Watching the first few episodes of Had I Not Seen the Sun felt like stepping into a room where the lights keep flickering, you’re never quite sure what you’re seeing, what’s real, and what’s a haunted memory. I came in expecting a psychological thriller, and I got that, but also something more emotional and weirdly tender than I anticipated. The setup is strong: our protagonist, Zhou Pin-yu, ventures into a prison to interview Li Ren-yao, the man who has confessed to serial killings — yet who, with his calm voice and unnervingly steady gaze, looks nothing like the monster you’d imagine. From there, the series doesn’t take the obvious route of simply interrogating a killer; it dives into his past, into a ghostly presence of a high-school girl, into dreams that bleed into waking life. It’s ambitious in a way that a lot of crime dramas aren’t.
One of the best things here is the performance by Tseng Jing-hua as Ren-yao. He walks the line between inscrutable and vulnerable in a way that leaves you uneasy and curious at once. You sense that he is hiding something, and you also sense that maybe he doesn’t fully know what he’s hiding. That kind of layered performance lifts the material beyond “just another serial-killer show.” Meanwhile, Chiang Chi, as Pin-yu, brings a kind of earnest fragility to her investigations — she’s smart, persistent, and yet haunted emotionally, and that combination helps the show hold its own. The ghost-figure, played by Moon Lee, is upsetting and strange in the best possible way; she’s not there merely to scare you, but to disturb your sense of time and memory. The writing gives her enough space to be more than “just the ghost,” and that’s refreshing.
Visually and direction-wise, the series leans into the eerie. Scenes in the prison are stark, cold, claustrophobic; scenes in the past (Ren-yao’s youth, the girl’s time dancing or in school uniform) carry a muted palette that makes the bright moments feel like betrayals of what’s to come. There are some gorgeous framing choices — the show doesn’t always over-explain; it uses silence, shadows, lingering shots to build tension. In many ways, it reminded me of how great horror-adjacent dramas work: you’re not jump-scared so much as made to feel off-balance. The writing also does something smart: it sets up what looks like a locked-in format (interview + prison) but then keeps shifting the ground beneath our feet. Pin-yu dreams of Ren-yao; the ghost enters her waking world; connections between the past high-school girl and the killer emerge; and you begin to realise the central question is less “What did he do?” and more “Why did he do it?” and “Can you ever undo what’s been done?”
I appreciated that emotional dimension: the show doesn’t give up on love, guilt, memory, broken youth, the idea that some scars run deeper than we admit. It sneaks in the idea that a serial-killer narrative is also a story of someone who once was a kid, who once loved, who once lost. It doesn’t make him sympathetic in a comforting way — it doesn’t pretend his actions are excusable, but it does open a window into human longing and failure. That gives the show weight. Also, the pacing is generally good: the first few episodes establish character and atmosphere, then it picks up in the middle with surprises and revelations, and you start to lean forward in your seat.
Of course, nothing is perfect. While the ambition is commendable, there are moments where the show overreaches. Some of the mystery tropes feel familiar — the haunted high-school girl, the memories of youth gone wrong, the interview that becomes something else — and occasionally you catch yourself thinking, “Ah yes, I know this beat.” The ghost subplot, while powerful, sometimes drags the plot into murkier territory and slows down the momentum. A few episodes in the middle stretch a little longer than they need to — the dream-sequences, the blurred lines between past and present, though intriguing, sometimes sacrifice clarity for mood. For viewers who prefer their plots tightly wound and explained, these moments might feel a little indulgent or even frustrating.
Also, there’s the secondary cast and side-threads: they add colour and depth, but at times the show doesn’t give them full breathing room. You’ll meet characters and genuinely wonder “why are you here” or “what happened to your thread” because it drifts away or becomes merely punctuation rather than a full part of the narrative. That can leave you wanting more in terms of consistency. And while the cinematography and atmosphere are strong, a couple of moments feel visually overdone — overly stylised in a way that draws attention to itself and interrupts the immersion. It’s a fine line between elegance and affectation, and the show occasionally steps over.
Another small complaint: the tone sometimes wobbles. One moment you’re in gritty true-crime/prison interview territory, the next you’re drifting into supernatural, then back to broken romance. These shifts are in themselves part of what the series is going for (the blurring of lines between reality and memory), but for viewers looking for one clear genre thread, it might feel a bit uneven. I found myself having to recalibrate twice: “Okay, we’re in psychological horror now,” then “No, we’re in tragic romance,” then “Alright, supernatural thriller again.” The show earns that variety, but it also asks you to trust it and hang on when it speeds up or slows down.
Despite those quibbles, the show delivers enough to make it not only worthwhile but memorable. The twist when you finally learn about the girl’s past, about how Ren-yao and she are connected, carries a genuine emotional gut-punch. The way the show handles regret and the idea that time leaves its scars is well done. The conclusion of the episodes I watched felt satisfying, though open enough to promise more. The creative team clearly invested care: you sense that they didn’t want to go for easy horror thrills, but something more haunted, something human.
All in all, watching Had I Not Seen the Sun felt like standing in a dark room with one window — you know light could come through, but you’re not sure when or how bright it will be. The performances elevate the story, the mood and visuals add richness, and the emotional core gives you reason to care beyond “What happens next?” If the pacing sometimes falters and the genre shifts ask you to keep up, so be it — I’d argue those are minor blemishes in a show that mostly uses its ambition to good effect. I recommend it for anyone who enjoys psychological suspense, a dark corner of romance, and a series that doesn’t tip its hand immediately. In short: yes, you should see the sun — even if the series reminds you why some days it hides behind the clouds.
Final Score- [7/10]
Reviewed by - Anjali Sharma
Follow @AnjaliS54769166 on Twitter
Publisher at Midgard Times