“I don’t wait for miracles—I make space for them at 200 km/h.”

Kang Dong‑won returns with flint‑calm resolve as a soldier turned shepherd, guiding a battered convoy onto a refitted bullet train that must thread a quarantined peninsula by night. Kim Su‑an, grown and unbreakable, triages terror with a medic’s hands and a leader’s voice.

The trailer sprints: a silent station lit only by flare ghosts, a mid‑tunnel derail where dangling cars become a ladder, and a bridge of abandoned buses that buckles as “climbers” stack into living scaffolds. New variants learn—“listeners” hunt by heartbeats, “sprinters” break on the third stride—forcing rail‑to‑rail chess, decoy drones, and blackout runs where courage is counted in meters per second.

Metal screams, drums hammer, and a single whistle cuts through the riot as the locomotive rams a barricade of wrecks that feels like a wall of yesterday. Between blasts, the film finds oxygen: apologies whispered between cars, names written on gauze, a promise to make it mean something this time.