"Furious" on Disney+ is a psychological detective story overflowing with estrogen and angst.

On the surface, it is a cat-and-mouse thriller centered on a female serial killer and the investigator determined to stop her. But by the time the credits rolled on the final episode, I realized those two women were only the beginning.

I had lost count of how many women had crossed the screen carrying some form of trauma.

There was the investigator, shaped by her own past. The killer, whose history had twisted her into something terrifying. The investigator's superior, who hadn't been physically abused but had become deeply disillusioned by a justice system that had failed too many women.

Around them were victims, witnesses, mothers, daughters, friends, and strangers, each carrying wounds of their own. Some remained on screen for the entire series. Others appeared only briefly. Every one of them seemed to represent a different response to having been touched by something other than gentleness and care.

Some forged ahead despite what had happened to them. Some became paranoid and defensive. Some grew cynical and struck first before anyone else could hurt them. Some adapted because survival demanded it. Some escaped and spent years trying to forget. Others had been conditioned to accept abuse as simply the way life worked.

Despite the multiple murders that drive the investigation, "Furious" is ultimately less interested in who killed whom than in what happened to these women long before the blood was spilled. The murders move the story forward, but the trauma gives it its emotional weight.

One of the series' greatest strengths is its restraint. It rarely dwells on graphic violence or sensationalizes the abuse its characters have endured. Much of it is implied rather than shown. You don't actually witness many of the rapes, the druggings, or the acts of brutality. The series trusts its audience to connect the dots, and that restraint doesn't lessen the horror. If anything, it amplifies it. Knowing what happened is often more disturbing than seeing it happen because your imagination inevitably fills in the blanks.

To call the series disturbing would be like calling cotton candy sweet. For more than half the series, I found myself unsettled, not because of what I was seeing, but because of what I knew had happened. More than once I caught myself wondering whether I should sympathize with certain victims or question the choices they had made. Not every victim is immediately likable. Not every victim is memorable. By around Episode 6, though, you'll probably know exactly where you stand.

This isn't the kind of series you watch simply to be entertained. It asks you to think. It asks you to wrestle with uncomfortable questions about abuse, justice, revenge, survival, and the many different ways trauma reshapes people. Depending on who you are, it may leave you with greater empathy. It may also leave you feeling strangely detached, as though you've spent nine episodes staring into parts of humanity that most of us would rather pretend don't exist.

Disney+ rates "Furious" for mature audiences, and I think that's exactly right. Not because it is graphically violent—it isn't—but because of the emotional weight of what it asks you to confront.

Watch it if you want a glimpse into one of humanity's darker corners.

The only question is whether you can come out clean afterward.