiosity on international platforms and social media. That second life says a lot about how nimble, youth‑focused web dramas can win renewed love years later.
Awards were never the point, and the series wasn’t built for year‑end trophy hauls. Instead, its sequel order and continued platform presence speak to impact: a concept strong enough to spawn Sweet Revenge 2 and a fan base willing to follow cast members into bigger, glossier projects. In a landscape where scale often dominates, this little show’s staying power is its truest accolade.
Cast & Fun Facts
Kim Hyang‑gi anchors the story as the soft‑spoken heroine whose phone becomes a moral mirror. She plays vulnerability without fragility, capturing how a kid who’s used to shrinking herself edges toward taking up space. Watch her eyes whenever a plan nearly backfires—there’s panic, sure, but also a flicker of backbone that grows episode by episode. It’s the performance that makes the app’s “magic” feel like an extension of a real girl’s courage.
Offscreen, Kim was in a moment of remarkable momentum. The same season she led Sweet Revenge, she appeared in the blockbuster Along With the Gods: The Two Worlds, then went on to acclaimed film work that underscored her range. If you’re meeting her here for the first time, this drama is a perfect doorway into a career defined by empathy and precision—proof that a seasoned former child actor can carry a series with quiet authority.
Lomon (Park Solomon) plays the aloof yet fiercely protective classmate who keeps turning up when the heroine most needs him. He doesn’t overplay the cool; instead, he lets silence do the talking, and then disarms you with a half‑grin that says he’s braver than his reputation. The show gives him small heroic beats—walking someone home, taking a hit meant for another—that feel huge in the world of teenagers.
The years after Sweet Revenge turned Lomon into a global name, especially following All of Us Are Dead’s surge to the top of Netflix charts. As his follower counts skyrocketed and fan meetings popped up across countries, many viewers circled back to see where that steady screen presence began. Rewatching him here adds an extra layer: you’re watching a star warm up in real time.
Cha Eun‑woo steps in as himself, a meta casting choice that does more than wink at K‑pop fame. His character’s gentle protectiveness provides a safe harbor for the heroine, and his scenes double as commentary on idol culture—how stardom can be both a shield and a responsibility. The cameo sparkles without hijacking the plot, which is exactly how to use star power in a youth series.
For fans who came to the drama because of his music career, his appearance offers a sweet bridge between worlds. It’s also a reminder of how web dramas help idols try on screen personas without the pressure of a 16‑episode primetime slot—an experiment that pays off here with surprising warmth and relatability.
Kim Hwan‑hee gives the heroine the kind of friend every bullied kid deserves: loud, loyal, and unembarrassed about her obsessions. She steals more scenes than you expect, not by being bigger but by being real; her swagger hides a tender heart, and her comic timing eases the story whenever the app’s consequences land too hard. You believe instantly why these girls choose each other.
It’s fun to realize how much of the show’s rhythm depends on her. When she barrels into a room with an idol joke or a half‑baked plan, the episode’s energy lifts, and the revenge mechanics feel less like a curse and more like an adventure. That tonal buoyancy is part of why Sweet Revenge remains a cheerful recommendation years later.
Behind the scenes, director Seo Won‑tae and writers Han Sang‑im and Kim Jong‑seon keep the machine humming. They build each episode like a teen‑sized parable—setup, choice, consequence—with enough levity to make the lesson go down easy. The show’s concise structure, its Oksusu web‑native format, and its view‑driven success all point to a team that understood how Gen‑Z (and now Gen‑Alpha) actually watches stories: on the move, in bursts, but with their hearts wide open.
Conclusion / Warm Reminders
If you’re craving a drama that lets you laugh, wince, and root for a kinder brand of justice, Sweet Revenge is a quietly irresistible pick. Stream it on a cozy night and let its small victories remind you how courage often starts with a whisper. If you’re watching on the go or public Wi‑Fi, using a reliable VPN for streaming can keep your connection stable and private while you binge. And because the story brushes against online boundaries, it might even spark a family chat about digital footprints and identity theft protection—timely conversations for any household. When you’re ready, press play and let this little web gem work its gentle magic.
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