Nocturnal (2025)

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Short, simple version of the ending:

In the final stretch of Nocturnal, Min-tae learns that his brother Seok-tae was killed during a violent night in which Moon-young finally fought back after years of abuse, and one of Seok-tae's own criminal associates delivered the fatal blow while Moon-young tried to escape. Min-tae confronts the killer and the gang, survives a brutal fight, and then finds Moon-young, who has been hiding in fear and guilt; instead of handing her over or taking revenge, he lets her go and walks away alone into the winter night, his brother dead, the truth exposed, and his own future uncertain but separated at last from the cycle of violence.

Expanded, chronological narrative of the ending:

The winter sky has already darkened when the last act of Nocturnal begins. Snow, or at least a fine, frozen drizzle, hangs in the air over the half-finished construction sites and neon-lit alleys Min-tae has been crossing for days. His heavy work jacket is stained and worn now, the zipper slightly broken, the fabric stiff from dried sweat and melted snow. He moves with a limp from earlier beatings, one hand often pressed against his side where a rib still aches.

He has just left the police station, where Detective Min and Detective Son laid out what they believe is the "solved" version of the case: a domestic fight, a wife on the run, a dead ex-gangster who made too many enemies. The detectives talk about Moon-young as if she is a name on paper--primary suspect, abusive marriage, missing spouse--and they warn Min-tae for the last time not to interfere, not to go on any revenge crusade. Min-tae listens quietly, jaw clenched, then steps back into the night without answering.

Scene shift: Min-tae and Ho-ryeong's last meeting
He meets Ho-ryeong, the novelist, in a dim coffee shop off a main street, nearly empty except for them and the humming refrigerator behind the counter. Ho-ryeong is hunched over a paperback copy of his own book, "Nocturnal," the cover bent at the corners. His wool coat hangs loose, his scarf only half-wrapped, as if he dressed in haste. The overhead lights give his face a tired, almost sickly pallor.

Between them on the table lies the book, and a photocopy of the police report about Seok-tae's death. Ho-ryeong points at a passage that describes a man beaten to death in a karaoke room, and then at the medical notes in the report, the details so close they may as well be copied.

Min-tae's gaze moves slowly from the printed words to the author's face. He asks--flat, almost emotionless--how this scene came to be written before his brother died.

Ho-ryeong explains, haltingly, that Moon-young attended his lectures, that she told him pieces of her life: the beatings, the fear, the fantasy of killing the man who hurt her. He used those elements in his novel. As he speaks, he avoids Min-tae's eyes, watching instead the condensation ring from his coffee cup spreading on the wood.

Min-tae presses him: did he and Moon-young become lovers, did he help her plan it, did he himself kill Seok-tae? The questions are direct, edged with something close to threat, but Min-tae's voice stays low, controlled.

Ho-ryeong shakes his head. He says he met Moon-young only a few times outside the lectures, that he listened, that he turned her story into fiction, and that is all. But his guilt over using her pain as material shows in every small gesture: the way his fingers keep tightening around the book, the way his eyes constantly flick to the door, as if expecting the police--or Min-tae--to drag him away.

He slides an address across the table: a cheap motel near the city's edge where, he says, Moon-young may have stayed, a place she once mentioned as a refuge. He claims he has already given this to the police. Min-tae watches him for a few seconds, as though measuring the sincerity in his face, then takes the paper, folds it once, and tucks it into his jacket.

Without a word of thanks or farewell, he stands, the chair scraping lightly on the floor, and leaves Ho-ryeong alone with his book and his conscience.

Scene: the gang's warehouse and the "first" solution
Before going to the motel, Min-tae makes one more stop--an old industrial lot on the outskirts of town, where a warehouse door is partly frozen in its tracks. This is a place connected to his and Seok-tae's past, and to one of the rival gangs the police quietly suspect.

Inside, yellow light spills from a handful of overhead bulbs, creating long shadows across stacked pallets, plastic-wrapped boxes, and steel support beams. A cheap heater rattles in one corner. Around a metal desk sit Kang-ho, Yeong-seop, and Jae-man--men Min-tae knows from his former life, men who knew Seok-tae as both ally and burden.

