Journalists published an investigation into the operation of fraudulent centers in Southeast Asia.
One ordinary summer evening, a New York journalist opened an unsubscribed email and for a moment felt as if he'd been transported to another world. The message came not from an office or a press office, but from a place the author called hell. The stranger asked to be called Red Bull and claimed to be inside a large-scale "crypto-romantic" scam factory in the so-called Golden Triangle in Southeast Asia.
Red Bull posed as a young engineer from India. He claimed he was lured there with a fake job posting as an IT manager in Laos, but his passport was confiscated on the spot and he was faced with no choice: work 15 hours a day, live in a cramped room with other men, and fulfill a quota measured not by tasks and deadlines, but by the number of "first conversations" with potential victims. He wrote that attempts to resist resulted in fines, hunger, threats, and sometimes even the simple disappearance of people.
The case revolved around schemes known worldwide as "pig butchering ." The victim is first lured with communication, flirtation, and promises of relationships, then carefully guided into investing in cryptocurrency and supposedly profitable trading platforms. In reality, these are mere stage props, and the money goes to the criminals. Red Bull claimed that the industry of such scams has become one of the most profitable forms of cybercrime , supported by hundreds of thousands of forced laborers in closed complexes in Myanmar, Cambodia, and Laos.
The key to this story isn't even the scale, but the source of the evidence. Red Bull began sharing internal instructions, workflows, and screenshots of conversations with the journalist, all in near real time. He described a pipeline from creating fake social media profiles to using models and AI tools to craft "perfect" messages, ensuring they sound convincing and avoid any language errors. Internally, he said, there are plans, penalties for the slightest infractions, and even rituals like beating a gong or drum when someone "closes" a large deal.
The journalist tried to figure out whether it was possible to stop at least one of the scams reported by the source and involve law enforcement. However, contacts in the anti-scam community dissuaded him from the idea of an "on-site operation." Arresting a cash courier likely wouldn't yield useful information, and any fuss could lead to a leak within the complex and a direct threat to Red Bull's safety. Ultimately, the journalist made a choice that sounded harsh, but was dictated by the source's safety: to stay out of the specific incident to avoid provoking reprisals.
Things got even more dire from there. Red Bull planned to escape by forging a letter supposedly from Indian police, but he was caught. He wrote that he had been beaten, his phone and documents confiscated, and money demanded for his "release." For several days, he lived on edge, alternately returning to correspondence with the journalist and then disappearing. Attempts to find help ran into ethical and practical obstacles. No one wanted to pay the ransom, lest they finance human trafficking , and some of his interlocutors downright doubted that the whole story wasn't part of a new trap.
At some point, a glimmer of hope appeared. According to Red Bull, rumors of police raids were circulating within the complex, and then videos of arrests in neighboring buildings actually surfaced. His superiors had moved their group to another location beforehand, but the general nervousness played into his hands. They eventually let him go, likely deciding he was useless and only posing a risk. His passport was returned at the last minute, and he was allowed to leave in the same condition—they didn't even allow him to take his shoes.
Upon returning to India, Red Bull revealed his identity. His name is Mohammad Muzakir. After his release, he handed over a massive trove of materials to journalists, including internal chat logs, which later became a document containing thousands of screenshots. This data reveals not only the scale of the fraud but also the factory's day-to-day operations, the plans, the fines, the humiliation, and the language used to force people to work in a system built on deception and fear.
One manager, who introduced himself as Amani, began his shift with motivational pitches about "new opportunities" and "client value." In reality, his subordinates worked 15-hour night shifts in a building in the so-called Golden Triangle , a special economic zone in northern Laos. Most of the workers there were as much victims as the people they defrauded. Many had their passports confiscated, were held in debt, and were forced to meet quotas, threatened with reprisals for attempting to escape.
Journalists estimate that, based on the 11 weeks of available group chats alone, more than 30 employees collectively "brought in" approximately $2.2 million in swindled money from victims. Even with such sums, management constantly pressured employees, accusing them of laziness and issuing fines.
The control system resembled a punishment ledger. Failure to start the "first chat" of the day meant a fine. Falling asleep in the office or watching something unrelated meant another fine. Making a mistake in a report meant a fine. Failure to sign a paper acknowledging a "violation" doubled the fine. Muzakir said he formally received a base salary of 3,500 yuan per month, but most of it was eaten up by penalties. Food in the cafeteria could be banned as a punishment, and access to it revoked for a week. Meanwhile, the promise of "work it off and then leave" remained a bait. He was told his passport would be returned after he paid the $5,400 "contract," but correspondence shows how easily people could be driven into even greater debt.
