The film opens with a disturbing montage that blends footage of animal testing with a brutal, implied act of violence in a bathtub. The sequence slides into a grim slideshow of graphic images and a provocative curiosity about the limits of watching violence. A critic’s question pierces the montage: > Until what point are you willing to watch? In other words, what do you want to watch?
Fast forwarding to a week earlier, the narrative replays in black and white, shifting the viewpoint to a female journalist, Yamila Greco as Victim 102, who is seen going about her morning routine while a breaking news segment reports on a serial killer who targets sex workers. This backstory sets the stage for the film’s central inquiry into violence, media, and morality. The journalist drowns herself in research, delving into the pornographic and shocking websites frequented by the killer, all the while inviting a conversation with a stern, thoughtful voice: the film critic, Eduardo Poli. Their discussion touches on themes like misogyny, fetishes, the role of new media, morality, pornography, snuff, and the fragile value of human life, offering a lens through which the horror on screen is reflected and interrogated.
Intercut with the journalist’s investigation are sequences featuring the journalist and two other women—one a pregnant sex worker, the other a porn star—being filmed by a masked man who has labeled his captives as 100, 101, and 102. The pregnant woman is Victim 100, portrayed by Andrea Alfonso; the porn star is Victim 101, portrayed by Silvia Paz; and Victim 102 is the journalist herself. The killer, a chilling figure played by Rodrigo Bianco, subjects them to escalating violence, with the footage alternating between the jailed captives’ muffled screams and the industrial score that underscores their torment. The early brutality around Victim 100, Victim 101, and Victim 102 builds a sense of dread and inevitability as the captives endure fear, confinement, and coercion.
A twist in the narrative reveals itself through a flashback: the journalist was seized after uncovering hidden photographs that depict the film critic in necrophilic acts, exposing an alliance between the critic and the killer in their shared fantasies. This connection between the two men deepens the mystery and raises questions about complicity and the corruption of those who speak about violence publicly.
As the present-day journalist fights to free herself from the restraints of her chair, the plot threads begin to converge. The journalist manages to escape the initial trap and races back into the bathroom where Victim 100 lies, still alive but endangered. The killer returns with the intent to finish what he started, and in a harrowing moment, the journalist witnesses Victim 100’s death as the danger closes in. With the killer dragging the journalist away, she uses a shard of glass to cut through the restraints once more and grabs a cellphone, signaling a desperate bid for escape.
The chase erupts into the woods as the journalist pursues a way out, pursued by the masked killer who wields a machete. The struggle intensifies: the journalist fights back with resourcefulness and grit, turning the tables on her pursuer. In a climactic turn, she gathers a rock to strike and ultimately defeats the masked assailant with the discarded machete. Wounded but resolute, the journalist staggers toward safety, where a passing motorist ultimately comes to her aid and ferries her to safety.
The film’s latter half leaves an impression of relentless inquiry—about the media’s obsession with violence, the cost of voyeurism, and the boundaries that separate art from cruelty—while grounding its tension in a tightly woven cat-and-mouse pursuit. Through its nested timeline, it pairs piercing analysis with visceral imagery, inviting viewers to weigh the allure of sensational content against the humanity at stake. The finale offers a fraught sense of relief, tempered by the knowledge that the journalist has survived a harrowing confrontation, but the shadows of the investigation linger long after the credits roll.