They pretend at first that they are surprised to see him. Kang-ho laughs too loudly, calls him "hyung" as if they are still comrades. Jae-man keeps his eyes on the floor. Yeong-seop leans against a column, arms folded, watching.

Min-tae does not sit. He simply asks who was with Seok-tae that night at the karaoke bar, and who locked the door after he died. The mood shifts; the laughter dies quickly.

After some evasions, they offer him a neat, self-serving story: they claim Moon-young called for help, that they arrived too late, that she had already attacked Seok-tae in the room, that they panicked and fled, leaving his body behind. They push Moon-young as the sole aggressor, the monstrous wife who finally snapped.

Min-tae's eyes sweep the room, catching small details: a half-healed cut on Yeong-seop's knuckles, a bloodstain that was never completely scrubbed from a concrete patch near the back door, a karaoke invoice on the desk dated the night of the murder. Their story doesn't match the physical traces.

The tension collapses into violence in an instant. One of them--Yeong-seop--draws a knife from his jacket. Min-tae sees the movement and reacts on instinct, grabbing the nearest object, a length of metal pipe resting against a crate.

Scene: the final big fight
The warehouse becomes the stage for one of the film's last brutal fight sequences. Yeong-seop lunges first, the knife flashing in the sickly light. Min-tae swings the pipe, the impact ringing as metal meets metal shelves and then bone. Kang-ho joins in, wielding a broken chair leg, while Jae-man hesitates, then rushes in clumsily.

The fight is close-quarters, messy but precisely choreographed. Min-tae moves with the wary efficiency of someone who once made violence his profession. He blocks a downward swing, drives his elbow into a stomach, then pivots to bring the pipe down across a forearm. The camera lingers on each impact: the jolt of bodies against crates, the toppled boxes spilling their contents, the fine dust shaking loose from the rafters with every heavy blow.

He is outnumbered, and the earlier injuries slow him; more than once he stumbles, catching himself against a pillar, his breath ragged, blood starting to seep again from his side. Kang-ho gets him against a stack of pallets and lands a few punishing punches to his ribs. But Min-tae uses his weight, shoving Kang-ho sideways into Yeong-seop, briefly tangling them together.

In the struggle, Yeong-seop's knife hand gets trapped between them. Min-tae drives forward, twisting hard, and the blade ends up in Yeong-seop's thigh. Yeong-seop cries out and falls, clutching the wound. Kang-ho, enraged, charges again, but Min-tae brings the pipe down across his knee, then his shoulder, until Kang-ho collapses, groaning and swearing.

Jae-man, finally seeing the fight is lost, backs toward the door, hands raised, face pale. Min-tae steps toward him, pipe lowered but ready. Cornered, Jae-man bursts out with the truth they've all been withholding:

He says that on the night in the karaoke room, Seok-tae was high, out of control. He beat Moon-young again, choking her, slamming her into a table. She fought back--pushing him, scratching at his face, grabbing anything at hand. The room became chaos: broken glasses, overturned stools, blood on the wallpaper.

Jae-man admits that he and Kang-ho were there, sent to keep Seok-tae in line and to collect money he owed. They watched at first, then tried to pull Seok-tae off Moon-young. In the confusion, a heavy ashtray--or a similar blunt object--was swung. It struck Seok-tae's head.

Jae-man swears it was an accident, that they did not intend to kill him. But he also shows, with a tiny gesture of his hand, that the final, decisive blow came from one of them--not from Moon-young. They saw that Seok-tae was barely breathing. They saw Moon-young's shocked, horrified face. Then, thinking of gang orders, of debts, of police, they left him there and let her run.

Min-tae's grip on the pipe tightens, knuckles whitening. For a moment, it seems he might kill Jae-man on the spot. But he does not. Instead, he lowers the pipe, breathing hard, eyes glassy with a mix of anger and something like exhaustion.

He tells them, in a hoarse voice, that the police will come, that this version of the story will not stay buried now. He steps back, leaving them moaning and wounded on the cold concrete, and walks out into the night.