Against this backdrop of brutality, the office theater seems particularly terrifying. Employees were forced to post daily schedules of their fictional characters, supposedly rich and attractive women. They included yoga, meditation, walks, and "positive intentions," although in reality, people sat all night in front of screens under fluorescent lights. Managers monitored the continuity and would even demand that WhatsApp be connected to managers' computers so they could monitor their messages directly.
A separate section of the leak is dedicated to technology. According to Muzakir, employees were trained to use generative tools like ChatGPT and Deepseek to quickly generate convincing responses. Even more important was the infrastructure for deepfake calls . The chats mention a "deepfake room," where a model would conduct face-swapping video calls upon request, so the victim would believe the other person was real. Even there, there was resource management—warnings not to promise a call if the model was busy or feeling unwell, and requests to change the "busy/available" sign to avoid crowding at the door.
Researchers who examined the logs described the situation as a "slave colony masquerading as a company" and noted an "Orwellian veneer of legitimacy." The messages also contained more direct threats. One manager wrote that those who "resist the rules" would not survive. Other episodes mentioned disappearances and stories of torture, and Muzakir himself said he was beaten and threatened with a Taser.
According to information he gathered from messages from former colleagues, the complex later moved from Laos to Cambodia and continued recruiting employees—new victims lured by fake job postings. And this is perhaps the most disturbing part of this story. Even when the messages, scripts, and photos from inside are revealed to the world, the machine remains operational and simply changes its address.
The story doesn't try to make Muzakir a flawless hero. He admitted to coercing two people into defrauding him and even named the amounts involved, one of which was over $11,000. He speaks of guilt, insomnia, and the inability to return to normal life. But it's from the inside, with all the contradictions and dirty details, that this story reveals how the modern industry of "romantic" crypto scams works and why it's so resilient.
Muzakir insists he's willing to speak out, even knowing the risk of retaliation. He hopes his example will encourage others held hostage by such "offices" to speak up and hand over evidence. In a world where scammers learn to write more convincingly from neural networks, and victims on both sides of the screen lose money, freedom, and trust, this sounds like a rare attempt to regain a human voice.
One ordinary summer evening, a New York journalist opened an unsubscribed email and for a moment felt as if he'd been transported to another world. The message came not from an office or a press office, but from a place the author called hell. The stranger asked to be called Red Bull and claimed to be inside a large-scale "crypto-romantic" scam factory in the so-called Golden Triangle in Southeast Asia.
Red Bull posed as a young engineer from India. He claimed he was lured there with a fake job posting as an IT manager in Laos, but his passport was confiscated on the spot and he was faced with no choice: work 15 hours a day, live in a cramped room with other men, and fulfill a quota measured not by tasks and deadlines, but by the number of "first conversations" with potential victims. He wrote that attempts to resist resulted in fines, hunger, threats, and sometimes even the simple disappearance of people.
The case revolved around schemes known worldwide as "pig butchering ." The victim is first lured with communication, flirtation, and promises of relationships, then carefully guided into investing in cryptocurrency and supposedly profitable trading platforms. In reality, these are mere stage props, and the money goes to the criminals. Red Bull claimed that the industry of such scams has become one of the most profitable forms of cybercrime , supported by hundreds of thousands of forced laborers in closed complexes in Myanmar, Cambodia, and Laos.
The key to this story isn't even the scale, but the source of the evidence. Red Bull began sharing internal instructions, workflows, and screenshots of conversations with the journalist, all in near real time. He described a pipeline from creating fake social media profiles to using models and AI tools to craft "perfect" messages, ensuring they sound convincing and avoid any language errors. Internally, he said, there are plans, penalties for the slightest infractions, and even rituals like beating a gong or drum when someone "closes" a large deal.
The journalist tried to figure out whether it was possible to stop at least one of the scams reported by the source and involve law enforcement. However, contacts in the anti-scam community dissuaded him from the idea of an "on-site operation." Arresting a cash courier likely wouldn't yield useful information, and any fuss could lead to a leak within the complex and a direct threat to Red Bull's safety. Ultimately, the journalist made a choice that sounded harsh, but was dictated by the source's safety: to stay out of the specific incident to avoid provoking reprisals.
Things got even more dire from there. Red Bull planned to escape by forging a letter supposedly from Indian police, but he was caught. He wrote that he had been beaten, his phone and documents confiscated, and money demanded for his "release." For several days, he lived on edge, alternately returning to correspondence with the journalist and then disappearing. Attempts to find help ran into ethical and practical obstacles. No one wanted to pay the ransom, lest they finance human trafficking , and some of his interlocutors downright doubted that the whole story wasn't part of a new trap.
