Roy's background was even more complex. He worked for a covert division under Interpol—a unit so deeply buried in the shadows that if his identity were ever exposed, the agency would completely disavow his existence. He needed that list too—but unlike Leslie's mission to expose it, Roy's task was to secure it intact and bring it back.
Because the people implicated on that list were too many—powerful figures from every sector of society. If the list were made public, the resulting shockwave would destabilize the entire social structure. Businesses would collapse. Countless people would lose their jobs. Children would go hungry.
Roy knew exactly what those people had done. But his orders were clear: retrieve the list. And if he couldn't—destroy it immediately.
He had no choice but to follow orders, even if those orders disgusted him.
As the plot unfolded, all these layers were gradually revealed. And the audience suddenly realized—they no longer knew who they should be rooting for. Should they support Leslie's quest for vengeance? Or should they hope the list was destroyed?
Leslie wasn't wrong. He wanted to clear his father's name, to pursue justice, and bring the wicked to trial. Roy wasn't wrong either. He had to obey orders. He knew that releasing the list could lead to untold suffering—millions of innocent people paying the price for the sins of the elite.
Both men had their reasons. And neither could be easily dismissed.
Why was the story written this way? What was Laila really trying to say with this film? And what kind of ending was she going to give this narrative?
Not only were the general viewers desperate to know how it would all play out—even seasoned film critics were on edge, eager to see how she would resolve this impossible moral dilemma.
From their perspective, there was no "right" ending.
If you sided with Leslie, you were endorsing vigilante justice—ignoring the collateral damage it would bring. But if you sided with Roy, you were turning a blind eye to corruption, betraying justice in favor of social stability. If wealth and power could excuse criminal behavior, then what was the point of the law? Where did that leave justice?
In fact, what had first drawn Laila to this script was exactly this sharp, thorny contradiction. While she had made many changes to the plot to suit the broader market—tweaking structure, pacing, and character arcs—the core narrative remained untouched. Not only that, she had deepened it, adding nuanced themes like ethnic identity and systemic inequality, all subtly woven into the film's fabric.
Early on, she'd even considered casting an African-American actor as one of the leads. The long history of discrimination between Black and white communities would certainly resonate with audiences. But in the end, she chose Leslie—not only because of his phenomenal acting skills, but also because she wanted to use her influence to help push Eastern cinema into the spotlight.
As for that line she tossed off during a talk show—"Every race is irreplaceable"—it was best not to take it too seriously.
After all, if she didn't believe even actors were irreplaceable, what made anyone think she truly believed that about racial identity? At the end of the day, it was a palatable excuse—something everyone could nod along to without digging too deep.
Asian Americans, in fact, often faced more discrimination in the U.S. than Black Americans. That might come as a surprise to many. Unlike Black communities, who actively fought for political representation and voiced their grievances, many Asian Americans simply wanted to live in peace. They weren't especially concerned with politics—they just wanted quiet, stable, prosperous lives.
To others, that made them the "model minority." Obedient, submissive, rarely involved in violence or criminal activity. But was that really a compliment? People forget that in school, it's often the quiet, well-behaved kids who get bullied the most.
This political apathy is dangerous, too. If you don't vote, if you don't advocate for yourself—how can you expect anyone to stand up for you when it matters?
Leslie's character was exactly this kind of person. From an Asian immigrant family, wrongfully framed with no place to appeal. When the courts declared the guilty "not guilty," he lost all faith in the law.
To take justice into his own hands, he entered the harshest training grounds and used both intellect and physical skill to gain respect—and pursue his revenge.
The fight sequence on the big screen was breathtaking.
Both men used their individual strengths, skillfully leveraging their environment to create tactical advantages.
This fight had been meticulously planned by Roy and the stunt director. Every move was deliberate—powerful, visually satisfying, and cool. Pulling that off wasn't easy.
The version now showing to the audience was the result of multiple rounds of rejection and revision. Laila might not have been a martial arts expert, but she had directed several action films—she knew what looked good. And she wasn't afraid to speak her mind.
After countless adjustments and careful pacing, this was the final cut.
By now, their camaraderie was undeniable. These weren't just partners—they were brothers in arms, the kind of friendship forged through life-and-death struggles. And yet… reality had forced them into conflict. Even so, neither was willing to compromise their beliefs.
Roy had to protect the list—destroy it if necessary.
Leslie had to obtain the list—and expose those who had destroyed his family. And if the legal system failed again, he would take justice into his own hands.
They kept fighting, hoping the other would give in. They didn't want to hurt each other. They wanted to convince one another.
But the world isn't black and white. It's filled with shades of gray. And neither could sway the other. After all this time, they still couldn't land a decisive blow.
Then—something unexpected happened.
Roy stumbled backward, kicking a rock by accident. That rock struck a tree branch—and from that branch, a snake fell.
It was no ordinary snake—its triangular head and brightly patterned scales screamed danger.
Just as the snake lunged toward Roy, Leslie stepped in.
He saved Roy, but took the bite himself.
On this uninhabited island, there was no serum. No antidote. Roy could only watch, helpless, as Leslie took his final breath in his arms.
"Aaaahhh—!" Roy cried out, clutching the body, unleashing a raw, heart-wrenching scream.
Ten days wasn't a long time—but it was long enough to turn two strangers into the closest of friends. Fate had brought them together, but in the end, it had used a single piece of paper—a list—to tear them apart.
They didn't get to walk off that island together.