Fates at this point for these men are clear in outline: they are alive, injured, and now exposed to both gang retribution and the law. The film does not follow them further, but their path out of that warehouse is visibly narrowed.

Scene: the motel and Moon-young
The address Ho-ryeong gave leads Min-tae to a worn motel on the outskirts of the city. The building's façade is faded, its sign flickering. A buzzing streetlamp paints the parking lot in a sickly yellow. Patches of dirty snow line the edges of the pavement.

Inside, the lobby smells faintly of cigarette smoke and instant noodles. The teahouse owner–type landlady, a woman with tired eyes and an old cardigan, watches him closely from behind the counter. Min-tae gives a room number in a low voice--one that Ho-ryeong mentioned--and waits.

She hesitates, then nods almost imperceptibly, confirming without words that someone is there. She does not try to stop him as he walks down the narrow hallway. The carpet is worn thin in the center, and the wallpaper peels slightly at the seams.

He stops outside the room. For a moment he simply stands, breathing slowly, the pipe now gone, his hands empty. Then he raises a fist and knocks.

There is no immediate answer. The hallway remains quiet except for the distant noise of a TV from another room. Min-tae knocks again, once, louder.

After a pause, he hears the faint sound of the chain sliding. The door opens a crack, the chain still latched. Through the narrow gap, one eye appears--Moon-young's. It is ringed with fading bruises, yellow and purple, traces of older violence.

When she recognizes him, the door closes at once. There is a muffled sound of movement inside: a suitcase being dragged, a drawer opening, something falling. Min-tae does not move away. He speaks through the door, calling her name once, twice, without anger in his tone.

Eventually, the chain rattles again. The door opens fully.

Moon-young stands in the doorway, framed by the dim light of the room behind her. She is thin, shoulders hunched forward, wrapped in a too-large coat that might belong to someone else. Her hair is unwashed, pulled back hastily, and her hands tremble slightly as she grips the edge of the door.

For several seconds, they simply look at each other.

Inside the room, the bed is unmade. A half-packed bag sits open on the floor, clothes spilling out. A small stack of bills lies on the bedside table next to a cheap phone and a copy of Ho-ryeong's novel, its pages dog-eared.

Moon-young asks, barely above a whisper, if he has come to kill her or to drag her to the police. There is no accusation in her voice, only resignation, as if she has already imagined this moment many times.

Min-tae steps into the room slowly, leaving the door ajar. He does not approach her aggressively; instead, he stands near the foot of the bed and tells her what he now knows: that Seok-tae died in that karaoke room, that she fought him as he attacked her, that Seok-tae's own associates struck the blow that finished him. He recounts Jae-man's confession without embellishment.

As he speaks, Moon-young's face changes. At first rigid and guarded, then gradually crumpling as the details match her own memories. She confirms, in broken sentences, that she called those men for help, that she hoped they would restrain Seok-tae, not kill him. She remembers the sound of the impact, the sudden silence from Seok-tae, the way his body slumped. She remembers running, stumbling into the street, then vanishing into this small, anonymous room.

She looks at Min-tae and, after a long silence, says she did not mean for his brother to die, but that she also knew there was no future if she stayed. Her hands twist in the fabric of her coat as she speaks.

Min-tae listens, his expression hard to read. There is no embrace, no sudden reconciliation. But there is also no outburst of rage. When she finishes, he asks only one question: whether his brother ever tried to leave that life, whether there was a time he might have been different. Moon-young answers quietly that if such a time existed, it was long before she knew him.

There is another silence, heavy and long. The sounds of the motel seep in through the thin walls: a laugh somewhere down the hall, the faint rumble of traffic outside, the hum of the heater in the corner.

Finally, Min-tae tells her that the police will learn the truth--that the men in the warehouse will not be able to hold their story together now. He does not say he will clear her name, and he does not promise to protect her. Instead, he steps back toward the door and, with a small tilt of his head, indicates that she still has time to decide where she will go next.