At some point, a glimmer of hope appeared. According to Red Bull, rumors of police raids were circulating within the complex, and then videos of arrests in neighboring buildings actually surfaced. His superiors had moved their group to another location beforehand, but the general nervousness played into his hands. They eventually let him go, likely deciding he was useless and only posing a risk. His passport was returned at the last minute, and he was allowed to leave in the same condition—they didn't even allow him to take his shoes.
Upon returning to India, Red Bull revealed his identity. His name is Mohammad Muzakir. After his release, he handed over a massive trove of materials to journalists, including internal chat logs, which later became a document containing thousands of screenshots. This data reveals not only the scale of the fraud but also the factory's day-to-day operations, the plans, the fines, the humiliation, and the language used to force people to work in a system built on deception and fear.
What the leak revealed
WIRED obtained internal documents, scripts, and training materials, and most importantly, screen recordings of three months of work chat conversations. From these, they compiled approximately 4,200 pages of screenshots, revealing almost hour-by-hour how corporate life operates within such a place.One manager, who introduced himself as Amani, began his shift with motivational pitches about "new opportunities" and "client value." In reality, his subordinates worked 15-hour night shifts in a building in the so-called Golden Triangle , a special economic zone in northern Laos. Most of the workers there were as much victims as the people they defrauded. Many had their passports confiscated, were held in debt, and were forced to meet quotas, threatened with reprisals for attempting to escape.
Journalists estimate that, based on the 11 weeks of available group chats alone, more than 30 employees collectively "brought in" approximately $2.2 million in swindled money from victims. Even with such sums, management constantly pressured employees, accusing them of laziness and issuing fines.
The control system resembled a punishment ledger. Failure to start the "first chat" of the day meant a fine. Falling asleep in the office or watching something unrelated meant another fine. Making a mistake in a report meant a fine. Failure to sign a paper acknowledging a "violation" doubled the fine. Muzakir said he formally received a base salary of 3,500 yuan per month, but most of it was eaten up by penalties. Food in the cafeteria could be banned as a punishment, and access to it revoked for a week. Meanwhile, the promise of "work it off and then leave" remained a bait. He was told his passport would be returned after he paid the $5,400 "contract," but correspondence shows how easily people could be driven into even greater debt.
Against this backdrop of brutality, the office theater seems particularly terrifying. Employees were forced to post daily schedules of their fictional characters, supposedly rich and attractive women. They included yoga, meditation, walks, and "positive intentions," although in reality, people sat all night in front of screens under fluorescent lights. Managers monitored the continuity and would even demand that WhatsApp be connected to managers' computers so they could monitor their messages directly.
A separate section of the leak is dedicated to technology. According to Muzakir, employees were trained to use generative tools like ChatGPT and Deepseek to quickly generate convincing responses. Even more important was the infrastructure for deepfake calls . The chats mention a "deepfake room," where a model would conduct face-swapping video calls upon request, so the victim would believe the other person was real. Even there, there was resource management—warnings not to promise a call if the model was busy or feeling unwell, and requests to change the "busy/available" sign to avoid crowding at the door.
Researchers who examined the logs described the situation as a "slave colony masquerading as a company" and noted an "Orwellian veneer of legitimacy." The messages also contained more direct threats. One manager wrote that those who "resist the rules" would not survive. Other episodes mentioned disappearances and stories of torture, and Muzakir himself said he was beaten and threatened with a Taser.
According to information he gathered from messages from former colleagues, the complex later moved from Laos to Cambodia and continued recruiting employees—new victims lured by fake job postings. And this is perhaps the most disturbing part of this story. Even when the messages, scripts, and photos from inside are revealed to the world, the machine remains operational and simply changes its address.
The story doesn't try to make Muzakir a flawless hero. He admitted to coercing two people into defrauding him and even named the amounts involved, one of which was over $11,000. He speaks of guilt, insomnia, and the inability to return to normal life. But it's from the inside, with all the contradictions and dirty details, that this story reveals how the modern industry of "romantic" crypto scams works and why it's so resilient.
Muzakir insists he's willing to speak out, even knowing the risk of retaliation. He hopes his example will encourage others held hostage by such "offices" to speak up and hand over evidence. In a world where scammers learn to write more convincingly from neural networks, and victims on both sides of the screen lose money, freedom, and trust, this sounds like a rare attempt to regain a human voice.
