Se7en (1995)

Detective William Somerset had seen everything—or so he believed. With retirement just days away, he anticipated a quiet exit from the chaos of the city’s dark underbelly. But fate had other plans. A brutal murder marked by gluttony—so grotesque it seemed more symbolic than spontaneous—dragged him into one final case. Alongside him was his young, fiery new partner, Detective David Mills, full of ambition and still untouched by the true evil of the world. The body count began to rise, each one crafted like a twisted message, spelling out one of the seven deadly sins.

As each crime scene unfolded, the killer’s methodical madness became undeniable. A greedy lawyer forced to carve out his own pound of flesh. A vain model disfigured and offered a cruel choice between survival or death. The city, grim and rain-drenched, became the stage for a sermon written in blood. Somerset approached the case like a scholar reading a cursed manuscript, while Mills charged forward like a soldier chasing shadows. The two detectives clashed in worldview—one cynical, the other idealistic—but they shared a growing fear: the killer wasn’t finished. He was just beginning.

Then, unexpectedly, he walked in. Calm, bloodied, calling himself “John Doe.” His surrender was no confession—it was choreography. He offered them a deal: he would lead them to the final two victims. The detectives, desperate for resolution, followed him beyond the city limits to a barren desert. There, under a searing sun, a package arrived. Inside it—an unspeakable horror. Somerset opened it and recoiled in silent dread. Doe’s voice, steady and cold, whispered the final pieces of his masterpiece. Wrath. Envy. Mills, overcome with grief and rage, became the final stroke of Doe’s design. One bullet. One death. One complete sin cycle.

In the aftermath, Somerset stood alone in the dust, the echo of the gunshot still ringing through the endless emptiness. Evil had won—not through chaos, but through precise, orchestrated philosophy. The city swallowed another soul, another hope. Somerset didn't retire. He couldn’t. Not now. "The world is a fine place," he quoted Hemingway later, "and worth fighting for." He only believed in the second part. The killer had been stopped, but his message remained—etched into the minds of two men and the broken city that birthed them.