He leaves her standing in the middle of the room, eyes shining with unshed tears, surrounded by the half-packed remnants of her attempt at escape. The camera remains on her for a few moments: the slight sway of her body as if the weight of the night has finally settled fully on her shoulders, the way her fingers loosen slowly from the handle of the suitcase. Her fate, in concrete terms, is left open: she is alive, free for the moment, but facing an uncertain future with the truth now uncovered.

Scene: Ho-ryeong alone
Later, Ho-ryeong is seen alone in his apartment or study, a place crowded with books, notes, and a desk lamp that throws a warm but lonely circle of light on his workspace. The manuscript of "Nocturnal" lies open, covered in marginal notes and corrections. Nearby, a printed news item or a TV broadcast quietly repeats updates about the case: the death of an ex-gangster, the wanted wife, the involvement of criminal associates.

Ho-ryeong listens, motionless. The report mentions the strange connection to a novel by a bestselling author, and his own name is spoken in that flat newsreader tone. He does not react outwardly, but the camera cuts to his eyes, which do not leave the screen.

He reaches over, closes the book carefully, and sets it aside. For a moment he sits with his hands resting on the closed cover, as if acknowledging that whatever he wrote on those pages now exists in the shadow of a real crime and real suffering. His fate too is unresolved in formal terms; he remains free, but the film leaves him alone in that room, bound to a story that escaped his control.

Final scene: Min-tae's walk into the night
The final images return to Min-tae. He is outside again, walking along a road at the edge of the city. The harsh Korean winter that framed the film from the beginning still holds the streets in its grip: his breath shows in small clouds, and the wind pushes against his coat.

He carries no weapon now. His hands are in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched against the cold. The neon glow of the city is behind him, distant, reflected in puddles of melted snow and ice on the asphalt. In front of him, the road stretches into a dim, uncertain darkness.

Cars pass occasionally, their headlights briefly illuminating his figure from behind, casting a long shadow in front of him before leaving him in half-light again. He does not look back.

There is no voiceover, no verbal summation. The camera keeps its distance, watching this solitary figure who has lost his brother, uncovered the truth, and chosen neither revenge on Moon-young nor a return to the gang world. The path ahead of him is unclear, but he is walking it alone, step by slow step, as the night closes in.

Fates at the end, clearly stated:
- Bae Min-tae: Alive. He exposes the truth about his brother's death, abandons revenge against Moon-young, and walks away alone into the winter night, separated from his old criminal life but with no defined future.
- Moon-young: Alive. Found hiding in a motel, she admits her role as a victim who fought back and fled; she is not directly handed to police by Min-tae, and the film leaves her free but facing an uncertain future as the case moves toward exposure.
- Ho-ryeong (the novelist): Alive. Left alone with his book and media reports linking his work to the crime, he remains physically untouched but morally and publicly entangled; his future actions are not shown.
- Kang-ho, Yeong-seop, Jae-man (gang associates): Alive but badly beaten in the warehouse fight. Their involvement in Seok-tae's death has been revealed; the film implies they will face consequences from both police and gang circles, but does not depict their arrests or final outcomes.
- Bae Seok-tae: Dead before the ending begins. The late revelations confirm he died in the karaoke room after abusing Moon-young, with the final fatal blow coming from his own criminal associate during the struggle.

No, the 2025 South Korean film "Nocturnal" does not have a post‑credits or mid‑credits scene. The film ends with the final scene before the credits roll and there is no additional narrative footage afterward.

Nocturnal is not family friendly and contains significant mature content unsuitable for children or sensitive viewers.

The film carries severe ratings for violence and gore, frightening and intense scenes, and alcohol/drugs/smoking depictions. Specific content warnings include:

• Graphic violence and blood, including a notable scene involving a frozen fish used as a weapon
• Intense and disturbing imagery related to crime and murder investigation
• Severe frightening and intense scenes throughout
• Heavy depictions of alcohol, drugs, and smoking
• Mild profanity and sexual content

The story itself centers on a murder investigation with dark criminal underworld elements, creating an overall grim and morally complex atmosphere. The pacing is slow and methodical, which may feel tedious to younger audiences, but the mature thematic content and graphic depictions make this a film intended exclusively for adult viewers.