“So I took the bait? Came here to reclaim my aunt’s feather-light shares, but now it looks like I’ll lose the entire Janghak Foundation instead?”
I didn’t press it twice.
But she read me anyway.
Until now, no one moved without my command.
But she—she didn’t need my permission.
Yes.
She wasn’t a hunting dog.
Ah, she was a wolf.
Dangerous. Untamable.
“Auntie? Which family’s lineage is that?
Say it. Call me mother.
Mother.
Is a stepmother not a mother?”
“So… was it all just to bring me down?
I see. That’s why.
But why? You’re my friend.”
“Have you ever cried out of compassion?”
“My whole life has been drenched in tears.”
“No—not self-pity.
For someone else.
Probably not.
People like you are hypersensitive to your own pain,
but utterly indifferent to others’.
But you know… others hurt just the same.”
“A person should at least have shame.
Enough. Stop.”
Watching The K2 Again
Rewatching The K2, I realized: for me, Anna was the most frustrating character. Not incomprehensible—her grief for her mother and anger at Choi Yoo-jin made sense. But Anna was naïve, young, focused only on her own suffering. If I were Anna, I would’ve done the same—acting only out of a desire for revenge against Yoo-jin.
But as a viewer, I sided with Choi Yoo-jin. Anna blocking her path irritated me. Just like in Women of the Sun, I cheered for Shin Do-young, even knowing she abandoned her sister, while feeling conflicted about Sa-wol who wanted to bring her down.
For me, the heart of The K2 was Yoo-jin and Je-ha. Not quite allies, not quite enemies—their uneasy, delicate tension was what drew me in.
Who Was the Real Protagonist?
Was Je-ha really the protagonist? For me, Yoo-jin was the lead of this drama.
Her expressions alone were mesmerizing. A wounded look at Je-ha’s words, yet a pout that said she refused to show it. A spoiled heiress’s glare, a suppressed cry she refused to let out.
She was unreadable—smiling yet crying, angry yet calm. Especially with Je-ha, her face layered emotions that contradicted each other: affection, cruelty, trust, manipulation. That complexity was riveting. Truly, not just anyone can be an actor.
I loved nearly all of Yoo-jin’s lines, but especially her dignity at the very end.
“A person should at least have shame.”
It revealed her weakness—allowing Eom Hye-rin to die. A sin she could never forgive in herself. That’s why she couldn’t bear to face Anna. Even while keeping Anna as a hostage to chain Jang Se-joon, I believe she never would have actually killed her.
Her manic laughter, her taunts to Anna to call her “mother” (knowing Anna never would), her calm anger even when cornered—Choi Yoo-jin was magnetic.
A Villain to Pity
Though the “villain,” Yoo-jin evoked sympathy.
Even at the very end, when she and Jang Se-joon embraced like a tender couple, I found myself crying again.
The real tragedy began with Eom Hye-rin’s death. Had she lived, Yoo-jin might have shown her father a happy life, however forced. But once her father intervened, that possibility was destroyed.
Jang Se-joon despised Yoo-jin, and she was wounded by that. “So this is the man I staked my life on,” she cried. A man who once sparkled, once seemed worth choosing—but a broken vessel can never be restored. Still, watching Yoo-jin claw desperately to hold on was heartbreaking.
Two Women, Two Paths
Thankfully, Anna did not become a witch like Yoo-jin. She chose light, happiness, and freedom—she could afford to. Only when the story ended could I finally like her, finally see her as a good person.
But Choi Yoo-jin remains unforgettable—tragic, flawed, proud, and deeply human. For me, The K2 was her story.