Sandstorm, The 12-episode show kicks off with a corpse found hidden inside an industrial boiler, unraveling a chilling tale set in a decaying Northwestern town. Within two weeks of its release, Sandstorm climbed to an impressive 8.1 rating on Douban—becoming the highest-rated Chinese suspense drama of the year.
In March 2025, acclaimed screenwriter Zhao Dongling made a striking entry into the world of suspense drama with her first mystery mini-series Sandstrom. But perhaps even more surprising than the show's success is its creator's unexpected pivot. Zhao Dongling is best known for realist dramas, stories grounded in rural hardship and urban morality. So why did she trade that grounded lens for the dark corridors of mystery?
"I've loved suspense for a long time," Zhao says. "I grew up devouring Arthur Conan Doyle and Agatha Christie, and later Japanese detective fiction. I just never had the right opportunity to write it—until now."
Streaming platforms, she explains, have opened new doors beyond the constraints of traditional primetime TV, giving her the creative freedom to explore suspense in depth. After three years of development, Sandstorm became her way of peering into the abyss—not just of crime, but of people left behind by progress.
A Town Buried by Dust, and by Time
At the heart of Sandstorm is not just a grisly crime, but a town in decay. The fictional Kulu County was once rich with mineral wealth, now hollowed out by overexploitation. The factories are abandoned, the sandstorms relentless, and the residents—unable or unwilling to leave—are trapped in place, nursing broken dreams and darker secrets.
The show's opening image—a body tumbling from an old boiler—was inspired by a real-life case from the Supreme People's Procuratorate. But Zhao stresses that the series is not a dramatized version of that crime. "The real case was just the spark. What I really wanted to write about were the survivors—the people crushed by resource depletion and modernization."
Modern forensic technology, Zhao notes, has made traditional "whodunits" harder to write. "Now the police often solve crimes before the autopsy is even done. That's why I leaned into emotional motives, interpersonal tension, and the hidden wounds people carry." In Sandstorm, it's not just about who did it—but why.
Two Detectives, Two Worlds
Zhao built the show's tension around a clash in investigative styles: old-school officer Chen Jianghe, who relies on intuition and personal ties, and younger, by-the-book detective Luo Yingwei, who follows forensic evidence. Their evolving dynamic adds dramatic friction—as well as commentary on how policing and justice shift in a high-tech age.
Interestingly, some viewers nitpicked plot points—like why the killer would use the same boiler again to dispose of a second body. Zhao counters, "By then, the factory had security cameras. Moving the body would've been riskier. Sometimes, what looks illogical is actually a sign the character had no other choice."
"Actors often say that cops in suspense dramas are just tools to advance the plot. One actor was more drawn to playing the suspect Wang Liang than the lead detective!" She credits actor Duan Yihong with transforming the melancholic Chen Jianghe into someone viewers could truly empathize with.
Every Character Cuts Deep
Despite its short format, Sandstorm features a sprawling cast—and each character brings emotional heft. Zhao says she loves ensemble stories because they let her portray a whole town's personality through its people.
Take Sun Caiyun, a cunning, freedom-loving woman who becomes the story's unlikely catalyst. "I didn't set out to write a 'strong female lead,'" Zhao laughs, "but audiences, and even the actress herself, really connected with her."
Then there's Liu Yingying, whose descent into darkness is heartbreaking, not because she's vengeful—but because she's cornered. Originally conceived as the biological daughter of a key suspect, Zhao later made her adopted—emphasizing the character's disconnection and isolation.
Zhao believes Chinese dramas need to reinvent how they portray women. "We can't just keep writing characters who exist to suffer or support others. And more importantly, we have to write about people's pain—not just their joy."
In Sandstorm, Zhao takes on weighty social issues—urban-rural divides, gender-based violence, resource injustice—without falling into voyeurism. "If you just try to shock people, that's exploitation. But if you write from life, from your own experience, it becomes truthful storytelling."
"I usually write with a bit of humor," Zhao says, "but this time, the story was so suffocating that I could only find lightness in Sun Caiyun and her sidekick Guan Qiao. There was no room for comic relief elsewhere."
An Unapologetically Stubborn Writer
Zhao is known in the industry as a fast writer—once finishing a script in 17 days or writing aboard flights. But Sandstorm took her three years, off and on, to get right.
Unlike her earlier work, which often began with months of interviews, Sandstorm started with a single image—a corpse in a boiler—and evolved backward from there. The hardest part? Deciding what the story was really about.
Eventually, she realized she wasn't writing a murder mystery. She was writing about the people the world has left behind. "Sandstorm may not be trendy or uplifting," she says, "but it's filled with human empathy."
Zhao recently attended a film forum in Chengdu, where someone argued that shows should deliver "emotional value" to audiences. She disagreed. "That often just means: make them laugh. But people don't just want laughs—they want to live another life for a while. They want to feel something real."
While Sandstorm fits the mold of a short-form series, Zhao hasn't embraced the trend of "micro-dramas." The format is often built around intense plot twists and rigid formulas, which she feels leave no room for authentic character growth. "Characters need space to breathe," she says. "If you want to write about real people, you can't rush their story."
